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INTRODUCTION
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MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS was born on April 26, A.D. 121. His real name was M.Annius Verus, and he was sprung of a noble family which claimed descent fromNuma, second King of Rome. Thus the most religious of emperors came of theblood of the most pious of early kings. His father, Annius Verus, had held highoffice in Rome, and his grandfather, of the same name, had been thrice Consul.Both his parents died young, but Marcus held them in loving remembrance. On hisfather's death Marcus was adopted by his grandfather, the consular AnniusVerus, and there was deep love between these two. On the very first page of hisbook Marcus gratefully declares how of his grandfather he had learned to begentle and meek, and to refrain from all anger and passion. The Emperor Hadriandivined the fine character of the lad, whom he used to call not Verus butVerissimus, more Truthful than his own name. He advanced Marcus to equestrianrank when six years of age, and at the age of eight made him a member of theancient Salian priesthood. The boy's aunt, Annia Galeria Faustina, was marriedto Antoninus Pius, afterwards emperor. Hence it came about that Antoninus,having no son, adopted Marcus, changing his name to that which he is known by,and betrothed him to his daughter Faustina. His education was conducted withall care. The ablest teachers were engaged for him, and he was trained in thestrict doctrine of the Stoic philosophy, which was his great delight. He wastaught to dress plainly and to live simply, to avoid all softness and luxury.His body was trained to hardihood by wrestling, hunting, and outdoor games; andthough his constitution was weak, he showed great personal courage to encounterthe fiercest boars. At the same time he was kept from the extravagancies of hisday. The great excitement in Rome was the strife of the Factions, as they werecalled, in the circus. The racing drivers used to adopt one of fourcolours—red, blue, white, or green—and their partisans showed aneagerness in supporting them which nothing could surpass. Riot and corruptionwent in the train of the racing chariots; and from all these things Marcus heldseverely aloof.
In 140 Marcus was raised to the consulship, and in 145 his betrothal wasconsummated by marriage. Two years later Faustina brought him a daughter; andsoon after the tribunate and other imperial honours were conferred upon him.
Antoninus Pius died in 161, and Marcus assumed the imperial state. He at onceassociated with himself L. Ceionius Commodus, whom Antoninus had adopted as ayounger son at the same time with Marcus, giving him the name of LuciusAurelius Verus. Henceforth the two are colleagues in the empire, the juniorbeing trained as it were to succeed. No sooner was Marcus settled upon thethrone than wars broke out on all sides. In the east, Vologeses III. of Parthiabegan a long-meditated revolt by destroying a whole Roman Legion and invadingSyria (162). Verus was sent off in hot haste to quell this rising; and hefulfilled his trust by plunging into drunkenness and debauchery, while the warwas left to his officers. Soon after Marcus had to face a more serious dangerat home in the coalition of several powerful tribes on the northern frontier.Chief among those were the Marcomanni or Marchmen, the Quadi (mentioned in thisbook), the Sarmatians, the Catti, the Jazyges. In Rome itself there waspestilence and starvation, the one brought from the east by Verus's legions,the other caused by floods which had destroyed vast quantities of grain. Afterall had been done possible to allay famine and to supply pressingneeds—Marcus being forced even to sell the imperial jewels to findmoney—both emperors set forth to a struggle which was to continue more orless during the rest of Marcus's reign. During these wars, in 169, Verus died.We have no means of following the campaigns in detail; but thus much iscertain, that in the end the Romans succeeded in crushing the barbarian tribes,and effecting a settlement which made the empire more secure. Marcus washimself commander-in-chief, and victory was due no less to his own ability thanto his wisdom in choice of lieutenants, shown conspicuously in the case ofPertinax. There were several important battles fought in these campaigns; andone of them has become celebrated for the legend of the Thundering Legion. In abattle against the Quadi in 174, the day seemed to be going in favour of thefoe, when on a sudden arose a great storm of thunder and rain the lightningstruck the barbarians with terror, and they turned to rout. In later days thisstorm was said to have been sent in answer to the prayers of a legion whichcontained many Christians, and the name Thundering Legion should be given to iton this account. The title of Thundering Legion is known at an earlier date, sothis part of the story at least cannot be true; but the aid of the storm isacknowledged by one of the scenes carved on Antonine's Column at Rome, whichcommemorates these wars.
The settlement made after these troubles might have been more satisfactory butfor an unexpected rising in the east. Avidius Cassius, an able captain who hadwon renown in the Parthian wars, was at this time chief governor of the easternprovinces. By whatever means induced, he had conceived the project ofproclaiming himself emperor as soon as Marcus, who was then in feeble health,should die; and a report having been conveyed to him that Marcus was dead,Cassius did as he had planned. Marcus, on hearing the news, immediately patchedup a peace and returned home to meet this new peril. The emperors great griefwas that he must needs engage in the horrors of civil strife. He praised thequalities of Cassius, and expressed a heartfelt wish that Cassius might not bedriven to do himself a hurt before he should have the opportunity to grant afree pardon. But before he could come to the east news had come to Cassius thatthe emperor still lived; his followers fell away from him, and he wasassassinated. Marcus now went to the east, and while there the murderersbrought the head of Cassius to him; but the emperor indignantly refused theirgift, nor would he admit the men to his presence.
On this journey his wife, Faustina, died. At his return the emperor celebrateda triumph (176). Immediately afterwards he repaired to Germany, and took uponce more the burden of war. His operations were followed by complete success;but the troubles of late years had been too much for his constitution, at notime robust, and on March 17, 180, he died in Pannonia.
The good emperor was not spared domestic troubles. Faustina had borne himseveral children, of whom he was passionately fond. Their innocent faces maystill be seen in many a sculpture gallery, recalling with odd effect the dreamycountenance of their father. But they died one by one, and when Marcus came tohis own end only one of his sons still lived—the weak and worthlessCommodus. On his father's death Commodus, who succeeded him, undid the work ofmany campaigns by a hasty and unwise peace; and his reign of twelve yearsproved him to be a ferocious and bloodthirsty tyrant. Scandal has made freewith the name of Faustina herself, who is accused not only of unfaithfulness,but of intriguing with Cassius and egging him on to his fatal rebellion, itmust be admitted that these charges rest on no sure evidence; and the emperor,at all events, loved her dearly, nor ever felt the slightest qualm ofsuspicion.
As a soldier we have seen that Marcus was both capable and successful; as anadministrator he was prudent and conscientious. Although steeped in theteachings of philosophy, he did not attempt to remodel the world on anypreconceived plan. He trod the path beaten by his predecessors, seeking only todo his duty as well as he could, and to keep out corruption. He did some unwisethings, it is true. To create a compeer in empire, as he did with Verus, was adangerous innovation which could only succeed if one of the two effacedhimself; and under Diocletian this very precedent caused the Roman Empire tosplit into halves. He erred in his civil administration by too muchcentralising. But the strong point of his reign was the administration ofjustice. Marcus sought by-laws to protect the weak, to make the lot of theslaves less hard, to stand in place of father to the fatherless. Charitablefoundations were endowed for rearing and educating poor children. The provinceswere protected against oppression, and public help was given to cities ordistricts which might be visited by calamity. The great blot on his name, andone hard indeed to explain, is his treatment of the Christians. In his reignJustin at Rome became a martyr to his faith, and Polycarp at Smyrna, and weknow of many outbreaks of fanaticism in the provinces which caused the death ofthe faithful. It is no excuse to plead that he knew nothing about theatrocities done in his name: it was his duty to know, and if he did not hewould have been the first to confess that he had failed in his duty. But fromhis own tone in speaking of the Christians it is clear he knew them only fromcalumny; and we hear of no measures taken even to secure that they should havea fair hearing. In this respect Trajan was better than he.
To a thoughtful mind such a religion as that of Rome would give smallsatisfaction. Its legends were often childish or impossible; its teaching hadlittle to do with morality. The Roman religion was in fact of the nature of abargain: men paid certain sacrifices and rites, and the gods granted theirfavour, irrespective of right or wrong. In this case all devout souls werethrown back upon philosophy, as they had been, though to a less extent, inGreece. There were under the early empire two rival schools which practicallydivided the field between them, Stoicism and Epicureanism. The ideal set beforeeach was nominally much the same. The Stoics aspired toἁπάθεια, the repression of all emotion,and the Epicureans to ἀταραξία,freedom from all disturbance; yet in the upshot the one has become a synonym ofstubborn endurance, the other for unbridled licence. With Epicureanism we havenothing to do now; but it will be worth while to sketch the history and tenetsof the Stoic sect.
Zeno, the founder of Stoicism, was born in Cyprus at some date unknown, but hislife may be said roughly to be between the years 350 and 250 B.C. Cyprus hasbeen from time immemorial a meeting-place of the East and West, and although wecannot grant any importance to a possible strain of Phœnician blood in him(for the Phoenicians were no philosophers), yet it is quite likely that throughAsia Minor he may have come in touch with the Far East. He studied under thecynic Crates, but he did not neglect other philosophical systems. After manyyears' study he opened his own school in a colonnade in Athens called thePainted Porch, or Stoa, which gave the Stoics their name. Next to Zeno, theSchool of the Porch owes most to Chrysippus (280—207 b.c.), who organisedStoicism into a system. Of him it was said,
'But for Chrysippus, there had been no Porch.'
The Stoics regarded speculation as a means to an end and that end was, as Zenoput it, to live consistently(ὁμολογουμένοςζῆν), or as it was later explained, to live in conformity withnature(ὁμολογουμένοςτῇ φύσει ζῆν). Thisconforming of the life to nature was the Stoic idea of Virtue. This dictummight easily be taken to mean that virtue consists in yielding to each naturalimpulse; but that was very far from the Stoic meaning. In order to live inaccord with nature, it is necessary to know what nature is; and to this end athreefold division of philosophy is made—into Physics, dealingwith the universe and its laws, the problems of divine government andteleology; Logic, which trains the mind to discern true from false; andEthics, which applies the knowledge thus gained and tested to practicallife.
The Stoic system of physics was materialism with an infusion of pantheism. Incontradiction to Plato's view that the Ideas, or Prototypes, of phenomena alonereally exist, the Stoics held that material objects alone existed; but immanentin the material universe was a spiritual force which acted through them,manifesting itself under many forms, as fire, æther, spirit, soul, reason, theruling principle.
The universe, then, is God, of whom the popular gods are manifestations; whilelegends and myths are allegorical. The soul of man is thus an emanation fromthe godhead, into whom it will eventually be re-absorbed. The divine rulingprinciple makes all things work together for good, but for the good of thewhole. The highest good of man is consciously to work with God for the commongood, and this is the sense in which the Stoic tried to live in accord withnature. In the individual it is virtue alone which enables him to do this; asProvidence rules the universe, so virtue in the soul must rule man.
In Logic, the Stoic system is noteworthy for their theory as to the test oftruth, the Criterion. They compared the new-born soul to a sheet ofpaper ready for writing. Upon this the senses write their impressions(φαντασίαι), and by experience ofa number of these the soul unconsciously conceives general notions(κοιναὶἔννοιαι) or anticipations(προλήψεις). When the impressionwas such as to be irresistible it was called(καταληπτικὴφαντασία) one that holds fast, or asthey explained it, one proceeding from truth. Ideas and inferences artificiallyproduced by deduction or the like were tested by this 'holding perception.' Ofthe Ethical application I have already spoken. The highest good was thevirtuous life. Virtue alone is happiness, and vice is unhappiness. Carryingthis theory to its extreme, the Stoic said that there could be no gradationsbetween virtue and vice, though of course each has its special manifestations.Moreover, nothing is good but virtue, and nothing but vice is bad. Thoseoutside things which are commonly called good or bad, such as health andsickness, wealth and poverty, pleasure and pain, are to him indifferent(ἀδιάφορα). All these things aremerely the sphere in which virtue may act. The ideal Wise Man is sufficientunto himself in all things(αὐταρκής); and knowing these truths,he will be happy even when stretched upon the rack. It is probable that noStoic claimed for himself that he was this Wise Man, but that each strove afterit as an ideal much as the Christian strives after a likeness to Christ. Theexaggeration in this statement was, however, so obvious, that the later Stoicswere driven to make a further subdivision of things indifferent into what ispreferable (προηγμένα) and whatis undesirable(ἀποπροηγμένα).They also held that for him who had not attained to the perfect wisdom, certainactions were proper. (καθήκοντα)These were neither virtuous nor vicious, but, like the indifferent things, helda middle place.
Two points in the Stoic system deserve special mention. One is a carefuldistinction between things which are in our power and things which are not.Desire and dislike, opinion and affection, are within the power of the will;whereas health, wealth, honour, and other such are generally not so. The Stoicwas called upon to control his desires and affections, and to guide hisopinion; to bring his whole being under the sway of the will or leadingprinciple, just as the universe is guided and governed by divine Providence.This is a special application of the favourite Greek virtue of moderation(σωφροσύνη), and has also itsparallel in Christian ethics. The second point is a strong insistence on theunity of the universe, and on man's duty as part of a great whole. Publicspirit was the most splendid political virtue of the ancient world, and it ishere made cosmopolitan. It is again instructive to note that Christian sagesinsisted on the same thing. Christians are taught that they are members of aworldwide brotherhood, where is neither Greek nor Hebrew, bond nor free andthat they live their lives as fellow-workers with God.
Such is the system which underlies the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. Someknowledge of it is necessary to the right understanding of the book, but for usthe chief interest lies elsewhere. We do not come to Marcus Aurelius for atreatise on Stoicism. He is no head of a school to lay down a body of doctrinefor students; he does not even contemplate that others should read what hewrites. His philosophy is not an eager intellectual inquiry, but more what weshould call religious feeling. The uncompromising stiffness of Zeno orChrysippus is softened and transformed by passing through a nature reverent andtolerant, gentle and free from guile; the grim resignation which made lifepossible to the Stoic sage becomes in him almost a mood of aspiration. His bookrecords the innermost thoughts of his heart, set down to ease it, with suchmoral maxims and reflections as may help him to bear the burden of duty and thecountless annoyances of a busy life.
It is instructive to compare the Meditations with another famous book, theImitation of Christ. There is the same ideal of self-control in both. It shouldbe a man's task, says the Imitation, 'to overcome himself, and every day to bestronger than himself.' 'In withstanding of the passions standeth very peace ofheart.' 'Let us set the axe to the root, that we being purged of our passionsmay have a peaceable mind.' To this end there must be continualself-examination. 'If thou may not continually gather thyself together, namelysometimes do it, at least once a day, the morning or the evening. In themorning purpose, in the evening discuss the manner, what thou hast been thisday, in word, work, and thought.' But while the Roman's temper is a modestself-reliance, the Christian aims at a more passive mood, humbleness andmeekness, and reliance on the presence and personal friendship of God. TheRoman scrutinises his faults with severity, but without the self-contempt whichmakes the Christian 'vile in his own sight.' The Christian, like the Roman,bids 'study to withdraw thine heart from the love of things visible'; but it isnot the busy life of duty he has in mind so much as the contempt of all worldlythings, and the 'cutting away of all lower delectations.' Both rate men'spraise or blame at their real worthlessness; 'Let not thy peace,' says theChristian, 'be in the mouths of men.' But it is to God's censure the Christianappeals, the Roman to his own soul. The petty annoyances of injustice orunkindness are looked on by each with the same magnanimity. 'Why doth a littlething said or done against thee make thee sorry? It is no new thing; it is notthe first, nor shall it be the last, if thou live long. At best sufferpatiently, if thou canst not suffer joyously.' The Christian should sorrow morefor other men's malice than for our own wrongs; but the Roman is inclined towash his hands of the offender. 'Study to be patient in suffering and bearingother men's defaults and all manner infirmities,' says the Christian; but theRoman would never have thought to add, 'If all men were perfect, what had wethen to suffer of other men for God?' The virtue of suffering in itself is anidea which does not meet us in the Meditations. Both alike realise that man isone of a great community. 'No man is sufficient to himself,' says theChristian; 'we must bear together, help together, comfort together.' But whilehe sees a chief importance in zeal, in exalted emotion that is, and avoidanceof lukewarmness, the Roman thought mainly of the duty to be done as well asmight be, and less of the feeling which should go with the doing of it. To thesaint as to the emperor, the world is a poor thing at best. 'Verily it is amisery to live upon the earth,' says the Christian; few and evil are the daysof man's life, which passeth away suddenly as a shadow.
But there is one great difference between the two books we are considering. TheImitation is addressed to others, the Meditations by the writerto himself. We learn nothing from the Imitation of the author's ownlife, except in so far as he may be assumed to have practised his ownpreachings; the Meditations reflect mood by mood the mind of him whowrote them. In their intimacy and frankness lies their great charm. These notesare not sermons; they are not even confessions. There is always an air ofself-consciousness in confessions; in such revelations there is always a dangerof unctuousness or of vulgarity for the best of men. St. Augus-tine is notalways clear of offence, and John Bunyan himself exaggerates venialpeccadilloes into heinous sins. But Marcus Aurelius is neither vulgar norunctuous; he extenuates nothing, but nothing sets down in malice. He neverposes before an audience; he may not be profound, he is always sincere. And itis a lofty and serene soul which is here disclosed before us. Vulgar vices seemto have no temptation for him; this is not one tied and bound with chains whichhe strives to break. The faults he detects in himself are often such as mostmen would have no eyes to see. To serve the divine spirit which is implantedwithin him, a man must 'keep himself pure from all violent passion and evilaffection, from all rashness and vanity, and from all manner of discontent,either in regard of the gods or men': or, as he says elsewhere, 'unspotted bypleasure, undaunted by pain.' Unwavering courtesy and consideration are hisaims. 'Whatsoever any man either doth or saith, thou must be good;' 'doth anyman offend? It is against himself that he doth offend: why should it troublethee?' The offender needs pity, not wrath; those who must needs be corrected,should be treated with tact and gentleness; and one must be always ready tolearn better. 'The best kind of revenge is, not to become like unto them.'There are so many hints of offence forgiven, that we may believe the notesfollowed sharp on the facts. Perhaps he has fallen short of his aim, and thusseeks to call his principles to mind, and to strengthen himself for the future.That these sayings are not mere talk is plain from the story of AvidiusCassius, who would have usurped his imperial throne. Thus the emperorfaithfully carries out his own principle, that evil must be overcome with good.For each fault in others, Nature (says he) has given us a counteracting virtue;'as, for example, against the unthankful, it hath given goodness and meekness,as an antidote.'
One so gentle towards a foe was sure to be a good friend; and indeed his pagesare full of generous gratitude to those who had served him. In his First Bookhe sets down to account all the debts due to his kinsfolk and teachers. To hisgrandfather he owed his own gentle spirit, to his father shamefastness andcourage; he learnt of his mother to be religious and bountiful andsingle-minded. Rusticus did not work in vain, if he showed his pupil that hislife needed amending. Apollonius taught him simplicity, reasonableness,gratitude, a love of true liberty. So the list runs on; every one he haddealings with seems to have given him something good, a sure proof of thegoodness of his nature, which thought no evil.
If his was that honest and true heart which is the Christian ideal, this is themore wonderful in that he lacked the faith which makes Christians strong. Hecould say, it is true, 'either there is a God, and then all is well; or if allthings go by chance and fortune, yet mayest thou use thine own providence inthose things that concern thee properly; and then art thou well.' Or again, 'Wemust needs grant that there is a nature that doth govern the universe.' But hisown part in the scheme of things is so small, that he does not hope for anypersonal happiness beyond what a serene soul may win in this mortal life. 'O mysoul, the time I trust will be, when thou shalt be good, simple, more open andvisible, than that body by which it is enclosed;' but this is said of the calmcontentment with human lot which he hopes to attain, not of a time when thetrammels of the body shall be cast off. For the rest, the world and its fameand wealth, 'all is vanity.' The gods may perhaps have a particular care forhim, but their especial care is for the universe at large: thus much shouldsuffice. His gods are better than the Stoic gods, who sit aloof from all humanthings, untroubled and uncaring, but his personal hope is hardly stronger. Onthis point he says little, though there are many allusions to death as thenatural end; doubtless he expected his soul one day to be absorbed into theuniversal soul, since nothing comes out of nothing, and nothing can beannihilated. His mood is one of strenuous weariness; he does his duty as a goodsoldier, waiting for the sound of the trumpet which shall sound the retreat; hehas not that cheerful confidence which led Socrates through a life no lessnoble, to a death which was to bring him into the company of gods he hadworshipped and men whom he had revered.
But although Marcus Aurelius may have held intellectually that his soul wasdestined to be absorbed, and to lose consciousness of itself, there were timeswhen he felt, as all who hold it must sometimes feel, how unsatisfying is sucha creed. Then he gropes blindly after something less empty and vain. 'Thou hasttaken ship,' he says, 'thou hast sailed, thou art come to land, go out, if toanother life, there also shalt thou find gods, who are everywhere.' There ismore in this than the assumption of a rival theory for argument's sake. Ifworldly things 'be but as a dream, the thought is not far off that there may bean awakening to what is real. When he speaks of death as a necessary change,and points out that nothing useful and profitable can be brought about withoutchange, did he perhaps think of the change in a corn of wheat, which is notquickened except it die? Nature's marvellous power of recreating out ofCorruption is surely not confined to bodily things. Many of his thoughts soundlike far-off echoes of St. Paul; and it is strange indeed that this mostChristian of emperors has nothing good to say of the Christians. To him theyare only sectaries 'violently and passionately set upon opposition.
Profound as philosophy these Meditations certainly are not; but MarcusAurelius was too sincere not to see the essence of such things as came withinhis experience. Ancient religions were for the most part concerned with outwardthings. Do the necessary rites, and you propitiate the gods; and these riteswere often trivial, sometimes violated right feeling or even morality. Evenwhen the gods stood on the side of righteousness, they were concerned with theact more than with the intent. But Marcus Aurelius knows that what the heart isfull of, the man will do. 'Such as thy thoughts and ordinary cogitations are,'he says, 'such will thy mind be in time.' And every page of the book shows usthat he knew thought was sure to issue in act. He drills his soul, as it were,in right principles, that when the time comes, it may be guided by them. Towait until the emergency is to be too late.
He sees also the true essence of happiness. 'If happiness did consist inpleasure, how came notorious robbers, impure abominable livers, parricides, andtyrants, in so large a measure to have their part of pleasures?' He who had allthe world's pleasures at command can write thus 'A happy lot and portion is,good inclinations of the soul, good desires, good actions.'
By the irony of fate this man, so gentle and good, so desirous of quiet joysand a mind free from care, was set at the head of the Roman Empire when greatdangers threatened from east and west. For several years he himself commandedhis armies in chief. In camp before the Quadi he dates the first book of hisMeditations, and shows how he could retire within himself amid thecoarse clangour of arms. The pomps and glories which he despised were all his;what to most men is an ambition or a dream, to him was a round of weary taskswhich nothing but the stern sense of duty could carry him through. And he didhis work well. His wars were slow and tedious, but successful. With astatesman's wisdom he foresaw the danger to Rome of the barbarian hordes fromthe north, and took measures to meet it. As it was, his settlement gave twocenturies of respite to the Roman Empire; had he fulfilled the plan of pushingthe imperial frontiers to the Elbe, which seems to have been in his mind, muchmore might have been accomplished. But death cut short his designs.
Truly a rare opportunity was given to Marcus Aurelius of showing what the mindcan do in despite of circumstances. Most peaceful of warriors, a magnificentmonarch whose ideal was quiet happiness in home life, bent to obscurity yetborn to greatness, the loving father of children who died young or turned outhateful, his life was one paradox. That nothing might lack, it was in campbefore the face of the enemy that he passed away and went to his own place.
The following is a list of the chief English translations of Marcus Aurelius:(1) By Meric Casaubon, 1634; (2) Jeremy Collier, 1701; (3) James Thomson, 1747;(4) R. Graves, 1792; (5) H. McCormac, 1844; (6) George Long, 1862; (7) G. H.Rendall, 1898; and (8) J. Jackson, 1906. Renan’s“Marc-Aurèle”—in his “History of the Origins ofChristianity,” which appeared in 1882—is the most vital andoriginal book to be had relating to the time of Marcus Aurelius. Pater’s“Marius the Epicurean” forms another outside commentary, which isof service in the imaginative attempt to create again the period.
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HIS FIRST BOOK
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Wherein Antoninus recordeth, What and of whom, whether Parents, Friends, or Masters; by their good examples, or good advice and counsel, he had learned:
Divided into Numbers or Sections.
ANTONINUS Book vi. Num. xlviii. Whensoever thou wilt rejoice thyself, think and meditate upon those good parts and especial gifts, which thou hast observed in any of them that live with thee:
as industry in one, in another modesty, in another bountifulness, in another some other thing. For nothing can so much rejoice thee, as the resemblances and parallels of several virtues, eminent in the dispositions of them that live with thee, especially when all at once, as it were, they represent themselves unto thee. See therefore, that thou have them always in a readiness.
I. Of my grandfather Verus I have learned to be gentle and meek, and to refrain from all anger and passion. From the fame and memory of him that begot me I have learned both shamefastness and manlike behaviour. Of my mother I have learned to be religious, and bountiful; and to forbear, not only to do, but to intend any evil; to content myself with a spare diet, and to fly all such excess as is incidental to great wealth. Of my great-grandfather, both to frequent public schools and auditories, and to get me good and able teachers at home; and that I ought not to think much, if upon such occasions, I were at excessive charges.
II. Of him that brought me up, not to be fondly addicted to either of the two great factions of the coursers in the circus, called Prasini, and Veneti: nor in the amphitheatre partially to favour any of the gladiators, or fencers, as either the Parmularii, or the Secutores. Moreover, to endure labour; nor to need many things; when I have anything to do, to do it myself rather than by others; not to meddle with many businesses; and not easily to admit of any slander.
III. Of Diognetus, not to busy myself about vain things, and not easily to believe those things, which are commonly spoken, by such as take upon them to work wonders, and by sorcerers, or prestidigitators, and impostors; concerning the power of charms, and their driving out of demons, or evil spirits; and the like. Not to keep quails for the game; nor to be mad after such things. Not to be offended with other men's liberty of speech, and to apply myself unto philosophy. Him also I must thank, that ever I heard first Bacchius, then Tandasis and Marcianus, and that I did write dialogues in my youth; and that I took liking to the philosophers' little couch and skins, and such other things, which by the Grecian discipline are proper to those who profess philosophy.
IV. To Rusticus I am beholding, that I first entered into the conceit that my life wanted some redress and cure. And then, that I did not fall into the ambition of ordinary sophists, either to write tracts concerning the common theorems, or to exhort men unto virtue and the study of philosophy by public orations; as also that I never by way of ostentation did affect to show myself an active able man, for any kind of bodily exercises. And that I gave over the study of rhetoric and poetry, and of elegant neat language. That I did not use to walk about the house in my long robe, nor to do any such things. Moreover I learned of him to write letters without any affectation, or curiosity; such as that was, which by him was written to my mother from Sinuessa: and to be easy and ready to be reconciled, and well pleased again with them that had offended me, as soon as any of them would be content to seek unto me again. To read with diligence; not to rest satisfied with a light and superficial knowledge, nor quickly to assent to things commonly spoken of: whom also I must thank that ever I lighted upon Epictetus his Hypomnemata, or moral commentaries and common-factions: which also he gave me of his own.
V. From Apollonius, true liberty, and unvariable steadfastness, and not to regard anything at all, though never so little, but right and reason: and always, whether in the sharpest pains, or after the loss of a child, or in long diseases, to be still the same man; who also was a present and visible example unto me, that it was possible for the same man to be both vehement and remiss: a man not subject to be vexed, and offended with the incapacity of his scholars and auditors in his lectures and expositions; and a true pattern of a man who of all his good gifts and faculties, least esteemed in himself, that his excellent skill and ability to teach and persuade others the common theorems and maxims of the Stoic philosophy. Of him also I learned how to receive favours and kindnesses (as commonly they are accounted:) from friends, so that I might not become obnoxious unto them, for them, nor more yielding upon occasion, than in right I ought; and yet so that I should not pass them neither, as an unsensible and unthankful man.
VI. Of Sextus, mildness and the pattern of a family governed with paternal affection; and a purpose to live according to nature: to be grave without affectation: to observe carefully the several dispositions of my friends, not to be offended with idiots, nor unseasonably to set upon those that are carried with the vulgar opinions, with the theorems, and tenets of philosophers: his conversation being an example how a man might accommodate himself to all men and companies; so that though his company were sweeter and more pleasing than any flatterer's cogging and fawning; yet was it at the same time most respected and reverenced: who also had a proper happiness and faculty, rationally and methodically to find out, and set in order all necessary determinations and instructions for a man's life. A man without ever the least appearance of anger, or any other passion; able at the same time most exactly to observe the Stoic Apathia, or unpassionateness, and yet to be most tender-hearted: ever of good credit; and yet almost without any noise, or rumour: very learned, and yet making little show.
VII. From Alexander the Grammarian, to be un-reprovable myself, and not reproachfully to reprehend any man for a barbarism, or a solecism, or any false pronunciation, but dextrously by way of answer, or testimony, or confirmation of the same matter (taking no notice of the word) to utter it as it should have been spoken; or by some other such close and indirect admonition, handsomely and civilly to tell him of it.
VIII. Of Fronto, to how much envy and fraud and hypocrisy the state of a tyrannous king is subject unto, and how they who are commonly called εὐπατρίδαι, i.e. nobly born, are in some sort incapable, or void of natural affection.
IX. Of Alexander the Platonic, not often nor without great necessity to say, or to write to any man in a letter, 'I am not at leisure'; nor in this manner still to put off those duties, which we owe to our friends and acquaintances (to every one in his kind) under pretence of urgent affairs.
X. Of Catulus, not to contemn any friend's expostulation, though unjust, but to strive to reduce him to his former disposition: freely and heartily to speak well of all my masters upon any occasion, as it is reported of Domitius, and Athenodotus: and to love my children with true affection.
XI. From my brother Severus, to be kind and loving to all them of my house and family; by whom also I came to the knowledge of Thrasea and Helvidius, and Cato, and Dio, and Brutus. He it was also that did put me in the first conceit and desire of an equal commonwealth, administered by justice and equality; and of a kingdom wherein should be regarded nothing more than the good and welfare of the subjects. Of him also, to observe a constant tenor, (not interrupted, with any other cares and distractions,) in the study and esteem of philosophy: to be bountiful and liberal in the largest measure; always to hope the best; and to be confident that my friends love me. In whom I moreover observed open dealing towards those whom he reproved at any time, and that his friends might without all doubt or much observation know what he would, or would not, so open and plain was he.
XII. From Claudius Maximus, in all things to endeavour to have power of myself, and in nothing to be carried about; to be cheerful and courageous in all sudden chances and accidents, as in sicknesses: to love mildness, and moderation, and gravity: and to do my business, whatsoever it be, thoroughly, and without querulousness. Whatsoever he said, all men believed him that as he spake, so he thought, and whatsoever he did, that he did it with a good intent. His manner was, never to wonder at anything; never to be in haste, and yet never slow: nor to be perplexed, or dejected, or at any time unseemly, or excessively to laugh: nor to be angry, or suspicious, but ever ready to do good, and to forgive, and to speak truth; and all this, as one that seemed rather of himself to have been straight and right, than ever to have been rectified or redressed; neither was there any man that ever thought himself undervalued by him, or that could find in his heart, to think himself a better man than he. He would also be very pleasant and gracious.
XIII. In my father, I observed his meekness; his constancy without wavering in those things, which after a due examination and deliberation, he had determined. How free from all vanity he carried himself in matter of honour and dignity, (as they are esteemed:) his laboriousness and assiduity, his readiness to hear any man, that had aught to say tending to any common good: how generally and impartially he would give every man his due; his skill and knowledge, when rigour or extremity, or when remissness or moderation was in season; how he did abstain from all unchaste love of youths; his moderate condescending to other men's occasions as an ordinary man, neither absolutely requiring of his friends, that they should wait upon him at his ordinary meals, nor that they should of necessity accompany him in his journeys; and that whensoever any business upon some necessary occasions was to be put off and omitted before it could be ended, he was ever found when he went about it again, the same man that he was before. His accurate examination of things in consultations, and patient hearing of others. He would not hastily give over the search of the matter, as one easy to be satisfied with sudden notions and apprehensions. His care to preserve his friends; how neither at any time he would carry himself towards them with disdainful neglect, and grow weary of them; nor yet at any time be madly fond of them. His contented mind in all things, his cheerful countenance, his care to foresee things afar off, and to take order for the least, without any noise or clamour. Moreover how all acclamations and flattery were repressed by him: how carefully he observed all things necessary to the government, and kept an account of the common expenses, and how patiently he did abide that he was reprehended by some for this his strict and rigid kind of dealing. How he was neither a superstitious worshipper of the gods, nor an ambitious pleaser of men, or studious of popular applause; but sober in all things, and everywhere observant of that which was fitting; no affecter of novelties: in those things which conduced to his ease and convenience, (plenty whereof his fortune did afford him,) without pride and bragging, yet with all freedom and liberty: so that as he did freely enjoy them without any anxiety or affectation when they were present; so when absent, he found no want of them. Moreover, that he was never commended by any man, as either a learned acute man, or an obsequious officious man, or a fine orator; but as a ripe mature man, a perfect sound man; one that could not endure to be flattered; able to govern both himself and others. Moreover, how much he did honour all true philosophers, without upbraiding those that were not so; his sociableness, his gracious and delightful conversation, but never unto satiety; his care of his body within bounds and measure, not as one that desired to live long, or over-studious of neatness, and elegancy; and yet not as one that did not regard it: so that through his own care and providence, he seldom needed any inward physic, or outward applications: but especially how ingeniously he would yield to any that had obtained any peculiar faculty, as either eloquence, or the knowledge of the laws, or of ancient customs, or the like; and how he concurred with them, in his best care and endeavour that every one of them might in his kind, for that wherein he excelled, be regarded and esteemed: and although he did all things carefully after the ancient customs of his forefathers, yet even of this was he not desirous that men should take notice, that he did imitate ancient customs. Again, how he was not easily moved and tossed up and down, but loved to be constant, both in the same places and businesses; and how after his great fits of headache he would return fresh and vigorous to his wonted affairs. Again, that secrets he neither had many, nor often, and such only as concerned public matters: his discretion and moderation, in exhibiting of the public sights and shows for the pleasure and pastime of the people: in public buildings. congiaries, and the like. In all these things, having a respect unto men only as men, and to the equity of the things themselves, and not unto the glory that might follow. Never wont to use the baths at unseasonable hours; no builder; never curious, or solicitous, either about his meat, or about the workmanship, or colour of his clothes, or about anything that belonged to external beauty. In all his conversation, far from all inhumanity, all boldness, and incivility, all greediness and impetuosity; never doing anything with such earnestness, and intention, that a man could say of him, that he did sweat about it: but contrariwise, all things distinctly, as at leisure; without trouble; orderly, soundly, and agreeably. A man might have applied that to him, which is recorded of Socrates, that he knew how to want, and to enjoy those things, in the want whereof, most men show themselves weak; and in the fruition, intemperate: but to hold out firm and constant, and to keep within the compass of true moderation and sobriety in either estate, is proper to a man, who hath a perfect and invincible soul; such as he showed himself in the sickness of Maximus.
XIV. From the gods I received that I had good grandfathers, and parents, a good sister, good masters, good domestics, loving kinsmen, almost all that I have; and that I never through haste and rashness transgressed against any of them, notwithstanding that my disposition was such, as that such a thing (if occasion had been) might very well have been committed by me, but that It was the mercy of the gods, to prevent such a concurring of matters and occasions, as might make me to incur this blame. That I was not long brought up by the concubine of my father; that I preserved the flower of my youth. That I took not upon me to be a man before my time, but rather put it off longer than I needed. That I lived under the government of my lord and father, who would take away from me all pride and vainglory, and reduce me to that conceit and opinion that it was not impossible for a prince to live in the court without a troop of guards and followers, extraordinary apparel, such and such torches and statues, and other like particulars of state and magnificence; but that a man may reduce and contract himself almost to the state of a private man, and yet for all that not to become the more base and remiss in those public matters and affairs, wherein power and authority is requisite. That I have had such a brother, who by his own example might stir me up to think of myself; and by his respect and love, delight and please me. That I have got ingenuous children, and that they were not born distorted, nor with any other natural deformity. That I was no great proficient in the study of rhetoric and poetry, and of other faculties, which perchance I might have dwelt upon, if I had found myself to go on in them with success. That I did by times prefer those, by whom I was brought up, to such places and dignities, which they seemed unto me most to desire; and that I did not put them off with hope and expectation, that (since that they were yet but young) I would do the same hereafter. That I ever knew Apollonius and Rusticus, and Maximus. That I have had occasion often and effectually to consider and meditate with myself, concerning that life which is according to nature, what the nature and manner of it is: so that as for the gods and such suggestions, helps and inspirations, as might be expected from them, nothing did hinder, but that I might have begun long before to live according to nature; or that even now that I was not yet partaker and in present possession of that life, that I myself (in that I did not observe those inward motions, and suggestions, yea and almost plain and apparent instructions and admonitions of the gods,) was the only cause of it. That my body in such a life, hath been able to hold out so long. That I never had to do with Benedicta and Theodotus, yea and afterwards when I fell into some fits of love, I was soon cured. That having been often displeased with Rusticus, I never did him anything for which afterwards I had occasion to repent. That it being so that my mother was to die young, yet she lived with me all her latter years. That as often as I had a purpose to help and succour any that either were poor, or fallen into some present necessity, I never was answered by my officers that there was not ready money enough to do it; and that I myself never had occasion to require the like succour from any other. That I have such a wife, so obedient, so loving, so ingenuous. That I had choice of fit and able men, to whom I might commit the bringing up of my children. That by dreams I have received help, as for other things, so in particular, how I might stay my casting of blood, and cure my dizziness, as that also that happened to thee in Cajeta, as unto Chryses when he prayed by the seashore. And when I did first apply myself to philosophy, that I did not fall into the hands of some sophists, or spent my time either in reading the manifold volumes of ordinary philosophers, nor in practising myself in the solution of arguments and fallacies, nor dwelt upon the studies of the meteors, and other natural curiosities. All these things without the assistance of the gods, and fortune, could not have been.
XV. In the country of the Quadi at Granua, these. Betimes in the morning say to thyself, This day I shalt have to do with an idle curious man, with an unthankful man, a railer, a crafty, false, or an envious man; an unsociable uncharitable man. All these ill qualities have happened unto them, through ignorance of that which is truly good and truly bad. But I that understand the nature of that which is good, that it only is to be desired, and of that which is bad, that it only is truly odious and shameful: who know moreover, that this transgressor, whosoever he be, is my kinsman, not by the same blood and seed, but by participation of the same reason, and of the same divine particle; How can I either be hurt by any of those, since it is not in their power to make me incur anything that is truly reproachful? or angry, and ill affected towards him, who by nature is so near unto me? for we are all born to be fellow-workers, as the feet, the hands, and the eyelids; as the rows of the upper and under teeth: for such therefore to be in opposition, is against nature; and what is it to chafe at, and to be averse from, but to be in opposition?
XVI. Whatsoever I am, is either flesh, or life, or that which we commonly call the mistress and overruling part of man; reason. Away with thy books, suffer not thy mind any more to be distracted, and carried to and fro; for it will not be; but as even now ready to die, think little of thy flesh: blood, bones, and a skin; a pretty piece of knit and twisted work, consisting of nerves, veins and arteries; think no more of it, than so. And as for thy life, consider what it is; a wind; not one constant wind neither, but every moment of an hour let out, and sucked in again. The third, is thy ruling part; and here consider; Thou art an old man; suffer not that excellent part to be brought in subjection, and to become slavish: suffer it not to be drawn up and down with unreasonable and unsociable lusts and motions, as it were with wires and nerves; suffer it not any more, either to repine at anything now present, or to fear and fly anything to come, which the destiny hath appointed thee.
XVII. Whatsoever proceeds from the gods immediately, that any man will grant totally depends from their divine providence. As for those things that are commonly said to happen by fortune, even those must be conceived to have dependence from nature, or from that first and general connection, and concatenation of all those things, which more apparently by the divine providence are administered and brought to pass. All things flow from thence: and whatsoever it is that is, is both necessary, and conducing to the whole (part of which thou art), and whatsoever it is that is requisite and necessary for the preservation of the general, must of necessity for every particular nature, be good and behoveful. And as for the whole, it is preserved, as by the perpetual mutation and conversion of the simple elements one into another, so also by the mutation, and alteration of things mixed and compounded. Let these things suffice thee; let them be always unto thee, as thy general rules and precepts. As for thy thirst after books, away with it with all speed, that thou die not murmuring and complaining, but truly meek and well satisfied, and from thy heart thankful unto the gods.
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THE SECOND BOOK
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I. Remember how long thou hast already put off these things, and how often a certain day and hour as it were, having been set unto thee by the gods, thou hast neglected it. It is high time for thee to understand the true nature both of the world, whereof thou art a part; and of that Lord and Governor of the world, from whom, as a channel from the spring, thou thyself didst flow: and that there is but a certain limit of time appointed unto thee, which if thou shalt not make use of to calm and allay the many distempers of thy soul, it will pass away and thou with it, and never after return.
II. Let it be thy earnest and incessant care as a Roman and a man to perform whatsoever it is that thou art about, with true and unfeigned gravity, natural affection, freedom and justice: and as for all other cares, and imaginations, how thou mayest ease thy mind of them. Which thou shalt do; if thou shalt go about every action as thy last action, free from all vanity, all passionate and wilful aberration from reason, and from all hypocrisy, and self-love, and dislike of those things, which by the fates or appointment of God have happened unto thee. Thou seest that those things, which for a man to hold on in a prosperous course, and to live a divine life, are requisite and necessary, are not many, for the gods will require no more of any man, that shall but keep and observe these things.
III. Do, soul, do; abuse and contemn thyself; yet a while and the time for thee to respect thyself, will be at an end. Every man's happiness depends from himself, but behold thy life is almost at an end, whiles affording thyself no respect, thou dost make thy happiness to consist in the souls, and conceits of other men.
IV. Why should any of these things that happen externally, so much distract thee? Give thyself leisure to learn some good thing, and cease roving and wandering to and fro. Thou must also take heed of another kind of wandering, for they are idle in their actions, who toil and labour in this life, and have no certain scope to which to direct all their motions, and desires.
V. For not observing the state of another man's soul, scarce was ever any man known to be unhappy. Tell whosoever they be that intend not, and guide not by reason and discretion the motions of their own souls, they must of necessity be unhappy.
VI. These things thou must always have in mind: What is the nature of the universe, and what is mine—in particular: This unto that what relation it hath: what kind of part, of what kind of universe it is: And that there is nobody that can hinder thee, but that thou mayest always both do and speak those things which are agreeable to that nature, whereof thou art a part.
VII. Theophrastus, where he compares sin with sin (as after a vulgar sense such things I grant may be compared:) says well and like a philosopher, that those sins are greater which are committed through lust, than those which are committed through anger. For he that is angry seems with a kind of grief and close contraction of himself, to turn away from reason; but he that sins through lust, being overcome by pleasure, doth in his very sin bewray a more impotent, and unmanlike disposition. Well then and like a philosopher doth he say, that he of the two is the more to be condemned, that sins with pleasure, than he that sins with grief. For indeed this latter may seem first to have been wronged, and so in some manner through grief thereof to have been forced to be angry, whereas he who through lust doth commit anything, did of himself merely resolve upon that action.
VIII. Whatsoever thou dost affect, whatsoever thou dost project, so do, and so project all, as one who, for aught thou knowest, may at this very present depart out of this life. And as for death, if there be any gods, it is no grievous thing to leave the society of men. The gods will do thee no hurt, thou mayest be sure. But if it be so that there be no gods, or that they take no care of the world, why should I desire to live in a world void of gods, and of all divine providence? But gods there be certainly, and they take care for the world; and as for those things which be truly evil, as vice and wickedness, such things they have put in a man's own power, that he might avoid them if he would: and had there been anything besides that had been truly bad and evil, they would have had a care of that also, that a man might have avoided it. But why should that be thought to hurt and prejudice a man's life in this world, which cannot any ways make man himself the better, or the worse in his own person? Neither must we think that the nature of the universe did either through ignorance pass these things, or if not as ignorant of them, yet as unable either to prevent, or better to order and dispose them. It cannot be that she through want either of power or skill, should have committed such a thing, so as to suffer all things both good and bad, equally and promiscuously, to happen unto all both good and bad. As for life therefore, and death, honour and dishonour, labour and pleasure, riches and poverty, all these things happen unto men indeed, both good and bad, equally; but as things which of themselves are neither good nor bad; because of themselves, neither shameful nor praiseworthy.
IX. Consider how quickly all things are dissolved and resolved: the bodies and substances themselves, into the matter and substance of the world: and their memories into the general age and time of the world. Consider the nature of all worldly sensible things; of those especially, which either ensnare by pleasure, or for their irksomeness are dreadful, or for their outward lustre and show are in great esteem and request, how vile and contemptible, how base and corruptible, how destitute of all true life and being they are.
X. It is the part of a man endowed with a good understanding faculty, to consider what they themselves are in very deed, from whose bare conceits and voices, honour and credit do proceed: as also what it is to die, and how if a man shall consider this by itself alone, to die, and separate from it in his mind all those things which with it usually represent themselves unto us, he can conceive of it no otherwise, than as of a work of nature, and he that fears any work of nature, is a very child. Now death, it is not only a work of nature, but also conducing to nature.
XI. Consider with thyself how man, and by what part of his, is joined unto God, and how that part of man is affected, when it is said to be diffused. There is nothing more wretched than that soul, which in a kind of circuit compasseth all things, searching (as he saith) even the very depths of the earth; and by all signs and conjectures prying into the very thoughts of other men's souls; and yet of this, is not sensible, that it is sufficient for a man to apply himself wholly, and to confine all his thoughts and cares to the tendance of that spirit which is within him, and truly and really to serve him. His service doth consist in this, that a man keep himself pure from all violent passion and evil affection, from all rashness and vanity, and from all manner of discontent, either in regard of the gods or men. For indeed whatsoever proceeds from the gods, deserves respect for their worth and excellency; and whatsoever proceeds from men, as they are our kinsmen, should by us be entertained, with love, always; sometimes, as proceeding from their ignorance, of that which is truly good and bad, (a blindness no less, than that by which we are not able to discern between white and black:) with a kind of pity and compassion also.
XII. If thou shouldst live three thousand, or as many as ten thousands of years, yet remember this, that man can part with no life properly, save with that little part of life, which he now lives: and that which he lives, is no other, than that which at every instant he parts with. That then which is longest of duration, and that which is shortest, come both to one effect. For although in regard of that which is already past there may be some inequality, yet that time which is now present and in being, is equal unto all men. And that being it which we part with whensoever we die, it doth manifestly appear, that it can be but a moment of time, that we then part with. For as for that which is either past or to come, a man cannot be said properly to part with it. For how should a man part with that which he hath not? These two things therefore thou must remember. First, that all things in the world from all eternity, by a perpetual revolution of the same times and things ever continued and renewed, are of one kind and nature; so that whether for a hundred or two hundred years only, or for an infinite space of time, a man see those things which are still the same, it can be no matter of great moment. And secondly, that that life which any the longest liver, or the shortest liver parts with, is for length and duration the very same, for that only which is present, is that, which either of them can lose, as being that only which they have; for that which he hath not, no man can truly be said to lose.
XIII. Remember that all is but opinion and conceit, for those things are plain and apparent, which were spoken unto Monimus the Cynic; and as plain and apparent is the use that may be made of those things, if that which is true and serious in them, be received as well as that which is sweet and pleasing.
XIV. A man's soul doth wrong and disrespect itself first and especially, when as much as in itself lies it becomes an aposteme, and as it were an excrescency of the world, for to be grieved and displeased with anything that happens in the world, is direct apostacy from the nature of the universe; part of which, all particular natures of the world, are. Secondly, when she either is averse from any man, or led by contrary desires or affections, tending to his hurt and prejudice; such as are the souls of them that are angry. Thirdly, when she is overcome by any pleasure or pain. Fourthly, when she doth dissemble, and covertly and falsely either doth or saith anything. Fifthly, when she doth either affect or endeavour anything to no certain end, but rashly and without due ratiocination and consideration, how consequent or inconsequent it is to the common end. For even the least things ought not to be done, without relation unto the end; and the end of the reasonable creatures is, to follow and obey him, who is the reason as it were, and the law of this great city, and ancient commonwealth.
XV. The time of a man's life is as a point; the substance of it ever flowing, the sense obscure; and the whole composition of the body tending to corruption. His soul is restless, fortune uncertain, and fame doubtful; to be brief, as a stream so are all things belonging to the body; as a dream, or as a smoke, so are all that belong unto the soul. Our life is a warfare, and a mere pilgrimage. Fame after life is no better than oblivion. What is it then that will adhere and follow? Only one thing, philosophy. And philosophy doth consist in this, for a man to preserve that spirit which is within him, from all manner of contumelies and injuries, and above all pains or pleasures; never to do anything either rashly, or feignedly, or hypocritically: wholly to depend from himself and his own proper actions: all things that happen unto him to embrace contentedly, as coming from Him from whom he himself also came; and above all things, with all meekness and a calm cheerfulness, to expect death, as being nothing else but the resolution of those elements, of which every creature is composed. And if the elements themselves suffer nothing by this their perpetual conversion of one into another, that dissolution, and alteration, which is so common unto all, why should it be feared by any? Is not this according to nature? But nothing that is according to nature can be evil.
Whilst I was at Carnuntum.
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THE THIRD BOOK
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I. A man must not only consider how daily his life wasteth and decreaseth, but this also, that if he live long, he cannot be certain, whether his understanding shall continue so able and sufficient, for either discreet consideration, in matter of businesses; or for contemplation: it being the thing, whereon true knowledge of things both divine and human, doth depend. For if once he shall begin to dote, his respiration, nutrition, his imaginative, and appetitive, and other natural faculties, may still continue the same: he shall find no want of them. But how to make that right use of himself that he should, how to observe exactly in all things that which is right and just, how to redress and rectify all wrong, or sudden apprehensions and imaginations, and even of this particular, whether he should live any longer or no, to consider duly; for all such things, wherein the best strength and vigour of the mind is most requisite; his power and ability will be past and gone. Thou must hasten therefore; not only because thou art every day nearer unto death than other, but also because that intellective faculty in thee, whereby thou art enabled to know the true nature of things, and to order all thy actions by that knowledge, doth daily waste and decay: or, may fail thee before thou die.
II. This also thou must observe, that whatsoever it is that naturally doth happen to things natural, hath somewhat in itself that is pleasing and delightful: as a great loaf when it is baked, some parts of it cleave as it were, and part asunder, and make the crust of it rugged and unequal, and yet those parts of it, though in some sort it be against the art and intention of baking itself, that they are thus cleft and parted, which should have been and were first made all even and uniform, they become it well nevertheless, and have a certain peculiar property, to stir the appetite. So figs are accounted fairest and ripest then, when they begin to shrink, and wither as it were. So ripe olives, when they are next to putrefaction, then are they in their proper beauty. The hanging down of grapes—the brow of a lion, the froth of a foaming wild boar, and many other like things, though by themselves considered, they are far from any beauty, yet because they happen naturally, they both are comely, and delightful; so that if a man shall with a profound mind and apprehension, consider all things in the world, even among all those things which are but mere accessories and natural appendices as it were, there will scarce appear anything unto him, wherein he will not find matter of pleasure and delight. So will he behold with as much pleasure the true rictus of wild beasts, as those which by skilful painters and other artificers are imitated. So will he be able to perceive the proper ripeness and beauty of old age, whether in man or woman: and whatsoever else it is that is beautiful and alluring in whatsoever is, with chaste and continent eyes he will soon find out and discern. Those and many other things will he discern, not credible unto every one, but unto them only who are truly and familiarly acquainted, both with nature itself, and all natural things.
III. Hippocrates having cured many sicknesses, fell sick himself and died. The Chaldeans and Astrologians having foretold the deaths of divers, were afterwards themselves surprised by the fates. Alexander and Pompeius, and Caius Cæsar, having destroyed so many towns, and cut off in the field so many thousands both of horse and foot, yet they themselves at last were fain to part with their own lives. Heraclitus having written so many natural tracts concerning the last and general conflagration of the world, died afterwards all filled with water within, and all bedaubed with dirt and dung without. Lice killed Democritus; and Socrates, another sort of vermin, wicked ungodly men. How then stands the case? Thou hast taken ship, thou hast sailed, thou art come to land, go out, if to another life, there also shalt thou find gods, who are everywhere. If all life and sense shall cease, then shalt thou cease also to be subject to either pains or pleasures; and to serve and tend this vile cottage; so much the viler, by how much that which ministers unto it doth excel; the one being a rational substance, and a spirit, the other nothing but earth and blood.
IV. Spend not the remnant of thy days in thoughts and fancies concerning other men, when it is not in relation to some common good, when by it thou art hindered from some other better work. That is, spend not thy time in thinking, what such a man doth, and to what end: what he saith, and what he thinks, and what he is about, and such other things or curiosities, which make a man to rove and wander from the care and observation of that part of himself, which is rational, and overruling. See therefore in the whole series and connection of thy thoughts, that thou be careful to prevent whatsoever is idle and impertinent: but especially, whatsoever is curious and malicious: and thou must use thyself to think only of such things, of which if a man upon a sudden should ask thee, what it is that thou art now thinking, thou mayest answer This, and That, freely and boldly, that so by thy thoughts it may presently appear that in all thee is sincere, and peaceable; as becometh one that is made for society, and regards not pleasures, nor gives way to any voluptuous imaginations at all: free from all contentiousness, envy, and suspicion, and from whatsoever else thou wouldest blush to confess thy thoughts were set upon. He that is such, is he surely that doth not put off to lay hold on that which is best indeed, a very priest and minister of the gods, well acquainted and in good correspondence with him especially that is seated and placed within himself, as in a temple and sacrary: to whom also he keeps and preserves himself unspotted by pleasure, undaunted by pain; free from any manner of wrong, or contumely, by himself offered unto himself: not capable of any evil from others: a wrestler of the best sort, and for the highest prize, that he may not be cast down by any passion or affection of his own; deeply dyed and drenched in righteousness, embracing and accepting with his whole heart whatsoever either happeneth or is allotted unto him. One who not often, nor without some great necessity tending to some public good, mindeth what any other, either speaks, or doth, or purposeth: for those things only that are in his own power, or that are truly his own, are the objects of his employments, and his thoughts are ever taken up with those things, which of the whole universe are by the fates or Providence destinated and appropriated unto himself. Those things that are his own, and in his own power, he himself takes order, for that they be good: and as for those that happen unto him, he believes them to be so. For that lot and portion which is assigned to every one, as it is unavoidable and necessary, so is it always profitable. He remembers besides that whatsoever partakes of reason, is akin unto him, and that to care for all men generally, is agreeing to the nature of a man: but as for honour and praise, that they ought not generally to be admitted and accepted of from all, but from such only, who live according to nature. As for them that do not, what manner of men they be at home, or abroad; day or night, how conditioned themselves with what manner of conditions, or with men of what conditions they moil and pass away the time together, he knoweth, and remembers right well, he therefore regards not such praise and approbation, as proceeding from them, who cannot like and approve themselves.
V. Do nothing against thy will, nor contrary to the community, nor without due examination, nor with reluctancy. Affect not to set out thy thoughts with curious neat language. Be neither a great talker, nor a great undertaker. Moreover, let thy God that is in thee to rule over thee, find by thee, that he hath to do with a man; an aged man; a sociable man; a Roman; a prince; one that hath ordered his life, as one that expecteth, as it were, nothing but the sound of the trumpet, sounding a retreat to depart out of this life with all expedition. One who for his word or actions neither needs an oath, nor any man to be a witness.
VI. To be cheerful, and to stand in no need, either of other men's help or attendance, or of that rest and tranquillity, which thou must be beholding to others for. Rather like one that is straight of himself, or hath ever been straight, than one that hath been rectified.
VII. If thou shalt find anything in this mortal life better than righteousness, than truth, temperance, fortitude, and in general better than a mind contented both with those things which according to right and reason she doth, and in those, which without her will and knowledge happen unto thee by the providence; if I say, thou canst find out anything better than this, apply thyself unto it with thy whole heart, and that which is best wheresoever thou dost find it, enjoy freely. But if nothing thou shalt find worthy to be preferred to that spirit which is within thee; if nothing better than to subject unto thee thine own lusts and desires, and not to give way to any fancies or imaginations before thou hast duly considered of them, nothing better than to withdraw thyself (to use Socrates his words) from all sensuality, and submit thyself unto the gods, and to have care of all men in general: if thou shalt find that all other things in comparison of this, are but vile, and of little moment; then give not way to any other thing, which being once though but affected and inclined unto, it will no more be in thy power without all distraction as thou oughtest to prefer and to pursue after that good, which is thine own and thy proper good. For it is not lawful, that anything that is of another and inferior kind and nature, be it what it will, as either popular applause, or honour, or riches, or pleasures; should be suffered to confront and contest as it were, with that which is rational, and operatively good. For all these things, if once though but for a while, they begin to please, they presently prevail, and pervert a man's mind, or turn a man from the right way. Do thou therefore I say absolutely and freely make choice of that which is best, and stick unto it. Now, that they say is best, which is most profitable. If they mean profitable to man as he is a rational man, stand thou to it, and maintain it; but if they mean profitable, as he is a creature, only reject it; and from this thy tenet and conclusion keep off carefully all plausible shows and colours of external appearance, that thou mayest be able to discern things rightly.
VIII. Never esteem of anything as profitable, which shall ever constrain thee either to break thy faith, or to lose thy modesty; to hate any man, to suspect, to curse, to dissemble, to lust after anything, that requireth the secret of walls or veils. But he that preferreth before all things his rational part and spirit, and the sacred mysteries of virtue which issueth from it, he shall never lament and exclaim, never sigh; he shall never want either solitude or company: and which is chiefest of all, he shall live without either desire or fear. And as for life, whether for a long or short time he shall enjoy his soul thus compassed about with a body, he is altogether indifferent. For if even now he were to depart, he is as ready for it, as for any other action, which may be performed with modesty and decency. For all his life long, this is his only care, that his mind may always be occupied in such intentions and objects, as are proper to a rational sociable creature.
IX. In the mind that is once truly disciplined and purged, thou canst not find anything, either foul or impure, or as it were festered: nothing that is either servile, or affected: no partial tie; no malicious averseness; nothing obnoxious; nothing concealed. The life of such an one, death can never surprise as imperfect; as of an actor, that should die before he had ended, or the play itself were at an end, a man might speak.
X. Use thine opinative faculty with all honour and respect, for in her indeed is all: that thy opinion do not beget in thy understanding anything contrary to either nature, or the proper constitution of a rational creature. The end and object of a rational constitution is, to do nothing rashly, to be kindly affected towards men, and in all things willingly to submit unto the gods. Casting therefore all other things aside, keep thyself to these few, and remember withal that no man properly can be said to live more than that which is now present, which is but a moment of time. Whatsoever is besides either is already past, or uncertain. The time therefore that any man doth live, is but a little, and the place where he liveth, is but a very little corner of the earth, and the greatest fame that can remain of a man after his death, even that is but little, and that too, such as it is whilst it is, is by the succession of silly mortal men preserved, who likewise shall shortly die, and even whiles they live know not what in very deed they themselves are: and much less can know one, who long before is dead and gone.
XI. To these ever-present helps and mementoes, let one more be added, ever to make a particular description and delineation as it were of every object that presents itself to thy mind, that thou mayest wholly and throughly contemplate it, in its own proper nature, bare and naked; wholly, and severally; divided into its several parts and quarters: and then by thyself in thy mind, to call both it, and those things of which it doth consist, and in which it shall be resolved, by their own proper true names, and appellations. For there is nothing so effectual to beget true magnanimity, as to be able truly and methodically to examine and consider all things that happen in this life, and so to penetrate into their natures, that at the same time, this also may concur in our apprehensions: what is the true use of it? and what is the true nature of this universe, to which it is useful? how much in regard of the universe may it be esteemed? how much in regard of man, a citizen of the supreme city, of which all other cities in the world are as it were but houses and families?
XII. What is this, that now my fancy is set upon? of what things doth it consist? how long can it last? which of all the virtues is the proper virtue for this present use? as whether meekness, fortitude, truth, faith, sincerity, contentation, or any of the rest? Of everything therefore thou must use thyself to say, This immediately comes from God, this by that fatal connection, and concatenation of things, or (which almost comes to one) by some coincidental casualty. And as for this, it proceeds from my neighbour, my kinsman, my fellow: through his ignorance indeed, because he knows not what is truly natural unto him: but I know it, and therefore carry myself towards him according to the natural law of fellowship; that is kindly, and justly. As for those things that of themselves are altogether indifferent, as in my best judgment I conceive everything to deserve more or less, so I carry myself towards it.
XIII. If thou shalt intend that which is present, following the rule of right and reason carefully, solidly, meekly, and shalt not intermix any other businesses, but shall study this only to preserve thy spirit unpolluted, and pure, and shall cleave unto him without either hope or fear of anything, in all things that thou shalt either do or speak, contenting thyself with heroical truth, thou shalt live happily; and from this, there is no man that can hinder thee.
XIV. As physicians and chirurgeons have always their instruments ready at hand for all sudden cures; so have thou always thy dogmata in a readiness for the knowledge of things, both divine and human: and whatsoever thou dost, even in the smallest things that thou dost, thou must ever remember that mutual relation, and connection that is between these two things divine, and things human. For without relation unto God, thou shalt never speed in any worldly actions; nor on the other side in any divine, without some respect had to things human.
XV. Be not deceived; for thou shalt never live to read thy moral commentaries, nor the acts of the famous Romans and Grecians; nor those excerpta from several books; all which thou hadst provided and laid up for thyself against thine old age. Hasten therefore to an end, and giving over all vain hopes, help thyself in time if thou carest for thyself, as thou oughtest to do.
XVI. To steal, to sow, to buy, to be at rest, to see what is to be done (which is not seen by the eyes, but by another kind of sight:) what these words mean, and how many ways to be understood, they do not understand. The body, the soul, the understanding. As the senses naturally belong to the body, and the desires and affections to the soul, so do the dogmata to the understanding.
XVII. To be capable of fancies and imaginations, is common to man and beast. To be violently drawn and moved by the lusts and desires of the soul, is proper to wild beasts and monsters, such as Phalaris and Nero were. To follow reason for ordinary duties and actions is common to them also, who believe not that there be any gods, and for their advantage would make no conscience to betray their own country; and who when once the doors be shut upon them, dare do anything. If therefore all things else be common to these likewise, it follows, that for a man to like and embrace all things that happen and are destinated unto him, and not to trouble and molest that spirit which is seated in the temple of his own breast, with a multitude of vain fancies and imaginations, but to keep him propitious and to obey him as a god, never either speaking anything contrary to truth, or doing anything contrary to justice, is the only true property of a good man. And such a one, though no man should believe that he liveth as he doth, either sincerely and conscionably, or cheerful and contentedly; yet is he neither with any man at all angry for it, nor diverted by it from the way that leadeth to the end of his life, through which a man must pass pure, ever ready to depart, and willing of himself without any compulsion to fit and accommodate himself to his proper lot and portion.
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THE FOURTH BOOK
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I. That inward mistress part of man if it be in its own true natural temper, is towards all worldly chances and events ever so disposed and affected, that it will easily turn and apply itself to that which may be, and is within its own power to compass, when that cannot be which at first it intended. For it never doth absolutely addict and apply itself to any one object, but whatsoever it is that it doth now intend and prosecute, it doth prosecute it with exception and reservation; so that whatsoever it is that falls out contrary to its first intentions, even that afterwards it makes its proper object. Even as the fire when it prevails upon those things that are in his way; by which things indeed a little fire would have been quenched, but a great fire doth soon turn to its own nature, and so consume whatsoever comes in his way: yea by those very things it is made greater and greater.
II. Let nothing be done rashly, and at random, but all things according to the most exact and perfect rules of art.
III. They seek for themselves private retiring places, as country villages, the sea-shore, mountains; yea thou thyself art wont to long much after such places. But all this thou must know proceeds from simplicity in the highest degree. At what time soever thou wilt, it is in thy power to retire into thyself, and to be at rest, and free from all businesses. A man cannot any whither retire better than to his own soul; he especially who is beforehand provided of such things within, which whensoever he doth withdraw himself to look in, may presently afford unto him perfect ease and tranquillity. By tranquillity I understand a decent orderly disposition and carriage, free from all confusion and tumultuousness. Afford then thyself this retiring continually, and thereby refresh and renew thyself. Let these precepts be brief and fundamental, which as soon as thou dost call them to mind, may suffice thee to purge thy soul throughly, and to send thee away well pleased with those things whatsoever they be, which now again after this short withdrawing of thy soul into herself thou dost return unto. For what is it that thou art offended at? Can it be at the wickedness of men, when thou dost call to mind this conclusion, that all reasonable creatures are made one for another? and that it is part of justice to bear with them? and that it is against their wills that they offend? and how many already, who once likewise prosecuted their enmities, suspected, hated, and fiercely contended, are now long ago stretched out, and reduced unto ashes? It is time for thee to make an end. As for those things which among the common chances of the world happen unto thee as thy particular lot and portion, canst thou be displeased with any of them, when thou dost call that our ordinary dilemma to mind, either a providence, or Democritus his atoms; and with it, whatsoever we brought to prove that the whole world is as it were one city? And as for thy body, what canst thou fear, if thou dost consider that thy mind and understanding, when once it hath recollected itself, and knows its own power, hath in this life and breath (whether it run smoothly and gently, or whether harshly and rudely), no interest at all, but is altogether indifferent: and whatsoever else thou hast heard and assented unto concerning either pain or pleasure? But the care of thine honour and reputation will perchance distract thee? How can that be, if thou dost look back, and consider both how quickly all things that are, are forgotten, and what an immense chaos of eternity was before, and will follow after all things: and the vanity of praise, and the inconstancy and variableness of human judgments and opinions, and the narrowness of the place, wherein it is limited and circumscribed? For the whole earth is but as one point; and of it, this inhabited part of it, is but a very little part; and of this part, how many in number, and what manner of men are they, that will commend thee? What remains then, but that thou often put in practice this kind of retiring of thyself, to this little part of thyself; and above all things, keep thyself from distraction, and intend not anything vehemently, but be free and consider all things, as a man whose proper object is Virtue, as a man whose true nature is to be kind and sociable, as a citizen, as a mortal creature. Among other things, which to consider, and look into thou must use to withdraw thyself, let those two be among the most obvious and at hand. One, that the things or objects themselves reach not unto the soul, but stand without still and quiet, and that it is from the opinion only which is within, that all the tumult and all the trouble doth proceed. The next, that all these things, which now thou seest, shall within a very little while be changed, and be no more: and ever call to mind, how many changes and alterations in the world thou thyself hast already been an eyewitness of in thy time. This world is mere change, and this life, opinion.
IV. If to understand and to be reasonable be common unto all men, then is that reason, for which we are termed reasonable, common unto all. If reason is general, then is that reason also, which prescribeth what is to be done and what not, common unto all. If that, then law. If law, then are we fellow-citizens. If so, then are we partners in some one commonweal. If so, then the world is as it were a city. For which other commonweal is it, that all men can be said to be members of? From this common city it is, that understanding, reason, and law is derived unto us, for from whence else? For as that which in me is earthly I have from some common earth; and that which is moist from some other element is imparted; as my breath and life hath its proper fountain; and that likewise which is dry and fiery in me: (for there is nothing which doth not proceed from something; as also there is nothing that can be reduced unto mere nothing:) so also is there some common beginning from whence my understanding hath proceeded.
V. As generation is, so also death, a secret of nature's wisdom: a mixture of elements, resolved into the same elements again, a thing surely which no man ought to be ashamed of: in a series of other fatal events and consequences, which a rational creature is subject unto, not improper or incongruous, nor contrary to the natural and proper constitution of man himself.
VI. Such and such things, from such and such causes, must of necessity proceed. He that would not have such things to happen, is as he that would have the fig-tree grow without any sap or moisture. In sum, remember this, that within a very little while, both thou and he shall both be dead, and after a little while more, not so much as your names and memories shall be remaining.
VII. Let opinion be taken away, and no man will think himself wronged. If no man shall think himself wronged, then is there no more any such thing as wrong. That which makes not man himself the worse, cannot make his life the worse, neither can it hurt him either inwardly or outwardly. It was expedient in nature that it should be so, and therefore necessary.
VIII. Whatsoever doth happen in the world, doth happen justly, and so if thou dost well take heed, thou shalt find it. I say not only in right order by a series of inevitable consequences, but according to justice and as it were by way of equal distribution, according to the true worth of everything. Continue then to take notice of it, as thou hast begun, and whatsoever thou dost, do it not without this proviso, that it be a thing of that nature that a good man (as the word good is properly taken) may do it. This observe carefully in every action.
IX. Conceit no such things, as he that wrongeth thee conceiveth, or would have thee to conceive, but look into the matter itself, and see what it is in very truth.
X. These two rules, thou must have always in a readiness. First, do nothing at all, but what reason proceeding from that regal and supreme part, shall for the good and benefit of men, suggest unto thee. And secondly, if any man that is present shall be able to rectify thee or to turn thee from some erroneous persuasion, that thou be always ready to change thy mind, and this change to proceed, not from any respect of any pleasure or credit thereon depending, but always from some probable apparent ground of justice, or of some public good thereby to be furthered; or from some other such inducement.
XI. Hast thou reason? I have. Why then makest thou not use of it? For if thy reason do her part, what more canst thou require?
XII. As a part hitherto thou hast had a particular subsistence: and now shalt thou vanish away into the common substance of Him, who first begot thee, or rather thou shalt be resumed again into that original rational substance, out of which all others have issued, and are propagated. Many small pieces of frankincense are set upon the same altar, one drops first and is consumed, another after; and it comes all to one.
XIII. Within ten days, if so happen, thou shalt be esteemed a god of them, who now if thou shalt return to the dogmata and to the honouring of reason, will esteem of thee no better than of a mere brute, and of an ape.
XIV. Not as though thou hadst thousands of years to live. Death hangs over thee: whilst yet thou livest, whilst thou mayest, be good.
XV. Now much time and leisure doth he gain, who is not curious to know what his neighbour hath said, or hath done, or hath attempted, but only what he doth himself, that it may be just and holy? or to express it in Agathos' words, Not to look about upon the evil conditions of others, but to run on straight in the line, without any loose and extravagant agitation.
XVI. He who is greedy of creditand reputation after his death, doth not consider, that they themselves by whomhe is remembered, shall soon after every one of them be dead; and they likewisethat succeed those; until at last all memory, which hitherto by the successionof men admiring and soon after dying hath had its course, be quite extinct. Butsuppose that both they that shall remember thee, and thy memory with themshould be immortal, what is that to thee? I will not say to thee after thou artdead; but even to thee living, what is thy praise? But only for a secret andpolitic consideration, which we callοἰκονομίαν, ordispensation. For as for that, that it is the gift of nature, whatsoever iscommended in thee, what might be objected from thence, let that now that we areupon another consideration be omitted as unseasonable. That which is fair andgoodly, whatsoever it be, and in what respect soever it be, that it is fair andgoodly, it is so of itself, and terminates in itself, not admitting praise as apart or member: that therefore which is praised, is not thereby made eitherbetter or worse. This I understand even of those things, that are commonlycalled fair and good, as those which are commended either for the matteritself, or for curious workmanship. As for that which is truly good, what canit stand in need of more than either justice or truth; or more than eitherkindness and modesty? Which of all those, either becomes good or fair, becausecommended; or dispraised suffers any damage? Doth the emerald become worse initself, or more vile if it be not commended? Doth gold, or ivory, or purple? Isthere anything that doth though never so common, as a knife, a flower, or atree?
XVII. If so be that the souls remain after death (say they that will not believe it); how is the air from all eternity able to contain them? How is the earth (say I) ever from that time able to Contain the bodies of them that are buried? For as here the change and resolution of dead bodies into another kind of subsistence (whatsoever it be;) makes place for other dead bodies: so the souls after death transferred into the air, after they have conversed there a while, are either by way of transmutation, or transfusion, or conflagration, received again into that original rational substance, from which all others do proceed: and so give way to those souls, who before coupled and associated unto bodies, now begin to subsist single. This, upon a supposition that the souls after death do for a while subsist single, may be answered. And here, (besides the number of bodies, so buried and contained by the earth), we may further consider the number of several beasts, eaten by us men, and by other creatures. For notwithstanding that such a multitude of them is daily consumed, and as it were buried in the bodies of the eaters, yet is the same place and body able to contain them, by reason of their conversion, partly into blood, partly into air and fire. What in these things is the speculation of truth? to divide things into that which is passive and material; and that which is active and formal.
XVIII. Not to wander out of the way, but upon every motion and desire, to perform that which is just: and ever to be careful to attain to the true natural apprehension of every fancy, that presents itself.
XIX. Whatsoever is expedient unto thee, O World, is expedient unto me; nothing can either be 'unseasonable unto me, or out of date, which unto thee is seasonable. Whatsoever thy seasons bear, shall ever by me be esteemed as happy fruit, and increase. O Nature! from thee are all things, in thee all things subsist, and to thee all tend. Could he say of Athens, Thou lovely city of Cecrops; and shalt not thou say of the world, Thou lovely city of God?
XX. They will say commonly, Meddle not with many things, if thou wilt live cheerfully. Certainly there is nothing better, than for a man to confine himself to necessary actions; to such and so many only, as reason in a creature that knows itself born for society, will command and enjoin. This will not only procure that cheerfulness, which from the goodness, but that also, which from the paucity of actions doth usually proceed. For since it is so, that most of those things, which we either speak or do, are unnecessary; if a man shall cut them off, it must needs follow that he shall thereby gain much leisure, and save much trouble, and therefore at every action a man must privately by way of admonition suggest unto himself, What? may not this that now I go about, be of the number of unnecessary actions? Neither must he use himself to cut off actions only, but thoughts and imaginations also, that are unnecessary for so will unnecessary consequent actions the better be prevented and cut off.
XXI. Try also how a good man's life; (of one, who is well pleased with those things whatsoever, which among the common changes and chances of this world fall to his own lot and share; and can live well contented and fully satisfied in the justice of his own proper present action, and in the goodness of his disposition for the future:) will agree with thee. Thou hast had experience of that other kind of life: make now trial of this also. Trouble not thyself any more henceforth, reduce thyself unto perfect simplicity. Doth any man offend? It is against himself that he doth offend: why should it trouble thee? Hath anything happened unto thee? It is well, whatsoever it be, it is that which of all the common chances of the world from the very beginning in the series of all other things that have, or shall happen, was destinated and appointed unto thee. To comprehend all in a few words, our life is short; we must endeavour to gain the present time with best discretion and justice. Use recreation with sobriety.
XXII. Either this world is a κόσμος, or comely piece, because all disposed and governed by certain order: or if it be a mixture, though confused, yet still it is a comely piece. For is it possible that in thee there should be any beauty at all, and that in the whole world there should be nothing but disorder and confusion? and all things in it too, by natural different properties one from another differenced and distinguished; and yet all through diffused, and by natural sympathy, one to another united, as they are?
XXIII. A black or malign disposition, an effeminate disposition; an hard inexorable disposition, a wild inhuman disposition, a sheepish disposition, a childish disposition; a blockish, a false, a scurril, a fraudulent, a tyrannical: what then? If he be a stranger in the world, that knows not the things that are in it; why not be a stranger as well, that wonders at the things that are done in it?
XXIV. He is a true fugitive, that flies from reason, by which men are sociable. He blind, who cannot see with the eyes of his understanding. He poor, that stands in need of another, and hath not in himself all things needful for this life. He an aposteme of the world, who by being discontented with those things that happen unto him in the world, doth as it were apostatise, and separate himself from common nature's rational administration. For the same nature it is that brings this unto thee, whatsoever it be, that first brought thee into the world. He raises sedition in the city, who by irrational actions withdraws his own soul from that one and common soul of all rational creatures.
XXV. There is, who without so much as a coat; and there is, who without so much as a book, doth put philosophy in practice. I am half naked, neither have I bread to eat, and yet I depart not from reason, saith one. But I say; I want the food of good teaching, and instructions, and yet I depart not from reason.
XXVI. What art and profession soever thou hast learned, endeavour to affect it, and comfort thyself in it; and pass the remainder of thy life as one who from his whole heart commits himself and whatsoever belongs unto him, unto the gods: and as for men, carry not thyself either tyrannically or servilely towards any.
XXVII. Consider in my mind, for example's sake, the times of Vespasian: thou shalt see but the same things: some marrying, some bringing up children, some sick, some dying, some fighting, some feasting, some merchandising, some tilling, some flattering, some boasting, some suspecting, some undermining, some wishing to die, some fretting and murmuring at their present estate, some wooing, some hoarding, some seeking after magistracies, and some after kingdoms. And is not that their age quite over, and ended? Again, consider now the times of Trajan. There likewise thou seest the very self-same things, and that age also is now over and ended. In the like manner consider other periods, both of times and of whole nations, and see how many men, after they had with all their might and main intended and prosecuted some one worldly thing or other did soon after drop away, and were resolved into the elements. But especially thou must call to mind them, whom thou thyself in thy lifetime hast known much distracted about vain things, and in the meantime neglecting to do that, and closely and unseparably (as fully satisfied with it) to adhere unto it, which their own proper constitution did require. And here thou must remember, that thy carriage in every business must be according to the worth and due proportion of it, for so shalt thou not easily be tired out and vexed, if thou shalt not dwell upon small matters longer than is fitting.
XXVIII. Those words which once were common and ordinary, are now become obscure and obsolete; and so the names of men once commonly known and famous, are now become in a manner obscure and obsolete names. Camillus, Cæso, Volesius, Leonnatus; not long after, Scipio, Cato, then Augustus, then Adrianus, then Antoninus Pius: all these in a short time will be out of date, and, as things of another world as it were, become fabulous. And this I say of them, who once shined as the wonders of their ages, for as for the rest, no sooner are they expired, than with them all their fame and memory. And what is it then that shall always be remembered? all is vanity. What is it that we must bestow our care and diligence upon? even upon this only: that our minds and wills be just; that our actions be charitable; that our speech be never deceitful, or that our understanding be not subject to error; that our inclination be always set to embrace whatsoever shall happen unto us, as necessary, as usual, as ordinary, as flowing from such a beginning, and such a fountain, from which both thou thyself and all things are. Willingly therefore, and wholly surrender up thyself unto that fatal concatenation, yielding up thyself unto the fates, to be disposed of at their pleasure.
XXIX. Whatsoever is now present, and from day to day hath its existence; all objects of memories, and the minds and memories themselves, incessantly consider, all things that are, have their being by change and alteration. Use thyself therefore often to meditate upon this, that the nature of the universe delights in nothing more, than in altering those things that are, and in making others like unto them. So that we may say, that whatsoever is, is but as it were the seed of that which shall be. For if thou think that that only is seed, which either the earth or the womb receiveth, thou art very simple.
XXX. Thou art now ready to die, and yet hast thou not attained to that perfect simplicity: thou art yet subject to many troubles and perturbations; not yet free from all fear and suspicion of external accidents; nor yet either so meekly disposed towards all men, as thou shouldest; or so affected as one, whose only study and only wisdom is, to be just in all his actions.
XXXI. Behold and observe, what is the state of their rational part; and those that the world doth account wise, see what things they fly and are afraid of; and what things they hunt after.
XXXII. In another man's mind and understanding thy evil Cannot subsist, nor in any proper temper or distemper of the natural constitution of thy body, which is but as it were the coat or cottage of thy soul. Wherein then, but in that part of thee, wherein the conceit, and apprehension of any misery can subsist? Let not that part therefore admit any such conceit, and then all is well. Though thy body which is so near it should either be cut or burnt, or suffer any corruption or putrefaction, yet let that part to which it belongs to judge of these, be still at rest; that is, let her judge this, that whatsoever it is, that equally may happen to a wicked man, and to a good man, is neither good nor evil. For that which happens equally to him that lives according to nature, and to him that doth not, is neither according to nature, nor against it; and by consequent, neither good nor bad.
XXXIII. Ever consider and think upon the world as being but one living substance, and having but one soul, and how all things in the world, are terminated into one sensitive power; and are done by one general motion as it were, and deliberation of that one soul; and how all things that are, concur in the cause of one another's being, and by what manner of connection and concatenation all things happen.
XXXIV. What art thou, that better and divine part excepted, but as Epictetus said well, a wretched soul, appointed to carry a carcass up and down?
XXXV. To suffer change can be no hurt; as no benefit it is, by change to attain to being. The age and time of the world is as it were a flood and swift current, consisting of the things that are brought to pass in the world. For as soon as anything hath appeared, and is passed away, another succeeds, and that also will presently out of sight.
XXXVI. Whatsoever doth happen in the world, is, in the course of nature, as usual and ordinary as a rose in the spring, and fruit in summer. Of the same nature is sickness and death; slander, and lying in wait, and whatsoever else ordinarily doth unto fools use to be occasion either of joy or sorrow. That, whatsoever it is, that comes after, doth always very naturally, and as it were familiarly, follow upon that which was before. For thou must consider the things of the world, not as a loose independent number, consisting merely of necessary events; but as a discreet connection of things orderly and harmoniously disposed. There is then to be seen in the things of the world, not a bare succession, but an admirable correspondence and affinity.
XXXVII. Let that of Heraclitusnever be out of thy mind, that the death of earth, is water, and the death ofwater, is air; and the death of air, is fire; and so on the contrary. Rememberhim also who was ignorant whither the way did lead, and how that reason beingthe thing by which all things in the world are administered, and which men arecontinually and most inwardly conversant with: yet is the thing, whichordinarily they are most in opposition with, and how those things which dailyhappen among them, cease not daily to be strange unto them, and that we shouldnot either speak, or do anything as men in their sleep, by opinion and bareimagination: for then we think we speak and do, and that we must not be aschildren, who follow their father's example; for best reason alleging theirbare καθότιπαρειλήφαμεν; or,as by successive tradition from our forefathers we have received it.
XXXVIII. Even as if any of the gods should tell thee, Thou shalt certainly die to-morrow, or next day, thou wouldst not, except thou wert extremely base and pusillanimous, take it for a great benefit, rather to die the next day after, than to-morrow; (for alas, what is the difference!) so, for the same reason, think it no great matter to die rather many years after, than the very next day.
XXXIX. Let it be thy perpetual meditation, how many physicians who once looked so grim, and so theatrically shrunk their brows upon their patients, are dead and gone themselves. How many astrologers, after that in great ostentation they had foretold the death of some others, how many philosophers after so many elaborate tracts and volumes concerning either mortality or immortality; how many brave captains and commanders, after the death and slaughter of so many; how many kings and tyrants, after they had with such horror and insolency abused their power upon men's lives, as though themselves had been immortal; how many, that I may so speak, whole cities both men and towns: Helice, Pompeii, Herculaneum, and others innumerable are dead and gone. Run them over also, whom thou thyself, one after another, hast known in thy time to drop away. Such and such a one took care of such and such a one's burial, and soon after was buried himself. So one, so another: and all things in a short time. For herein lieth all indeed, ever to look upon all worldly things, as things for their continuance, that are but for a day: and for their worth, most vile, and contemptible, as for example, What is man? That which but the other day when he was conceived was vile snivel; and within few days shall be either an embalmed carcass, or mere ashes. Thus must thou according to truth and nature, throughly consider how man's life is but for a very moment of time, and so depart meek and contented: even as if a ripe olive falling should praise the ground that bare her, and give thanks to the tree that begat her.
XL. Thou must be like a promontory of the sea, against which though the waves beat continually, yet it both itself stands, and about it are those swelling waves stilled and quieted.
XLI. Oh, wretched I, to whom this mischance is happened! nay, happy I, to whom this thing being happened, I can continue without grief; neither wounded by that which is present, nor in fear of that which is to come. For as for this, it might have happened unto any man, but any man having such a thing befallen him, could not have continued without grief. Why then should that rather be an unhappiness, than this a happiness? But however, canst thou, O man! term that unhappiness, which is no mischance to the nature of man I Canst thou think that a mischance to the nature of man, which is not contrary to the end and will of his nature? What then hast thou learned is the will of man's nature? Doth that then which hath happened unto thee, hinder thee from being just? or magnanimous? or temperate? or wise? or circumspect? or true? or modest? or free? or from anything else of all those things in the present enjoying and possession whereof the nature of man, (as then enjoying all that is proper unto her,) is fully satisfied? Now to conclude; upon all occasion of sorrow remember henceforth to make use of this dogma, that whatsoever it is that hath happened unto thee, is in very deed no such thing of itself, as a misfortune; but that to bear it generously, is certainly great happiness.
XLII. It is but an ordinary coarse one, yet it is a good effectual remedy against the fear of death, for a man to consider in his mind the examples of such, who greedily and covetously (as it were) did for a long time enjoy their lives. What have they got more, than they whose deaths have been untimely? Are not they themselves dead at the last? as Cadiciant's, Fabius, Julianus Lepidus, or any other who in their lifetime having buried many, were at the last buried themselves. The whole space of any man's life, is but little; and as little as it is, with what troubles, with what manner of dispositions, and in the society of how wretched a body must it be passed! Let it be therefore unto thee altogether as a matter of indifferency. For if thou shalt look backward; behold, what an infinite chaos of time doth present itself unto thee; and as infinite a chaos, if thou shalt look forward. In that which is so infinite, what difference can there be between that which liveth but three days, and that which liveth three ages?
XLIII. Let thy course ever be the most compendious way. The most compendious, is that which is according to nature: that is, in all both words and deeds, ever to follow that which is most sound and perfect. For such a resolution will free a man from all trouble, strife, dissembling, and ostentation.
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THE FIFTH BOOK
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I. In the morning when thou findest thyself unwilling to rise, consider with thyself presently, it is to go about a man's work that I am stirred up. Am I then yet unwilling to go about that, for which I myself was born and brought forth into this world? Or was I made for this, to lay me down, and make much of myself in a warm bed? 'O but this is pleasing.' And was it then for this that thou wert born, that thou mightest enjoy pleasure? Was it not in very truth for this, that thou mightest always be busy and in action? Seest thou not how all things in the world besides, how every tree md plant, how sparrows and ants, spiders and bees: how all in their kind are intent as it were orderly to perform whatsoever (towards the preservation of this orderly universe) naturally doth become and belong unto thin? And wilt not thou do that, which belongs unto a man to do? Wilt not thou run to do that, which thy nature doth require? 'But thou must have some rest.' Yes, thou must. Nature hath of that also, as well as of eating and drinking, allowed thee a certain stint. But thou guest beyond thy stint, and beyond that which would suffice, and in matter of action, there thou comest short of that which thou mayest. It must needs be therefore, that thou dost not love thyself, for if thou didst, thou wouldst also love thy nature, and that which thy nature doth propose unto herself as her end. Others, as many as take pleasure in their trade and profession, can even pine themselves at their works, and neglect their bodies and their food for it; and doest thou less honour thy nature, than an ordinary mechanic his trade; or a good dancer his art? than a covetous man his silver, and vainglorious man applause? These to whatsoever they take an affection, can be content to want their meat and sleep, to further that every one which he affects: and shall actions tending to the common good of human society, seem more vile unto thee, or worthy of less respect and intention?
II. How easy a thing is it for a man to put off from him all turbulent adventitious imaginations, and presently to be in perfect rest and tranquillity!
III. Think thyself fit and worthy to speak, or to do anything that is according to nature, and let not the reproach, or report of some that may ensue upon it, ever deter thee. If it be right and honest to be spoken or done, undervalue not thyself so much, as to be discouraged from it. As for them, they have their own rational over-ruling part, and their own proper inclination: which thou must not stand and look about to take notice of, but go on straight, whither both thine own particular, and the common nature do lead thee; and the way of both these, is but one.
IV. I continue my course by actions according to nature, until I fall and cease, breathing out my last breath into that air, by which continually breathed in I did live; and falling upon that earth, out of whose gifts and fruits my father gathered his seed, my mother her blood, and my nurse her milk, out of which for so many years I have been provided, both of meat and drink. And lastly, which beareth me that tread upon it, and beareth with me that so many ways do abuse it, or so freely make use of it, so many ways to so many ends.
V. No man can admire thee for thy sharp acute language, such is thy natural disability that way. Be it so: yet there be many other good things, for the want of which thou canst not plead the want or natural ability. Let them be seen in thee, which depend wholly from thee; sincerity, gravity, laboriousness, contempt of pleasures; be not querulous, be Content with little, be kind, be free; avoid all superfluity, all vain prattling; be magnanimous. Doest not thou perceive, how many things there be, which notwithstanding any pretence of natural indisposition and unfitness, thou mightest have performed and exhibited, and yet still thou doest voluntarily continue drooping downwards? Or wilt thou say that it is through defect of thy natural constitution, that thou art constrained to murmur, to be base and wretched to flatter; now to accuse, and now to please, and pacify thy body: to be vainglorious, to be so giddy-headed., and unsettled in thy thoughts? nay (witnesses be the Gods) of all these thou mightest have been rid long ago: only, this thou must have been contented with, to have borne the blame of one that is somewhat slow and dull, wherein thou must so exercise thyself, as one who neither doth much take to heart this his natural defect, nor yet pleaseth himself in it.
VI. Such there be, who when they have done a good turn to any, are ready to set them on the score for it, and to require retaliation. Others there be, who though they stand not upon retaliation, to require any, yet they think with themselves nevertheless, that such a one is their debtor, and they know as their word is what they have done. Others again there be, who when they have done any such thing, do not so much as know what they have done; but are like unto the vine, which beareth her grapes, and when once she hath borne her own proper fruit, is contented and seeks for no further recompense. As a horse after a race, and a hunting dog when he hath hunted, and a bee when she hath made her honey, look not for applause and commendation; so neither doth that man that rightly doth understand his own nature when he hath done a good turn: but from one doth proceed to do another, even as the vine after she hath once borne fruit in her own proper season, is ready for another time. Thou therefore must be one of them, who what they do, barely do it without any further thought, and are in a manner insensible of what they do. 'Nay but,' will some reply perchance, 'this very thing a rational man is bound unto, to understand what it is, that he doeth.' For it is the property, say they, of one that is naturally sociable, to be sensible, that he doth operate sociably: nay, and to desire, that the party him self that is sociably dealt with, should be sensible of it too. I answer, That which thou sayest is true indeed, but the true meaning of that which is said, thou dost not understand. And therefore art thou one of those first, whom I mentioned. For they also are led by a probable appearance of reason. But if thou dost desire to understand truly what it is that is said, fear not that thou shalt therefore give over any sociable action.
VII. The form of the Athenians' prayer did run thus: 'O rain, rain, good Jupiter, upon all the grounds and fields that belong to the Athenians.' Either we should not pray at all, or thus absolutely and freely; and not every one for himself in particular alone.
VIII. As we say commonly, The physician hath prescribed unto this man, riding; unto another, cold baths; unto a third, to go barefoot: so it is alike to say, The nature of the universe hath prescribed unto this man sickness, or blindness, or some loss, or damage or some such thing. For as there, when we say of a physician, that he hath prescribed anything, our meaning is, that he hath appointed this for that, as subordinate and conducing to health: so here, whatsoever doth happen unto any, is ordained unto him as a thing subordinate unto the fates, and therefore do we say of such things, that they do συμβαίνειν, that is, happen, or fall together; as of square stones, when either in walls, or pyramids in a certain position they fit one another, and agree as it were in an harmony, the masons say, that they do συμβαίνειν; as if thou shouldest say, fall together: so that in the general, though the things be divers that make it, yet the consent or harmony itself is but one. And as the whole world is made up of all the particular bodies of the world, one perfect and complete body, of the same nature that particular bodies; so is the destiny of particular causes and events one general one, of the same nature that particular causes are. What I now say, even they that are mere idiots are not ignorant of: for they say commonly τοῦτο ἔφερεν ἀυτῷ, that is, This his destiny hath brought upon him. This therefore is by the fates properly and particularly brought upon this, as that unto this in particular is by the physician prescribed. These therefore let us accept of in like manner, as we do those that are prescribed unto us our physicians. For them also in themselves shall We find to contain many harsh things, but we nevertheless, in hope of health, and recovery, accept of them. Let the fulfilling and accomplishment of those things which the common nature hath determined, be unto thee as thy health. Accept then, and be pleased with whatsoever doth happen, though otherwise harsh and un-pleasing, as tending to that end, to the health and welfare of the universe, and to Jove's happiness and prosperity. For this whatsoever it be, should not have been produced, had it not conduced to the good of the universe. For neither doth any ordinary particular nature bring anything to pass, that is not to whatsoever is within the sphere of its own proper administration and government agreeable and subordinate. For these two considerations then thou must be well pleased with anything that doth happen unto thee. First, because that for thee properly it was brought to pass, and unto thee it was prescribed; and that from the very beginning by the series and connection of the first causes, it hath ever had a reference unto thee. And secondly, because the good success and perfect welfare, and indeed the very continuance of Him, that is the Administrator of the whole, doth in a manner depend on it. For the whole (because whole, therefore entire and perfect) is maimed, and mutilated, if thou shalt cut off anything at all, whereby the coherence, and contiguity as of parts, so of causes, is maintained and preserved. Of which certain it is, that thou doest (as much as lieth in thee) cut off, and in some sort violently take somewhat away, as often as thou art displeased with anything that happeneth.
IX. Be not discontented, be not disheartened, be not out of hope, if often it succeed not so well with thee punctually and precisely to do all things according to the right dogmata, but being once cast off, return unto them again: and as for those many and more frequent occurrences, either of worldly distractions, or human infirmities, which as a man thou canst not but in some measure be subject unto, be not thou discontented with them; but however, love and affect that only which thou dust return unto: a philosopher's life, and proper occupation after the most exact manner. And when thou dust return to thy philosophy, return not unto it as the manner of some is, after play and liberty as it were, to their schoolmasters and pedagogues; but as they that have sore eyes to their sponge and egg: or as another to his cataplasm; or as others to their fomentations: so shalt not thou make it a matter of ostentation at all to obey reason but of ease and comfort. And remember that philosophy requireth nothing of thee, but what thy nature requireth, and wouldest thou thyself desire anything that is not according to nature? for which of these sayest thou; that which is according to nature or against it, is of itself more kind and pleasing? Is it not for that respect especially, that pleasure itself is to so many men's hurt and overthrow, most prevalent, because esteemed commonly most kind, and natural? But consider well whether magnanimity rather, and true liberty, and true simplicity, and equanimity, and holiness; whether these be not most kind and natural? And prudency itself, what more kind and amiable than it, when thou shalt truly consider with thyself, what it is through all the proper objects of thy rational intellectual faculty currently to go on without any fall or stumble? As for the things of the world, their true nature is in a manner so involved with obscurity, that unto many philosophers, and those no mean ones, they seemed altogether incomprehensible, and the Stoics themselves, though they judge them not altogether incomprehensible, yet scarce and not without much difficulty, comprehensible, so that all assent of ours is fallible, for who is he that is infallible in his conclusions? From the nature of things, pass now unto their subjects and matter: how temporary, how vile are they I such as may be in the power and possession of some abominable loose liver, of some common strumpet, of some notorious oppressor and extortioner. Pass from thence to the dispositions of them that thou doest ordinarily converse with, how hardly do we bear, even with the most loving and amiable! that I may not say, how hard it is for us to bear even with our own selves, in such obscurity, and impurity of things: in such and so continual a flux both of the substances and time; both of the motions themselves, and things moved; what it is that we can fasten upon; either to honour, and respect especially; or seriously, and studiously to seek after; I cannot so much as conceive For indeed they are things contrary.
X. Thou must comfort thyself in the expectation of thy natural dissolution, and in the meantime not grieve at the delay; but rest contented in those two things. First, that nothing shall happen unto thee, which is not according to the nature of the universe. Secondly, that it is in thy power, to do nothing against thine own proper God, and inward spirit. For it is not in any man's power to constrain thee to transgress against him.
XI. What is the use that now at this present I make of my soul? Thus from time to time and upon all occasions thou must put this question to thyself; what is now that part of mine which they call the rational mistress part, employed about? Whose soul do I now properly possess? a child's? or a youth's? a woman's? or a tyrant's? some brute, or some wild beast's soul?
XII. What those things are in themselves, which by the greatest part are esteemed good, thou mayest gather even from this. For if a man shall hear things mentioned as good, which are really good indeed, such as are prudence, temperance, justice, fortitude, after so much heard and conceived, he cannot endure to hear of any more, for the word good is properly spoken of them. But as for those which by the vulgar are esteemed good, if he shall hear them mentioned as good, he doth hearken for more. He is well contented to hear, that what is spoken by the comedian, is but familiarly and popularly spoken, so that even the vulgar apprehend the difference. For why is it else, that this offends not and needs not to be excused, when virtues are styled good: but that which is spoken in commendation of wealth, pleasure, or honour, we entertain it only as merrily and pleasantly spoken? Proceed therefore, and inquire further, whether it may not be that those things also which being mentioned upon the stage were merrily, and with great applause of the multitude, scoffed at with this jest, that they that possessed them had not in all the world of their own, (such was their affluence and plenty) so much as a place where to avoid their excrements. Whether, I say, those ought not also in very deed to be much respected, and esteemed of, as the only things that are truly good.
XIII. All that I consist of, is either form or matter. No corruption can reduce either of these unto nothing: for neither did I of nothing become a subsistent creature. Every part of mine then will by mutation be disposed into a certain part of the whole world, and that in time into another part; and so in infinitum; by which kind of mutation, I also became what I am, and so did they that begot me, and they before them, and so upwards in infinitum. For so we may be allowed to speak, though the age and government of the world, be to some certain periods of time limited, and confined.
XIV. Reason, and rational power, are faculties which content themselves with themselves, and their own proper operations. And as for their first inclination and motion, that they take from themselves. But their progress is right to the end and object, which is in their way, as it were, and lieth just before them: that is, which is feasible and possible, whether it be that which at the first they proposed to themselves, or no. For which reason also such actions are termed κατορθώσεις, to intimate the directness of the way, by which they are achieved. Nothing must be thought to belong to a man, which doth not belong unto him as he is a man. These, the event of purposes, are not things required in a man. The nature of man doth not profess any such things. The final ends and consummations of actions are nothing at all to a man's nature. The end therefore of a man, or the summum bonum whereby that end is fulfilled, cannot consist in the consummation of actions purposed and intended. Again, concerning these outward worldly things, were it so that any of them did properly belong unto man, then would it not belong unto man, to condemn them and to stand in opposition with them. Neither would he be praiseworthy that can live without them; or he good, (if these were good indeed) who of his own accord doth deprive himself of any of them. But we see contrariwise, that the more a man doth withdraw himself from these wherein external pomp and greatness doth consist, or any other like these; or the better he doth bear with the loss of these, the better he is accounted.
XV. Such as thy thoughts and ordinary cogitations are, such will thy mind be in time. For the soul doth as it were receive its tincture from the fancies, and imaginations. Dye it therefore and thoroughly soak it with the assiduity of these cogitations. As for example. Wheresoever thou mayest live, there it is in thy power to live well and happy. But thou mayest live at the Court, there then also mayest thou live well and happy. Again, that which everything is made for, he is also made unto that, and cannot but naturally incline unto it. That which anything doth naturally incline unto, therein is his end. Wherein the end of everything doth consist, therein also doth his good and benefit consist. Society therefore is the proper good of a rational creature. For that we are made for society, it hath long since been demonstrated. Or can any man make any question of this, that whatsoever is naturally worse and inferior, is ordinarily subordinated to that which is better? and that those things that are best, are made one for another? And those things that have souls, are better than those that have none? and of those that have, those best that have rational souls?
XVI. To desire things impossible is the part of a mad man. But it is a thing impossible, that wicked man should not commit some such things. Neither doth anything happen to any man, which in the ordinary course of nature as natural unto him doth not happen. Again, the same things happen unto others also. And truly, if either he that is ignorant that such a thing hath happened unto him, or he that is ambitious to be commended for his magnanimity, can be patient, and is not grieved: is it not a grievous thing, that either ignorance, or a vain desire to please and to be commended, should be more powerful and effectual than true prudence? As for the things themselves, they touch not the soul, neither can they have any access unto it: neither can they of themselves any ways either affect it, or move it. For she herself alone can affect and move herself, and according as the dogmata and opinions are, which she doth vouchsafe herself; so are those things which, as accessories, have any co-existence with her.
XVII. After one consideration, man is nearest unto us; as we are bound to do them good, and to bear with them. But as he may oppose any of our true proper actions, so man is unto me but as a thing indifferent: even as the sun, or the wind, or some wild beast. By some of these it may be, that some operation or other of mine, may be hindered; however, of my mind and resolution itself, there can be no let or impediment, by reason of that ordinary constant both exception (or reservation wherewith it inclineth) and ready conversion of objects; from that which may not be, to that which may be, which in the prosecution of its inclinations, as occasion serves, it doth observe. For by these the mind doth turn and convert any impediment whatsoever, to be her aim and purpose. So that what before was the impediment, is now the principal object of her working; and that which before was in her way, is now her readiest way.
XVIII. Honour that which is chiefest and most powerful in the world, and that is it, which makes use of all things, and governs all things. So also in thyself; honour that which is chiefest, and most powerful; and is of one kind and nature with that which we now spake of. For it is the very same, which being in thee, turneth all other things to its own use, and by whom also thy life is governed.
XIX. That which doth not hurt the city itself; cannot hurt any citizen. This rule thou must remember to apply and make use of upon every conceit and apprehension of wrong. If the whole city be not hurt by this, neither am I certainly. And if the whole be not, why should I make it my private grievance? consider rather what it is wherein he is overseen that is thought to have done the wrong. Again, often meditate how swiftly all things that subsist, and all things that are done in the world, are carried away, and as it were conveyed out of sight: for both the substance themselves, we see as a flood, are in a continual flux; and all actions in a perpetual change; and the causes themselves, subject to a thousand alterations, neither is there anything almost, that may ever be said to be now settled and constant. Next unto this, and which follows upon it, consider both the infiniteness of the time already past, and the immense vastness of that which is to come, wherein all things are to be resolved and annihilated. Art not thou then a very fool, who for these things, art either puffed up with pride, or distracted with cares, or canst find in thy heart to make such moans as for a thing that would trouble thee for a very long time? Consider the whole universe whereof thou art but a very little part, and the whole age of the world together, whereof but a short and very momentary portion is allotted unto thee, and all the fates and destinies together, of which how much is it that comes to thy part and share! Again: another doth trespass against me. Let him look to that. He is master of his own disposition, and of his own operation. I for my part am in the meantime in possession of as much, as the common nature would have me to possess: and that which mine own nature would have me do, I do.
XX. Let not that chief commanding part of thy soul be ever subject to any variation through any corporal either pain or pleasure, neither suffer it to be mixed with these, but let it both circumscribe itself, and confine those affections to their own proper parts and members. But if at any time they do reflect and rebound upon the mind and understanding (as in an united and compacted body it must needs;) then must thou not go about to resist sense and feeling, it being natural. However let not thy understanding to this natural sense and feeling, which whether unto our flesh pleasant or painful, is unto us nothing properly, add an opinion of either good or bad and all is well.
XXI. To live with the Gods. He liveth with the Gods, who at all times affords unto them the spectacle of a soul, both contented and well pleased with whatsoever is afforded, or allotted unto her; and performing whatsoever is pleasing to that Spirit, whom (being part of himself) Jove hath appointed to every man as his overseer and governor.
XXII. Be not angry neither with him whose breath, neither with him whose arm holes, are offensive. What can he do? such is his breath naturally, and such are his arm holes; and from such, such an effect, and such a smell must of necessity proceed. 'O, but the man (sayest thou) hath understanding in him, and might of himself know, that he by standing near, cannot choose but offend.' And thou also (God bless thee!) hast understanding. Let thy reasonable faculty, work upon his reasonable faculty; show him his fault, admonish him. If he hearken unto thee, thou hast cured him, and there will be no more occasion of anger.
XXIII. 'Where there shall neither roarer be, nor harlot.' Why so? As thou dost purpose to live, when thou hast retired thyself to some such place, where neither roarer nor harlot is: so mayest thou here. And if they will not suffer thee, then mayest thou leave thy life rather than thy calling, but so as one that doth not think himself anyways wronged. Only as one would say, Here is a smoke; I will out of it. And what a great matter is this! Now till some such thing force me out, I will continue free; neither shall any man hinder me to do what I will, and my will shall ever be by the proper nature of a reasonable and sociable creature, regulated and directed.
XXIV. That rational essence by which the universe is governed, is for community and society; and therefore hath it both made the things that are worse, for the best, and hath allied and knit together those which are best, as it were in an harmony. Seest thou not how it hath sub-ordinated, and co-ordinated? and how it hath distributed unto everything according to its worth? and those which have the pre-eminency and superiority above all, hath it united together, into a mutual consent and agreement.
XXV. How hast thou carried thyself hitherto towards the Gods? towards thy parents? towards thy brethren? towards thy wife? towards thy children? towards thy masters? thy foster-fathers? thy friends? thy domestics? thy servants? Is it so with thee, that hitherto thou hast neither by word or deed wronged any of them? Remember withal through how many things thou hast already passed, and how many thou hast been able to endure; so that now the legend of thy life is full, and thy charge is accomplished. Again, how many truly good things have certainly by thee been discerned? how many pleasures, how many pains hast thou passed over with contempt? how many things eternally glorious hast thou despised? towards how many perverse unreasonable men hast thou carried thyself kindly, and discreetly?
XXVI. Why should imprudent unlearned souls trouble that which is both learned, and prudent? And which is that that is so? she that understandeth the beginning and the end, and hath the true knowledge of that rational essence, that passeth through all things subsisting, and through all ages being ever the same, disposing and dispensing as it were this universe by certain periods of time.
XXVII. Within a very little while, thou wilt be either ashes, or a sceletum; and a name perchance; and perchance, not so much as a name. And what is that but an empty sound, and a rebounding echo? Those things which in this life are dearest unto us, and of most account, they are in themselves but vain, putrid, contemptible. The most weighty and serious, if rightly esteemed, but as puppies, biting one another: or untoward children, now laughing and then crying. As for faith, and modesty, and justice, and truth, they long since, as one of the poets hath it, have abandoned this spacious earth, and retired themselves unto heaven. What is it then that doth keep thee here, if things sensible be so mutable and unsettled? and the senses so obscure, and so fallible? and our souls nothing but an exhalation of blood? and to be in credit among such, be but vanity? What is it that thou dost stay for? an extinction, or a translation; either of them with a propitious and contented mind. But still that time come, what will content thee? what else, but to worship and praise the Gods; and to do good unto men. To bear with them, and to forbear to do them any wrong. And for all external things belonging either to this thy wretched body, or life, to remember that they are neither thine, nor in thy power.
XXVIII. Thou mayest always speed, if thou wilt but make choice of the right way; if in the course both of thine opinions and actions, thou wilt observe a true method. These two things be common to the souls, as of God, so of men, and of every reasonable creature, first that in their own proper work they cannot be hindered by anything: and secondly, that their happiness doth consist in a disposition to, and in the practice of righteousness; and that in these their desire is terminated.
XXIX. If this neither be my wicked act, nor an act anyways depending from any wickedness of mine, and that by it the public is not hurt; what doth it concern me? And wherein can the public be hurt? For thou must not altogether be carried by conceit and common opinion: as for help thou must afford that unto them after thy best ability, and as occasion shall require, though they sustain damage, but in these middle or worldly things; but however do not thou conceive that they are truly hurt thereby: for that is not right. But as that old foster-father in the comedy, being now to take his leave doth with a great deal of ceremony, require his foster-child's rhombus, or rattle-top, remembering nevertheless that it is but a rhombus; so here also do thou likewise. For indeed what is all this pleading and public bawling for at the courts? O man, hast thou forgotten what those things are! yea but they are things that others much care for, and highly esteem of. Wilt thou therefore be a fool too? Once I was; let that suffice.
XXX. Let death surprise me when it will, and where it will, I may be εὔμοιρος, or a happy man, nevertheless.
For he is a happy man, who in his lifetime dealeth unto himself a happy lot and portion. A happy lot and portion is, good inclinations of the soul, good desires, good actions.
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THE SIXTH BOOK
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I. The matter itself, of which the universe doth consist, is of itself very tractable and pliable. That rational essence that doth govern it, hath in itself no cause to do evil. It hath no evil in itself; neither can it do anything that is evil: neither can anything be hurt by it. And all things are done and determined according to its will and prescript.
II. Be it all one unto thee, whether half frozen or well warm; whether only slumbering, or after a full sleep; whether discommended or commended thou do thy duty: or whether dying or doing somewhat else; for that also 'to die,' must among the rest be reckoned as one of the duties and actions of our lives.
III. Look in, let not either the proper quality, or the true worth of anything pass thee, before thou hast fully apprehended it.
IV. All substances come soon to their change, and either they shall be resolved by way of exhalation (if so be that all things shall be reunited into one substance), or as others maintain, they shall be scattered and dispersed. As for that Rational Essence by which all things are governed, as it best understandeth itself, both its own disposition, and what it doth, and what matter it hath to do with and accordingly doth all things; so we that do not, no wonder, if we wonder at many things, the reasons whereof we cannot comprehend.
V. The best kind of revenge is, not to become like unto them.
VI. Let this be thy only joy, and thy only comfort, from one sociable kind action without intermission to pass unto another, God being ever in thy mind.
VII. The rational commanding part, as it alone can stir up and turn itself; so it maketh both itself to be, and everything that happeneth, to appear unto itself, as it will itself.
VIII. According to the nature of the universe all things particular are determined, not according to any other nature, either about compassing and containing; or within, dispersed and contained; or without, depending. Either this universe is a mere confused mass, and an intricate context of things, which shall in time be scattered and dispersed again: or it is an union consisting of order, and administered by Providence. If the first, why should I desire to continue any longer in this fortuit confusion and commixtion? or why should I take care for anything else, but that as soon as may be I may be earth again? And why should I trouble myself any more whilst I seek to please the Gods? Whatsoever I do, dispersion is my end, and will come upon me whether I will or no. But if the latter be, then am not I religious in vain; then will I be quiet and patient, and put my trust in Him, who is the Governor of all.
IX. Whensoever by some present hard occurrences thou art constrained to be in some sort troubled and vexed, return unto thyself as soon as may be, and be not out of tune longer than thou must needs. For so shalt thou be the better able to keep thy part another time, and to maintain the harmony, if thou dost use thyself to this continually; once out, presently to have recourse unto it, and to begin again.
X. If it were that thou hadst at one time both a stepmother, and a natural mother living, thou wouldst honour and respect her also; nevertheless to thine own natural mother would thy refuge, and recourse be continually. So let the court and thy philosophy be unto thee. Have recourse unto it often, and comfort thyself in her, by whom it is that those other things are made tolerable unto thee, and thou also in those things not intolerable unto others.
XI. How marvellous useful it is for a man to represent unto himself meats, and all such things that are for the mouth, under a right apprehension and imagination! as for example: This is the carcass of a fish; this of a bird; and this of a hog. And again more generally; This phalernum, this excellent highly commended wine, is but the bare juice of an ordinary grape. This purple robe, but sheep's hairs, dyed with the blood of a shellfish. So for coitus, it is but the attrition of an ordinary base entrail, and the excretion of a little vile snivel, with a certain kind of convulsion: according to Hippocrates his opinion. How excellent useful are these lively fancies and representations of things, thus penetrating and passing through the objects, to make their true nature known and apparent! This must thou use all thy life long, and upon all occasions: and then especially, when matters are apprehended as of great worth and respect, thy art and care must be to uncover them, and to behold their vileness, and to take away from them all those serious circumstances and expressions, under which they made so grave a show. For outward pomp and appearance is a great juggler; and then especially art thou most in danger to be beguiled by it, when (to a man's thinking) thou most seemest to be employed about matters of moment.
XII. See what Crates pronounceth concerning Xenocrates himself.
XIII. Those things which the common sort of people do admire, are most of them such things as are very general, and may be comprehended under things merely natural, or naturally affected and qualified: as stones, wood, figs, vines, olives. Those that be admired by them that are more moderate and restrained, are comprehended under things animated: as flocks and herds. Those that are yet more gentle and curious, their admiration is commonly confined to reasonable creatures only; not in general as they are reasonable, but as they are capable of art, or of some craft and subtile invention: or perchance barely to reasonable creatures; as they that delight in the possession of many slaves. But he that honours a reasonable soul in general, as it is reasonable and naturally sociable, doth little regard anything else: and above all things is careful to preserve his own, in the continual habit and exercise both of reason and sociableness: and thereby doth co-operate with him, of whose nature he doth also participate; God.
XIV. Some things hasten to be, and others to be no more. And even whatsoever now is, some part thereof hath already perished. Perpetual fluxes and alterations renew the world, as the perpetual course of time doth make the age of the world (of itself infinite) to appear always fresh and new. In such a flux and course of all things, what of these things that hasten so fast away should any man regard, since among all there is not any that a man may fasten and fix upon? as if a man would settle his affection upon some ordinary sparrow living by him, who is no sooner seen, than out of sight. For we must not think otherwise of our lives, than as a mere exhalation of blood, or of an ordinary respiration of air. For what in our common apprehension is, to breathe in the air and to breathe it out again, which we do daily: so much is it and no more, at once to breathe out all thy respirative faculty into that common air from whence but lately (as being but from yesterday, and to-day), thou didst first breathe it in, and with it, life.
XV. Not vegetative spiration, it is not surely (which plants have) that in this life should be so dear unto us; nor sensitive respiration, the proper life of beasts, both tame and wild; nor this our imaginative faculty; nor that we are subject to be led and carried up and down by the strength of our sensual appetites; or that we can gather, and live together; or that we can feed: for that in effect is no better, than that we can void the excrements of our food. What is it then that should be dear unto us? to hear a clattering noise? if not that, then neither to be applauded by the tongues of men. For the praises of many tongues, is in effect no better than the clattering of so many tongues. If then neither applause, what is there remaining that should be dear unto thee? This I think: that in all thy motions and actions thou be moved, and restrained according to thine own true natural constitution and Construction only. And to this even ordinary arts and professions do lead us. For it is that which every art doth aim at, that whatsoever it is, that is by art effected and prepared, may be fit for that work that it is prepared for. This is the end that he that dresseth the vine, and he that takes upon him either to tame colts, or to train up dogs, doth aim at. What else doth the education of children, and all learned professions tend unto? Certainly then it is that, which should be dear unto us also. If in this particular it go well with thee, care not for the obtaining of other things. But is it so, that thou canst not but respect other things also? Then canst not thou truly be free? then canst thou not have self-content: then wilt thou ever be subject to passions. For it is not possible, but that thou must be envious, and jealous, and suspicious of them whom thou knowest can bereave thee of such things; and again, a secret underminer of them, whom thou seest in present possession of that which is dear unto thee. To be short, he must of necessity be full of confusion within himself, and often accuse the Gods, whosoever stands in need of these things. But if thou shalt honour and respect thy mind only, that will make thee acceptable towards thyself, towards thy friends very tractable; and conformable and concordant with the Gods; that is, accepting with praises whatsoever they shall think good to appoint and allot unto thee.
XVI. Under, above, and about, are the motions of the elements; but the motion of virtue, is none of those motions, but is somewhat more excellent and divine. Whose way (to speed and prosper in it) must be through a way, that is not easily comprehended.
XVII. Who can choose but wonder at them? They will not speak well of them that are at the same time with them, and live with them; yet they themselves are very ambitious, that they that shall follow, whom they have never seen, nor shall ever see, should speak well of them. As if a man should grieve that he hath not been commended by them, that lived before him.
XVIII. Do not ever conceive anything impossible to man, which by thee cannot, or not without much difficulty be effected; but whatsoever in general thou canst Conceive possible and proper unto any man, think that very possible unto thee also.
XIX. Suppose that at the palestra somebody hath all to-torn thee with his nails, and hath broken thy head. Well, thou art wounded. Yet thou dost not exclaim; thou art not offended with him. Thou dost not suspect him for it afterwards, as one that watcheth to do thee a mischief. Yea even then, though thou dost thy best to save thyself from him, yet not from him as an enemy. It is not by way of any suspicious indignation, but by way of gentle and friendly declination. Keep the same mind and disposition in other parts of thy life also. For many things there be, which we must conceit and apprehend, as though we had had to do with an antagonist at the palestra. For as I said, it is very possible for us to avoid and decline, though we neither suspect, nor hate.
XX. If anybody shall reprove me, and shall make it apparent unto me, that in any either opinion or action of mine I do err, I will most gladly retract. For it is the truth that I seek after, by which I am sure that never any man was hurt; and as sure, that he is hurt that continueth in any error, or ignorance whatsoever.
XXI. I for my part will do what belongs unto me; as for other things, whether things unsensible or things irrational; or if rational, yet deceived and ignorant of the true way, they shall not trouble or distract me. For as for those creatures which are not endued with reason and all other things and-matters of the world whatsoever I freely, and generously, as one endued with reason, of things that have none, make use of them. And as for men, towards them as naturally partakers of the same reason, my care is to carry myself sociably. But whatsoever it is that thou art about, remember to call upon the Gods. And as for the time how long thou shalt live to do these things, let it be altogether indifferent unto thee, for even three such hours are sufficient.
XXII. Alexander of Macedon, and he that dressed his mules, when once dead both came to one. For either they were both resumed into those original rational essences from whence all things in the world are propagated; or both after one fashion were scattered into atoms.
XXIII Consider how many different things, whether they concern our bodies, or our souls, in a moment of time come to pass in every one of us, and so thou wilt not wonder if many more things or rather all things that are done, can at one time subsist, and coexist in that both one and general, which we call the world.
XXIV. if any should put this question unto thee, how this word Antoninus is written, wouldst thou not presently fix thine intention upon it, and utter out in order every letter of it? And if any shall begin to gainsay thee, and quarrel with thee about it; wilt thou quarrel with him again, or rather go on meekly as thou hast begun, until thou hast numbered out every letter? Here then likewise remember, that every duty that belongs unto a man doth consist of some certain letters or numbers as it were, to which without any noise or tumult keeping thyself thou must orderly proceed to thy proposed end, forbearing to quarrel with him that would quarrel and fall out with thee.
XXV. Is it not a cruel thing to forbid men to affect those things, which they conceive to agree best with their own natures, and to tend most to their own proper good and behoof? But thou after a sort deniest them this liberty, as often as thou art angry with them for their sins. For surely they are led unto those sins whatsoever they be, as to their proper good and commodity. But it is not so (thou wilt object perchance). Thou therefore teach them better, and make it appear unto them: but be not thou angry with them.
XXVI. Death is a cessation from the impression of the senses, the tyranny of the passions, the errors of the mind, and the servitude of the body.
XXVII. If in this kind of life thy body be able to hold out, it is a shame that thy soul should faint first, and give over, take heed, lest of a philosopher thou become a mere Cæsar in time, and receive a new tincture from the court. For it may happen if thou dost not take heed. Keep thyself therefore, truly simple, good, sincere, grave, free from all ostentation, a lover of that which is just, religious, kind, tender-hearted, strong and vigorous to undergo anything that becomes thee. Endeavour to continue such, as philosophy (hadst thou wholly and constantly applied thyself unto it) would have made, and secured thee. Worship the Gods, procure the welfare of men, this life is short. Charitable actions, and a holy disposition, is the only fruit of this earthly life.
XXVIII. Do all things as becometh the disciple of Antoninus Pius. Remember his resolute constancy in things that were done by him according to reason, his equability in all things, his sanctity; the cheerfulness of his countenance, his sweetness, and how free he was from all vainglory; how careful to come to the true and exact knowledge of matters in hand, and how he would by no means give over till he did fully, and plainly understand the whole state of the business; and how patiently, and without any contestation he would bear with them, that did unjustly condemn him: how he would never be over-hasty in anything, nor give ear to slanders and false accusations, but examine and observe with best diligence the several actions and dispositions of men. Again, how he was no backbiter, nor easily frightened, nor suspicious, and in his language free from all affectation and curiosity: and how easily he would content himself with few things, as lodging, bedding, clothing, and ordinary nourishment, and attendance. How able to endure labour, how patient; able through his spare diet to continue from morning to evening without any necessity of withdrawing before his accustomed hours to the necessities of nature: his uniformity and constancy in matter of friendship. How he would bear with them that with all boldness and liberty opposed his opinions; and even rejoice if any man could better advise him: and lastly, how religious he was without superstition. All these things of him remember, that whensoever thy last hour shall come upon thee, it may find thee, as it did him, ready for it in the possession of a good conscience.
XXIX. Stir up thy mind, and recall thy wits again from thy natural dreams, and visions, and when thou art perfectly awoken, and canst perceive that they were but dreams that troubled thee, as one newly awakened out of another kind of sleep look upon these worldly things with the same mind as thou didst upon those, that thou sawest in thy sleep.
XXX. I consist of body and soul. Unto my body all things are indifferent, for of itself it cannot affect one thing more than another with apprehension of any difference; as for my mind, all things which are not within the verge of her own operation, are indifferent unto her, and for her own operations, those altogether depend of her; neither does she busy herself about any, but those that are present; for as for future and past operations, those also are now at this present indifferent unto her.
XXXI. As long as the foot doth that which belongeth unto it to do, and the hand that which belongs unto it, their labour, whatsoever it be, is not unnatural. So a man as long as he doth that which is proper unto a man, his labour cannot be against nature; and if it be not against nature, then neither is it hurtful unto him. But if it were so that happiness did consist in pleasure: how came notorious robbers, impure abominable livers, parricides, and tyrants, in so large a measure to have their part of pleasures?
XXXII. Dost thou not see, how even those that profess mechanic arts, though in some respect they be no better than mere idiots, yet they stick close to the course of their trade, neither can they find in their heart to decline from it: and is it not a grievous thing that an architect, or a physician shall respect the course and mysteries of their profession, more than a man the proper course and condition of his own nature, reason, which is common to him and to the Gods?
XXXIII. Asia, Europe; what are they, but as corners of the whole world; of which the whole sea, is but as one drop; and the great Mount Athos, but as a clod, as all present time is but as one point of eternity. All, petty things; all things that are soon altered, soon perished. And all things come from one beginning; either all severally and particularly deliberated and resolved upon, by the general ruler and governor of all; or all by necessary consequence. So that the dreadful hiatus of a gaping lion, and all poison, and all hurtful things, are but (as the thorn and the mire) the necessary consequences of goodly fair things. Think not of these therefore, as things contrary to those which thou dost much honour, and respect; but consider in thy mind the true fountain of all.
XXXIV He that seeth the things that are now, hath Seen all that either was ever, or ever shall be, for all things are of one kind; and all like one unto another. Meditate often upon the connection of all things in the world; and upon the mutual relation that they have one unto another. For all things are after a sort folded and involved one within another, and by these means all agree well together. For one thing is consequent unto another, by local motion, by natural conspiration and agreement, and by substantial union, or, reduction of all substances into one.
XXXV. Fit and accommodate thyself to that estate and to those occurrences, which by the destinies have been annexed unto thee; and love those men whom thy fate it is to live with; but love them truly. An instrument, a tool, an utensil, whatsoever it be, if it be fit for the purpose it was made for, it is as it should be though he perchance that made and fitted it, be out of sight and gone. But in things natural, that power which hath framed and fitted them, is and abideth within them still: for which reason she ought also the more to be respected, and we are the more obliged (if we may live and pass our time according to her purpose and intention) to think that all is well with us, and according to our own minds. After this manner also, and in this respect it is, that he that is all in all doth enjoy his happiness.
XXXVI. What things soever are not within the proper power and jurisdiction of thine own will either to compass or avoid, if thou shalt propose unto thyself any of those things as either good, or evil; it must needs be that according as thou shalt either fall into that which thou dost think evil, or miss of that which thou dost think good, so wilt thou be ready both to complain of the Gods, and to hate those men, who either shall be so indeed, or shall by thee be suspected as the cause either of thy missing of the one, or falling into the other. And indeed we must needs commit many evils, if we incline to any of these things, more or less, with an opinion of any difference. But if we mind and fancy those things only, as good and bad, which wholly depend of our own wills, there is no more occasion why we should either murmur against the Gods, or be at enmity with any man.
XXXVII. We all work to one effect, some willingly, and with a rational apprehension of what we do: others without any such knowledge. As I think Heraclitus in a place speaketh of them that sleep, that even they do work in their kind, and do confer to the general operations of the world. One man therefore doth co-operate after one sort, and another after another sort; but even he that doth murmur, and to his power doth resist and hinder; even he as much as any doth co-operate. For of such also did the world stand in need. Now do thou consider among which of these thou wilt rank thyself. For as for him who is the Administrator of all, he will make good use of thee whether thou wilt or no, and make thee (as a part and member of the whole) so to co-operate with him, that whatsoever thou doest, shall turn to the furtherance of his own counsels, and resolutions. But be not thou for shame such a part of the whole, as that vile and ridiculous verse (which Chrysippus in a place doth mention) is a part of the comedy.
XXXVIII. Doth either the sun take upon him to do that which belongs to the rain? or his son Aesculapius that, which unto the earth doth properly belong? How is it with every one of the stars in particular? Though they all differ one from another, and have their several charges and functions by themselves, do they not all nevertheless concur and co- operate to one end?
XXXIX. If so be that the Gods have deliberated in particular of those things that should happen unto me, I must stand to their deliberation, as discrete and wise. For that a God should be an imprudent God, is a thing hard even to conceive: and why should they resolve to do me hurt? for what profit either unto them or the universe (which they specially take care for) could arise from it? But if so be that they have not deliberated of me in particular, certainly they have of the whole in general, and those things which in consequence and coherence of this general deliberation happen unto me in particular, I am bound to embrace and accept of. But if so be that they have not deliberated at all (which indeed is very irreligious for any man to believe: for then let us neither sacrifice, nor pray, nor respect our oaths, neither let us any more use any of those things, which we persuaded of the presence and secret conversation of the Gods among us, daily use and practise:) but, I say, if so be that they have not indeed either in general, or particular deliberated of any of those things, that happen unto us in this world; yet God be thanked, that of those things that concern myself, it is lawful for me to deliberate myself, and all my deliberation is but concerning that which may be to me most profitable. Now that unto every one is most profitable, which is according to his own constitution and nature. And my nature is, to be rational in all my actions and as a good, and natural member of a city and commonwealth, towards my fellow members ever to be sociably and kindly disposed and affected. My city and country as I am Antoninus, is Rome; as a man, the whole world. Those things therefore that are expedient and profitable to those cities, are the only things that are good and expedient for me.
XL. Whatsoever in any kind doth happen to any one, is expedient to the whole. And thus much to content us might suffice, that it is expedient for the whole in general. But yet this also shalt thou generally perceive, if thou dost diligently take heed, that whatsoever doth happen to any one man or men.... And now I am content that the word expedient, should more generally be understood of those things which we otherwise call middle things, or things indifferent; as health, wealth, and the like.
XLI. As the ordinary shows of the theatre and of other such places, when thou art presented with them, affect thee; as the same things still seen, and in the same fashion, make the sight ingrateful and tedious; so must all the things that we see all our life long affect us. For all things, above and below, are still the same, and from the same causes. When then will there be an end?
XLII. Let the several deaths of men of all sorts, and of all sorts of professions, and of all sort of nations, be a perpetual object of thy thoughts,... so that thou mayst even come down to Philistio, Phœbus, and Origanion. Pass now to other generations. Thither shall we after many changes, where so many brave orators are; where so many grave philosophers; Heraclitus, Pythagoras, Socrates. Where so many heroes of the old times; and then so many brave captains of the latter times; and so many kings. After all these, where Eudoxus, Hipparchus, Archimedes; where so many other sharp, generous, industrious, subtile, peremptory dispositions; and among others, even they, that have been the greatest scoffers and deriders of the frailty and brevity of this our human life; as Menippus, and others, as many as there have been such as he. Of all these consider, that they long since are all dead, and gone. And what do they suffer by it! Nay they that have not so much as a name remaining, what are they the worse for it? One thing there is, and that only, which is worth our while in this world, and ought by us much to be esteemed; and that is, according to truth and righteousness, meekly and lovingly to converse with false, and unrighteous men.
XLIII. When thou wilt comfort and cheer thyself, call to mind the several gifts and virtues of them, whom thou dost daily converse with; as for example, the industry of the one; the modesty of another; the liberality of a third; of another some other thing. For nothing can so much rejoice thee, as the resemblances and parallels of several virtues, visible and eminent in the dispositions of those who live with thee; especially when, all at once, as near as may be, they represent themselves unto thee. And therefore thou must have them always in a readiness.
XLIV. Dost thou grieve that thou dost weigh but so many pounds, and not three hundred rather? Just as much reason hast thou to grieve that thou must live but so many years, and not longer. For as for bulk and substance thou dost content thyself with that proportion of it that is allotted unto thee, so shouldst thou for time.
XLV. Let us do our best endeavours to persuade them; but however, if reason and justice lead thee to it, do it, though they be never so much against it. But if any shall by force withstand thee, and hinder thee in it, convert thy virtuous inclination from one object unto another, from justice to contented equanimity, and cheerful patience: so that what in the one is thy hindrance, thou mayst make use of it for the exercise of another virtue: and remember that it was with due exception, and reservation, that thou didst at first incline and desire. For thou didst not set thy mind upon things impossible. Upon what then? that all thy desires might ever be moderated with this due kind of reservation. And this thou hast, and mayst always obtain, whether the thing desired be in thy power or no. And what do I care for more, if that for which I was born and brought forth into the world (to rule all my desires with reason and discretion) may be?
XLVI. The ambitious supposeth another man's act, praise and applause, to be his own happiness; the voluptuous his own sense and feeling; but he that is wise, his own action.
XLVII. It is in thy power absolutely to exclude all manner of conceit and opinion, as concerning this matter; and by the same means, to exclude all grief and sorrow from thy soul. For as for the things and objects themselves, they of themselves have no such power, whereby to beget and force upon us any opinion at all.
XLVIII. Use thyself when any man speaks unto thee, so to hearken unto him, as that in the interim thou give not way to any other thoughts; that so thou mayst (as far as is possible) seem fixed and fastened to his very soul, whosoever he be that speaks unto thee.
XLIX. That which is not good for the bee-hive, cannot be good for the bee.
L. Will either passengers, or patients, find fault and complain, either the one if they be well carried, or the others if well cured? Do they take care for any more than this; the one, that their shipmaster may bring them safe to land, and the other, that their physician may effect their recovery?
LI. How many of them who came into the world at the same time when I did, are already gone out of it?
LII. To them that are sick of the jaundice, honey seems bitter; and to them that are bitten by a mad dog, the water terrible; and to children, a little ball seems a fine thing. And why then should I be angry? or do I think that error and false opinion is less powerful to make men transgress, than either choler, being immoderate and excessive, to cause the jaundice; or poison, to cause rage?
LIII. No man can hinder thee to live as thy nature doth require. Nothing can happen unto thee, but what the common good of nature doth require.
LIV. What manner of men they be whom they seek to please, and what to get, and by what actions: how soon time will cover and bury all things, and how many it hath already buried!
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THE SEVENTH BOOK
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I. What is wickedness? It is that which many time and often thou hast already seen and known in the world. And so oft as anything doth happen that might otherwise trouble thee, let this memento presently come to thy mind, that it is that which thou hast already often Seen and known. Generally, above and below, thou shalt find but the same things. The very same things whereof ancient stories, middle age stories, and fresh stories are full whereof towns are full, and houses full. There is nothing that is new. All things that are, are both usual and of little continuance.
II. What fear is there that thy dogmata, or philosophical resolutions and conclusions, should become dead in thee, and lose their proper power and efficacy to make thee live happy, as long as those proper and correlative fancies, and representations of things on which they mutually depend (which continually to stir up and revive is in thy power,) are still kept fresh and alive? It is in my power concerning this thing that is happened, what soever it be, to conceit that which is right and true. If it be, why then am I troubled? Those things that are without my understanding, are nothing to it at all: and that is it only, which doth properly concern me. Be always in this mind, and thou wilt be right.
III. That which most men would think themselves most happy for, and would prefer before all things, if the Gods would grant it unto them after their deaths, thou mayst whilst thou livest grant unto thyself; to live again. See the things of the world again, as thou hast already seen them. For what is it else to live again? Public shows and solemnities with much pomp and vanity, stage plays, flocks and herds; conflicts and contentions: a bone thrown to a company of hungry curs; a bait for greedy fishes; the painfulness, and continual burden-bearing of wretched ants, the running to and fro of terrified mice: little puppets drawn up and down with wires and nerves: these be the objects of the world among all these thou must stand steadfast, meekly affected, and free from all manner of indignation; with this right ratiocination and apprehension; that as the worth is of those things which a man doth affect, so is in very deed every man's worth more or less.
IV. Word after word, every one by itself, must the things that are spoken be conceived and understood; and so the things that are done, purpose after purpose, every one by itself likewise. And as in matter of purposes and actions, we must presently see what is the proper use and relation of every one; so of words must we be as ready, to consider of every one what is the true meaning, and signification of it according to truth and nature, however it be taken in common use.
V. Is my reason, and understanding sufficient for this, or no? If it be sufficient, without any private applause, or public ostentation as of an instrument, which by nature I am provided of, I will make use of it for the work in hand, as of an instrument, which by nature I am provided of. if it be not, and that otherwise it belong not unto me particularly as a private duty, I will either give it over, and leave it to some other that can better effect it: or I will endeavour it; but with the help of some other, who with the joint help of my reason, is able to bring somewhat to pass, that will now be seasonable and useful for the common good. For whatsoever I do either by myself, or with some other, the only thing that I must intend, is, that it be good and expedient for the public. For as for praise, consider how many who once were much commended, are now already quite forgotten, yea they that commended them, how even they themselves are long since dead and gone. Be not therefore ashamed, whensoever thou must use the help of others. For whatsoever it be that lieth upon thee to effect, thou must propose it unto thyself, as the scaling of walls is unto a soldier. And what if thou through either lameness or some other impediment art not able to reach unto the top of the battlements alone, which with the help of another thou mayst; wilt thou therefore give it over, or go about it with less courage and alacrity, because thou canst not effect it all alone?
VI. Let not things future trouble thee. For if necessity so require that they come to pass, thou shalt (whensoever that is) be provided for them with the same reason, by which whatsoever is now present, is made both tolerable and acceptable unto thee. All things are linked and knitted together, and the knot is sacred, neither is there anything in the world, that is not kind and natural in regard of any other thing, or, that hath not some kind of reference and natural correspondence with whatsoever is in the world besides. For all things are ranked together, and by that decency of its due place and order that each particular doth observe, they all concur together to the making of one and the same κόσμος or world: as if you said, a comely piece, or an orderly composition. For all things throughout, there is but one and the same order; and through all things, one and the same God, the same substance and the same law. There is one common reason, and one common truth, that belongs unto all reasonable creatures, for neither is there save one perfection of all creatures that are of the same kind, and partakers of the same reason.
VII. Whatsoever is material, doth soon vanish away into the common substance of the whole; and whatsoever is formal, or, whatsoever doth animate that which is material, is soon resumed into the common reason of the whole; and the fame and memory of anything, is soon swallowed up by the general age and duration of the whole.
VIII. To a reasonable creature, the same action is both according to nature, and according to reason.
IX. Straight of itself, not made straight.
X. As several members in one body united, so are reasonable creatures in a body divided and dispersed, all made and prepared for one common operation. And this thou shalt apprehend the better, if thou shalt use thyself often to say to thyself, I am μέλος, or a member of the mass and body of reasonable substances. But if thou shalt say I am μέρος, or a part, thou dost not yet love men from thy heart. The joy that thou takest in the exercise of bounty, is not yet grounded upon a due ratiocination and right apprehension of the nature of things. Thou dost exercise it as yet upon this ground barely, as a thing convenient and fitting; not, as doing good to thyself, when thou dost good unto others.
XI. Of things that are external, happen what will to that which can suffer by external accidents. Those things that suffer let them complain themselves, if they will; as for me, as long as I conceive no such thing, that that which is happened is evil, I have no hurt; and it is in my power not to conceive any such thing.
XII. Whatsoever any man either doth or saith, thou must be good; not for any man's sake, but for thine own nature's sake; as if either gold, or the emerald, or purple, should ever be saying to themselves, Whatsoever any man either doth or saith, I must still be an emerald, and I must keep my colour.
XIII. This may ever be my comfort and security: my understanding, that ruleth over all, will not of itself bring trouble and vexation upon itself. This I say; it will not put itself in any fear, it will not lead itself into any concupiscence. If it be in the power of any other to compel it to fear, or to grieve, it is free for him to use his power. But sure if itself do not of itself, through some false opinion or supposition incline itself to any such disposition; there is no fear. For as for the body, why should I make the grief of my body, to be the grief of my mind? If that itself can either fear or complain, let it. But as for the soul, which indeed, can only be truly sensible of either fear or grief; to which only it belongs according to its different imaginations and opinions, to admit of either of these, or of their contraries; thou mayst look to that thyself, that it suffer nothing. Induce her not to any such opinion or persuasion. The understanding is of itself sufficient unto itself, and needs not (if itself doth not bring itself to need) any other thing besides itself, and by consequent as it needs nothing, so neither can it be troubled or hindered by anything, if itself doth not trouble and hinder itself.
XIV. What is εὐδαιμονία, or happiness: but ἀγαθὸς δαίμων, or, a good dæmon, or spirit? What then dost thou do here, O opinion? By the Gods I adjure thee, that thou get thee gone, as thou earnest: for I need thee not. Thou earnest indeed unto me according to thy ancient wonted manner. It is that, that all men have ever been subject unto. That thou camest therefore I am not angry with thee, only begone, now that I have found thee what thou art.
XV. Is any man so foolish as to fear change, to which all things that once were not owe their being? And what is it, that is more pleasing and more familiar to the nature of the universe? How couldst thou thyself use thy ordinary hot baths, should not the wood that heateth them first be changed? How couldst thou receive any nourishment from those things that thou hast eaten, if they should not be changed? Can anything else almost (that is useful and profitable) be brought to pass without change? How then dost not thou perceive, that for thee also, by death, to come to change, is a thing of the very same nature, and as necessary for the nature of the universe?
XVI. Through the substance of the universe, as through a torrent pass all particular bodies, being all of the same nature, and all joint workers with the universe itself as in one of our bodies so many members among themselves. How many such as Chrysippus, how many such as Socrates, how many such as Epictetus, hath the age of the world long since swallowed up and devoured? Let this, be it either men or businesses, that thou hast occasion to think of, to the end that thy thoughts be not distracted and thy mind too earnestly set upon anything, upon every such occasion presently come to thy mind. Of all my thoughts and cares, one only thing shall be the object, that I myself do nothing which to the proper constitution of man, (either in regard of the thing itself, or in regard of the manner, or of the time of doing,) is contrary. The time when thou shalt have forgotten all things, is at hand. And that time also is at hand, when thou thyself shalt be forgotten by all. Whilst thou art, apply thyself to that especially which unto man as he is a mart, is most proper and agreeable, and that is, for a man even to love them that transgress against him. This shall be, if at the same time that any such thing doth happen, thou call to mind, that they are thy kinsmen; that it is through ignorance and against their wills that they sin; and that within a very short while after, both thou and he shall be no more. But above all things, that he hath not done thee any hurt; for that by him thy mind and understanding is not made worse or more vile than it was before.
XVII. The nature of the universe, of the common substance of all things as it were of so much wax hath now perchance formed a horse; and then, destroying that figure, hath new tempered and fashioned the matter of it into the form and substance of a tree: then that again into the form and substance of a man: and then that again into some other. Now every one of these doth subsist but for a very little while. As for dissolution, if it be no grievous thing to the chest or trunk, to be joined together; why should it be more grievous to be put asunder?
XVIII. An angry countenance is much against nature, and it is oftentimes the proper countenance of them that are at the point of death. But were it so, that all anger and passion were so thoroughly quenched in thee, that it were altogether impossible to kindle it any more, yet herein must not thou rest satisfied, but further endeavour by good consequence of true ratiocination, perfectly to conceive and understand, that all anger and passion is against reason. For if thou shalt not be sensible of thine innocence; if that also shall be gone from thee, the comfort of a good conscience, that thou doest all things according to reason: what shouldest thou live any longer for? All things that now thou seest, are but for a moment. That nature, by which all things in the world are administered, will soon bring change and alteration upon them, and then of their substances make other things like unto them: and then soon after others again of the matter and substance of these: that so by these means, the world may still appear fresh and new.
XIX. Whensoever any man doth trespass against other, presently consider with thyself what it was that he did suppose to be good, what to be evil, when he did trespass. For this when thou knowest, thou wilt pity him thou wilt have no occasion either to wonder, or to be angry. For either thou thyself dust yet live in that error and ignorance, as that thou dust suppose either that very thing that he doth, or some other like worldly thing, to be good; and so thou art bound to pardon him if he have done that which thou in the like case wouldst have done thyself. Or if so be that thou dost not any more suppose the same things to be good or evil, that he doth; how canst thou but be gentle unto him that is in an error?
XX. Fancy not to thyself things future, as though they were present but of those that are present, take some aside, that thou takest most benefit of, and consider of them particularly, how wonderfully thou wouldst want them, if they were not present. But take heed withal, lest that whilst thou dust settle thy contentment in things present, thou grow in time so to overprize them, as that the want of them (whensoever it shall so fall out) should be a trouble and a vexation unto thee. Wind up thyself into thyself. Such is the nature of thy reasonable commanding part, as that if it exercise justice, and have by that means tranquillity within itself, it doth rest fully satisfied with itself without any other thing.
XXI. Wipe off all opinion stay the force and violence of unreasonable lusts and affections: circumscribe the present time examine whatsoever it be that is happened, either to thyself or to another: divide all present objects, either in that which is formal or material think of the last hour. That which thy neighbour hath committed, where the guilt of it lieth, there let it rest. Examine in order whatsoever is spoken. Let thy mind penetrate both into the effects, and into the causes. Rejoice thyself with true simplicity, and modesty; and that all middle things between virtue and vice are indifferent unto thee. Finally, love mankind; obey God.
XXII. All things (saith he) are by certain order and appointment. And what if the elements only.
It will suffice to remember, that all things in general are by certain order and appointment: or if it be but few. And as concerning death, that either dispersion, or the atoms, or annihilation, or extinction, or translation will ensue. And as concerning pain, that that which is intolerable is soon ended by death; and that which holds long must needs be tolerable; and that the mind in the meantime (which is all in all) may by way of interclusion, or interception, by stopping all manner of commerce and sympathy with the body, still retain its own tranquillity. Thy understanding is not made worse by it. As for those parts that suffer, let them, if they can, declare their grief themselves. As for praise and commendation, view their mind and understanding, what estate they are in; what kind of things they fly, and what things they seek after: and that as in the seaside, whatsoever was before to be seen, is by the continual succession of new heaps of sand cast up one upon another, soon hid and covered; so in this life, all former things by those which immediately succeed.
XXIII. Out of Plato. 'He then whose mind is endowed with true magnanimity, who hath accustomed himself to the contemplation both of all times, and of all things in general; can this mortal life (thinkest thou) seem any great matter unto him? It is not possible, answered he. Then neither will such a one account death a grievous thing? By no means.'
XXIV. Out of Antisthenes. 'It is a princely thing to do well, and to be ill-spoken of. It is a shameful thing that the face should be subject unto the mind, to be put into what shape it will, and to be dressed by it as it will; and that the mind should not bestow so much care upon herself, as to fashion herself, and to dress herself as best becometh her.'
XXV. Out of several poets and comics. 'It will but little avail thee, to turn thine anger and indignation upon the things themselves that have fallen across unto thee. For as for them, they are not sensible of it, &c. Thou shalt but make thyself a laughing-stock; both unto the Gods and men, &c. Our life is reaped like a ripe ear of corn; one is yet standing and another is down, &c. But if so be that I and my children be neglected by the gods, there is some reason even for that, &c. As long as right and equity is of my side, &c. Not to lament with them, not to tremble, &c.'
XXVI. Out of Plato. 'My answer, full of justice and equity, should be this: Thy speech is not right, O man! if thou supposest that he that is of any worth at all, should apprehend either life or death, as a matter of great hazard and danger; and should not make this rather his only care, to examine his own actions, whether just or unjust: whether actions of a good, or of a wicked man, &c. For thus in very truth stands the case, O ye men of Athens. What place or station soever a man either hath chosen to himself, judging it best for himself; or is by lawful authority put and settled in, therein do I think (all appearance of danger notwithstanding) that he should continue, as one who feareth neither death, nor anything else, so much as he feareth to commit anything that is vicious and shameful, &c. But, O noble sir, consider I pray, whether true generosity and true happiness, do not consist in somewhat else rather, than in the preservation either of our, or other men's lives. For it is not the part of a man that is a man indeed, to desire to live long or to make much of his life whilst he liveth: but rather (he that is such) will in these things wholly refer himself unto the Gods, and believing that which every woman can tell him, that no man can escape death; the only thing that he takes thought and care for is this, that what time he liveth, he may live as well and as virtuously as he can possibly, &c. To look about, and with the eyes to follow the course of the stars and planets as though thou wouldst run with them; and to mind perpetually the several changes of the elements one into another. For such fancies and imaginations, help much to purge away the dross and filth of this our earthly life,' &c. That also is a fine passage of Plato's, where he speaketh of worldly things in these words: 'Thou must also as from some higher place look down, as it were, upon the things of this world, as flocks, armies, husbandmen's labours, marriages, divorces, generations, deaths: the tumults of courts and places of judicatures; desert places; the several nations of barbarians, public festivals, mournings, fairs, markets.' How all things upon earth are pell-mell; and how miraculously things contrary one to another, concur to the beauty and perfection of this universe.
XXVII. To look back upon things of former ages, as upon the manifold changes and conversions of several monarchies and commonwealths. We may also foresee things future, for they shall all be of the same kind; neither is it possible that they should leave the tune, or break the concert that is now begun, as it were, by these things that are now done and brought to pass in the world. It comes all to one therefore, whether a man be a spectator of the things of this life but forty years, or whether he see them ten thousand years together: for what shall he see more? 'And as for those parts that came from the earth, they shall return unto the earth again; and those that came from heaven, they also shall return unto those heavenly places.' Whether it be a mere dissolution and unbinding of the manifold intricacies and entanglements of the confused atoms; or some such dispersion of the simple and incorruptible elements... 'With meats and drinks and divers charms, they seek to divert the channel, that they might not die. Yet must we needs endure that blast of wind that cometh from above, though we toil and labour never so much.'
XXVIII. He hath a stronger body, and is a better wrestler than I. What then? Is he more bountiful? is he more modest? Doth he bear all adverse chances with more equanimity: or with his neighbour's offences with more meekness and gentleness than I?
XXIX. Where the matter may be effected agreeably to that reason, which both unto the Gods and men is common, there can be no just cause of grief or sorrow. For where the fruit and benefit of an action well begun and prosecuted according to the proper constitution of man may be reaped and obtained, or is sure and certain, it is against reason that any damage should there be suspected. In all places, and at all times, it is in thy power religiously to embrace whatsoever by God's appointment is happened unto thee, and justly to converse with those men, whom thou hast to do with, and accurately to examine every fancy that presents itself, that nothing may slip and steal in, before thou hast rightly apprehended the true nature of it.
XXX. Look not about upon other men's minds and understandings; but look right on forwards whither nature, both that of the universe, in those things that happen unto thee; and thine in particular, in those things that are done by thee: doth lead, and direct thee. Now every one is bound to do that, which is consequent and agreeable to that end which by his true natural constitution he was ordained unto. As for all other things, they are ordained for the use of reasonable creatures: as in all things we see that that which is worse and inferior, is made for that which is better. Reasonable creatures, they are ordained one for another. That therefore which is chief in every man's constitution, is, that he intend the common good. The second is, that he yield not to any lusts and motions of the flesh. For it is the part and privilege of the reasonable and intellective faculty, that she can so bound herself, as that neither the sensitive, nor the appetitive faculties, may not anyways prevail upon her. For both these are brutish. And therefore over both she challengeth mastery, and cannot anyways endure, if in her right temper, to be subject unto either. And this indeed most justly. For by nature she was ordained to command all in the body. The third thing proper to man by his constitution, is, to avoid all rashness and precipitancy; and not to be subject to error. To these things then, let the mind apply herself and go straight on, without any distraction about other things, and she hath her end, and by consequent her happiness.
XXXI. As one who had lived, and were now to die by right, whatsoever is yet remaining, bestow that wholly as a gracious overplus upon a virtuous life. Love and affect that only, whatsoever it be that happeneth, and is by the fates appointed unto thee. For what can be more reasonable? And as anything doth happen unto thee by way of cross, or calamity, call to mind presently and set before thine eyes, the examples of some other men, to whom the self-same thing did once happen likewise. Well, what did they? They grieved; they wondered; they complained. And where are they now? All dead and gone. Wilt thou also be like one of them? Or rather leaving to men of the world (whose life both in regard of themselves, and them that they converse with, is nothing but mere mutability; or men of as fickle minds, as fickle bodies; ever changing and soon changed themselves) let it be thine only care and study, how to make a right use of all such accidents. For there is good use to be made of them, and they will prove fit matter for thee to work upon, if it shall be both thy care and thy desire, that whatsoever thou doest, thou thyself mayst like and approve thyself for it. And both these, see, that thou remember well, according as the diversity of the matter of the action that thou art about shall require. Look within; within is the fountain of all good. Such a fountain, where springing waters can never fail, so thou dig still deeper and deeper.
XXXII. Thou must use thyself also to keep thy body fixed and steady; free from all loose fluctuant either motion, or posture. And as upon thy face and looks, thy mind hath easily power over them to keep them to that which is grave and decent; so let it challenge the same power over the whole body also. But so observe all things in this kind, as that it be without any manner of affectation.
XXXIII. The art of true living in this world is more like a wrestler's, than a dancer's practice. For in this they both agree, to teach a man whatsoever falls upon him, that he may be ready for it, and that nothing may cast him down.
XXXIV. Thou must continually ponder and consider with thyself, what manner of men they be, and for their minds and understandings what is their present estate, whose good word and testimony thou dost desire. For then neither wilt thou see cause to complain of them that offend against their wills; or find any want of their applause, if once thou dost but penetrate into the true force and ground both of their opinions, and of their desires. 'No soul (saith he) is willingly bereft of the truth,' and by consequent, neither of justice, or temperance, or kindness, and mildness; nor of anything that is of the same kind. It is most needful that thou shouldst always remember this. For so shalt thou be far more gentle and moderate towards all men.
XXXV. What pain soever thou art in, let this presently come to thy mind, that it is not a thing whereof thou needest to be ashamed, neither is it a thing whereby thy understanding, that hath the government of all, can be made worse. For neither in regard of the substance of it, nor in regard of the end of it (which is, to intend the common good) can it alter and corrupt it. This also of Epicurus mayst thou in most pains find some help of, that it is 'neither intolerable, nor eternal;' so thou keep thyself to the true bounds and limits of reason and give not way to opinion. This also thou must consider, that many things there be, which oftentimes unsensibly trouble and vex thee, as not armed against them with patience, because they go not ordinarily under the name of pains, which in very deed are of the same nature as pain; as to slumber unquietly, to suffer heat, to want appetite: when therefore any of these things make thee discontented, check thyself with these words: Now hath pain given thee the foil; thy courage hath failed thee.
XXXVI. Take heed lest at any time thou stand so affected, though towards unnatural evil men, as ordinary men are commonly one towards another.
XXXVII. How know we whether Socrates were so eminent indeed, and of so extraordinary a disposition? For that he died more gloriously, that he disputed with the Sophists more subtilty; that he watched in the frost more assiduously; that being commanded to fetch innocent Salaminius, he refused to do it more generously; all this will not serve. Nor that he walked in the streets, with much gravity and majesty, as was objected unto him by his adversaries: which nevertheless a man may well doubt of, whether it were so or no, or, which above all the rest, if so be that it were true, a man would well consider of, whether commendable, or dis-commendable. The thing therefore that we must inquire into, is this; what manner of soul Socrates had: whether his disposition was such; as that all that he stood upon, and sought after in this world, was barely this, that he might ever carry himself justly towards men, and holily towards the Gods. Neither vexing himself to no purpose at the wickedness of others, nor yet ever condescending to any man's evil fact, or evil intentions, through either fear, or engagement of friendship. Whether of those things that happened unto him by God's appointment, he neither did wonder at any when it did happen, or thought it intolerable in the trial of it. And lastly, whether he never did suffer his mind to sympathise with the senses, and affections of the body. For we must not think that Nature hath so mixed and tempered it with the body, as that she hath not power to circumscribe herself, and by herself to intend her own ends and occasions.
XXXVIII. For it is a thing very possible, that a man should be a very divine man, and yet be altogether unknown. This thou must ever be mindful of, as of this also, that a man's true happiness doth consist in very few things. And that although thou dost despair, that thou shalt ever be a good either logician, or naturalist, yet thou art never the further off by it from being either liberal, or modest, or charitable, or obedient unto God.
XXXIX. Free from all compulsion in all cheerfulness and alacrity thou mayst run out thy time, though men should exclaim against thee never so much, and the wild beasts should pull in sunder the poor members of thy pampered mass of flesh. For what in either of these or the like cases should hinder the mind to retain her own rest and tranquillity, consisting both in the right judgment of those things that happen unto her, and in the ready use of all present matters and occasions? So that her judgment may say, to that which is befallen her by way of cross: this thou art in very deed, and according to thy true nature: notwithstanding that in the judgment of opinion thou dust appear otherwise: and her discretion to the present object; thou art that, which I sought for. For whatsoever it be, that is now present, shall ever be embraced by me as a fit and seasonable object, both for my reasonable faculty, and for my sociable, or charitable inclination to work upon. And that which is principal in this matter, is that it may be referred either unto the praise of God, or to the good of men. For either unto God or man, whatsoever it is that doth happen in the world hath in the ordinary course of nature its proper reference; neither is there anything, that in regard of nature is either new, or reluctant and intractable, but all things both usual and easy.
XL. Then hath a man attained to the estate of perfection in his life and conversation, when he so spends every day, as if it were his last day: never hot and vehement in his affections, nor yet so cold and stupid as one that had no sense; and free from all manner of dissimulation.
XLI. Can the Gods, who are immortal, for the continuance of so many ages bear without indignation with such and so many sinners, as have ever been, yea not only so, but also take such care for them, that they want nothing; and dust thou so grievously take on, as one that could bear with them no longer; thou that art but for a moment of time? yea thou that art one of those sinners thyself? A very ridiculous thing it is, that any man should dispense with vice and wickedness in himself, which is in his power to restrain; and should go about to suppress it in others, which is altogether impossible.
XLII. What object soever, our reasonable and sociable faculty doth meet with, that affords nothing either for the satisfaction of reason, or for the practice of charity, she worthily doth think unworthy of herself.
XLIII. When thou hast done well, and another is benefited by thy action, must thou like a very fool look for a third thing besides, as that it may appear unto others also that thou hast done well, or that thou mayest in time, receive one good turn for another? No man useth to be weary of that which is beneficial unto him. But every action according to nature, is beneficial. Be not weary then of doing that which is beneficial unto thee, whilst it is so unto others.
XLIV. The nature of the universe did once certainly before it was created, whatsoever it hath done since, deliberate and so resolve upon the creation of the world. Now since that time, whatsoever it is, that is and happens in the world, is either but a consequent of that one and first deliberation: or if so be that this ruling rational part of the world, takes any thought and care of things particular, they are surely his reasonable and principal creatures, that are the proper object of his particular care and providence. This often thought upon, will much conduce to thy tranquillity.
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THE EIGHTH BOOK
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I. This also, among other things, may serve to keep thee from vainglory; if thou shalt consider, that thou art now altogether incapable of the commendation of one, who all his life long, or from his youth at least, hath lived a philosopher's life. For both unto others, and to thyself especially, it is well known, that thou hast done many things contrary to that perfection of life. Thou hast therefore been confounded in thy course, and henceforth it will be hard for thee to recover the title and credit of a philosopher. And to it also is thy calling and profession repugnant. If therefore thou dost truly understand, what it is that is of moment indeed; as for thy fame and credit, take no thought or care for that: let it suffice thee if all the rest of thy life, be it more or less, thou shalt live as thy nature requireth, or according to the true and natural end of thy making. Take pains therefore to know what it is that thy nature requireth, and let nothing else distract thee. Thou hast already had sufficient experience, that of those many things that hitherto thou hast erred and wandered about, thou couldst not find happiness in any of them. Not in syllogisms, and logical subtilties, not in wealth, not in honour and reputation, not in pleasure. In none of all these. Wherein then is it to be found? In the practice of those things, which the nature of man, as he is a man, doth require. How then shall he do those things? if his dogmata, or moral tenets and opinions (from which all motions and actions do proceed), be right and true. Which be those dogmata? Those that concern that which is good or evil, as that there is nothing truly good and beneficial unto man, but that which makes him just, temperate, courageous, liberal; and that there is nothing truly evil and hurtful unto man, but that which causeth the contrary effects.
II. Upon every action that thou art about, put this question to thyself; How will this when it is done agree with me? Shall I have no occasion to repent of it? Yet a very little while and I am dead and gone; and all things are at end. What then do I care for more than this, that my present action whatsoever it be, may be the proper action of one that is reasonable; whose end is, the common good; who in all things is ruled and governed by the same law of right and reason, by which God Himself is.
III. Alexander, Caius, Pompeius; what are these to Diogenes, Heraclitus, and Socrates? These penetrated into the true nature of things; into all causes, and all subjects: and upon these did they exercise their power and authority. But as for those, as the extent of their error was, so far did their slavery extend.
IV. What they have done, they will still do, although thou shouldst hang thyself. First; let it not trouble thee. For all things both good and evil: come to pass according to the nature and general condition of the universe, and within a very little while, all things will be at an end; no man will be remembered: as now of Africanus (for example) and Augustus it is already come to pass. Then secondly; fix thy mind upon the thing itself; look into it, and remembering thyself, that thou art bound nevertheless to be a good man, and what it is that thy nature requireth of thee as thou art a man, be not diverted from what thou art about, and speak that which seemeth unto thee most just: only speak it kindly, modestly, and without hypocrisy.
V. That which the nature of the universe doth busy herself about, is; that which is here, to transfer it thither, to change it, and thence again to take it away, and to carry it to another place. So that thou needest not fear any new thing. For all things are usual and ordinary; and all things are disposed by equality.
VI. Every particular nature hath content, when in its own proper course it speeds. A reasonable nature doth then speed, when first in matter of fancies and imaginations, it gives no consent to that which is either false uncertain. Secondly, when in all its motions and resolutions it takes its level at the common good only, and that it desireth nothing, and flieth from nothing, bet what is in its own power to compass or avoid. And lastly, when it willingly and gladly embraceth, whatsoever is dealt and appointed unto it by the common nature. For it is part of it; even as the nature of any one leaf, is part of the common nature of all plants and trees. But that the nature of a leaf, is part of a nature both unreasonable and unsensible, and which in its proper end may be hindered; or, which is servile and slavish: whereas the nature of man is part of a common nature which cannot be hindered, and which is both reasonable and just. From whence also it is, that according to the worth of everything, she doth make such equal distribution of all things, as of duration, substance form, operation, and of events and accidents. But herein consider not whether thou shalt find this equality in everything absolutely and by itself; but whether in all the particulars of some one thing taken together, and compared with all the particulars of some other thing, and them together likewise.
VII. Thou hast no time nor opportunity to read. What then? Hast thou not time and opportunity to exercise thyself, not to wrong thyself; to strive against all carnal pleasures and pains, and to get the upper hand of them; to contemn honour and vainglory; and not only, not to be angry with them, whom towards thee thou doest find unsensible and unthankful; but also to have a care of them still, and of their welfare?
VIII. Forbear henceforth to complain of the trouble of a courtly life, either in public before others, or in private by thyself.
IX. Repentance is an inward and self-reprehension for the neglect or omission of somewhat that was profitable. Now whatsoever is good, is also profitable, and it is the part of an honest virtuous man to set by it, and to make reckoning of it accordingly. But never did any honest virtuous man repent of the neglect or omission of any carnal pleasure: no carnal pleasure then is either good or profitable.
X. This, what is it in itself, and by itself, according to its proper constitution? What is the substance of it? What is the matter, or proper use? What is the form or efficient cause? What is it for in this world, and how long will it abide? Thus must thou examine all things, that present themselves unto thee.
XI. When thou art hard to be stirred up and awaked out of thy sleep, admonish thyself and call to mind, that, to perform actions tending to the common good is that which thine own proper constitution, and that which the nature of man do require. But to sleep, is common to unreasonable creatures also. And what more proper and natural, yea what more kind and pleasing, than that which is according to nature?
XII. As every fancy and imagination presents itself unto thee, consider (if it be possible) the true nature, and the proper qualities of it, and reason with thyself about it.
XIII. At thy first encounter with any one, say presently to thyself: This man, what are his opinions concerning that which is good or evil? as concerning pain, pleasure, and the causes of both; concerning honour, and dishonour, concerning life and death? thus and thus. Now if it be no wonder that a man should have such and such opinions, how can it be a wonder that he should do such and such things? I will remember then, that he cannot but do as he doth, holding those opinions that he doth. Remember, that as it is a shame for any man to wonder that a fig tree should bear figs, so also to wonder that the world should bear anything, whatsoever it is which in the ordinary course of nature it may bear. To a physician also and to a pilot it is a shame either for the one to wonder, that such and such a one should have an ague; or for the other, that the winds should prove Contrary.
XIV. Remember, that to change thy mind upon occasion, and to follow him that is able to rectify thee, is equally ingenuous, as to find out at the first, what is right and just, without help. For of thee nothing is required, ti, is beyond the extent of thine own deliberation and jun. merit, and of thine own understanding.
XV. If it were thine act and in thine own power, wouldest thou do it? If it were not, whom dost tin accuse? the atoms, or the Gods? For to do either, the part of a mad man. Thou must therefore blame nobody, but if it be in thy power, redress what is amiss; if it be not, to what end is it to complain? For nothing should be done but to some certain end.
XVI. Whatsoever dieth and falleth, however and wheresoever it die and fall, it cannot fall out of the world, here it have its abode and change, here also shall it have its dissolution into its proper elements. The same are the world's elements, and the elements of which thou dost consist. And they when they are changed, they murmur not; why shouldest thou?
XVII. Whatsoever is, was made for something: as a horse, a vine. Why wonderest thou? The sun itself will say of itself, I was made for something; and so hath every god its proper function. What then were then made for? to disport and delight thyself? See how even common sense and reason cannot brook it.
XVIII. Nature hath its end as well in the end and final consummation of anything that is, as in the begin-nine and continuation of it.
XIX. As one that tosseth up a ball. And what is a ball the better, if the motion of it be upwards; or the worse if it be downwards; or if it chance to fall upon the ground? So for the bubble; if it continue, what it the better? and if it dissolve, what is it the worse And so is it of a candle too. And so must thou reason with thyself, both in matter of fame, and in matter of death. For as for the body itself, (the subject of death) wouldest thou know the vileness of it? Turn it about that thou mayest behold it the worst sides upwards as well, as in its more ordinary pleasant shape; how doth it look, when it is old and withered? when sick and pained? when in the act of lust, and fornication? And as for fame. This life is short. Both he that praiseth, and he that is praised; he that remembers, and he that is remembered, will soon be dust and ashes. Besides, it is but in one corner of this part of the world that thou art praised; and yet in this corner, thou hast not the joint praises of all men; no nor scarce of any one constantly. And yet the whole earth itself, what is it but as one point, in regard of the whole world?
XX. That which must be the subject of thy consideration, is either the matter itself, or the dogma, or the operation, or the true sense and signification.
XXI. Most justly have these things happened unto thee: why dost not thou amend? O but thou hadst rather become good to-morrow, than to be so to-day.
XXII. Shall I do it? I will; so the end of my action be to do good unto men. Doth anything by way of cross or adversity happen unto me? I accept it, with reference unto the Gods, and their providence; the fountain of all things, from which whatsoever comes to pass, doth hang and depend.
XXIII. By one action judge of the rest: this bathing which usually takes up so much of our time, what is it? Oil, sweat, filth; or the sordes of the body: an excrementitious viscosity, the excrements of oil and other ointments used about the body, and mixed with the sordes of the body: all base and loathsome. And such almost is every part of our life; and every worldly object.
XXIV. Lucilla buried Verus; then was Lucilla herself buried by others. So Secunda Maximus, then Secunda herself. So Epitynchanus, Diotimus; then Epitynchanus himself. So Antoninus Pius, Faustina his wife; then Antoninus himself. This is the course of the world. First Celer, Adrianus; then Adrianus himself. And those austere ones; those that foretold other men's deaths; those that were so proud and stately, where are they now? Those austere ones I mean, such as were Charax, and Demetrius the Platonic, and Eudaemon, and others like unto those. They were all but for one day; all dead and gone long since. Some of them no sooner dead, than forgotten. Others soon turned into fables. Of others, even that which was fabulous, is now long since forgotten. This thereafter thou must remember, that whatsoever thou art compounded of, shall soon be dispersed, and that thy life and breath, or thy soul, shall either be no more or shall ranslated (sp.), and appointed to some certain place and station.
XXV. The true joy of a man, is to do that which properly belongs unto a man. That which is most proper unto a man, is, first, to be kindly affected towards them that are of the same kind and nature as he is himself to contemn all sensual motions and appetites, to discern rightly all plausible fancies and imaginations, to contemplate the nature of the universe; both it, and things that are done in it. In which kind of contemplation three several relations are to be observed The first, to the apparent secondary cause. The Second to the first original cause, God, from whom originally proceeds whatsoever doth happen in the world. The third and last, to them that we live and converse with: what use may be made of it, to their use and benefit.
XXVI. If pain be an evil, either it is in regard of the body; (and that cannot be, because the body of itself is altogether insensible:) or in regard of the soul But it is in the power of the soul, to preserve her own peace and tranquillity, and not to suppose that pain is evil. For all judgment and deliberation; all prosecution, or aversation is from within, whither the sense of evil (except it be let in by opinion) cannot penetrate.
XXVII. Wipe off all idle fancies, and say unto thyself incessantly; Now if I will, it is in my power to keep out of this my soul all wickedness, all lust, and concupiscences, all trouble and confusion. But on the contrary to behold and consider all things according to their true nature, and to carry myself towards everything according to its true worth. Remember then this thy power that nature hath given thee.
XXVIII. Whether thou speak in the Senate or whether thou speak to any particular, let thy speech In always grave and modest. But thou must not openly and vulgarly observe that sound and exact form of speaking, concerning that which is truly good and truly civil; the vanity of the world, and of worldly men: which otherwise truth and reason doth prescribe.
XXIX. Augustus his court; his wife, his daughter, his nephews, his sons-in-law his sister, Agrippa, his kinsmen, his domestics, his friends; Areus, Mæcenas, his slayers of beasts for sacrifice and divination: there thou hast the death of a whole court together. Proceed now on to the rest that have been since that of Augustus. Hath death dwelt with them otherwise, though so many and so stately whilst they lived, than it doth use to deal with any one particular man? Consider now the death of a whole kindred and family, as of that of the Pompeys, as that also that useth to be written upon some monuments, HE WAS THE LAST OF HIS OWN KINDRED. O what care did his predecessors take, that they might leave a successor, yet behold at last one or other must of necessity be THE LAST. Here again therefore consider the death of a whole kindred.
XXX. Contract thy whole life to the measure and proportion of one single action. And if in every particular action thou dost perform what is fitting to the utmost of thy power, let it suffice thee. And who can hinder thee, but that thou mayest perform what is fitting? But there may be some outward let and impediment. Not any, that can hinder thee, but that whatsoever thou dost, thou may do it, justly, temperately, and with the praise of God. Yea, but there may be somewhat, whereby some operation or other of thine may be hindered. And then, with that very thing that doth hinder, thou mayest he well pleased, and so by this gentle and equanimious conversion of thy mind unto that which may be, instead of that which at first thou didst intend, in the room of that former action there succeedeth another, which agrees as well with this contraction of thy life, that we now speak of.
XXXI. Receive temporal blessings without ostentation, when they are sent and thou shalt be able to part with them with all readiness and facility when they are taken from thee again.
XXXII. If ever thou sawest either a hand, or a foot, or a head lying by itself, in some place or other, as cut off from the rest of the body, such must thou conceive him to make himself, as much as in him lieth, that either is offended with anything that is happened, (whatsoever it be) and as it were divides himself from it: or that commits anything against the natural law of mutual correspondence, and society among men: or, he that, commits any act of uncharitableness. Whosoever thou art, thou art such, thou art cast forth I know not whither out of the general unity, which is according to nature. Thou went born indeed a part, but now thou hast cut thyself off. However, herein is matter of joy and exultation, that thou mayst be united again. God hath not granted it unto any other part, that once separated and cut off, it might be reunited, and come together again. But, behold, that GOODNESS how great and immense it is! which hath so much esteemed MAN. As at first he was so made, that he needed not, except he would himself, have divided himself from the whole; so once divided and cut off, IT hath so provided and ordered it, that if he would himself, he might return, and grow together again, and be admitted into its former rank and place of a part, as he was before.
XXXIII. As almost all her other faculties and properties the nature of the universe hath imparted unto every reasonable creature, so this in particular we have received from her, that as whatsoever doth oppose itself unto her, and doth withstand her in her purposes and intentions, she doth, though against its will and intention, bring it about to herself, to serve herself of it in the execution of her own destinated ends; and so by this though not intended co-operation of it with herself makes it part of herself whether it will or no. So may every reasonable creature, what crosses and impediments soever it meets with in the course of this mortal life, it may use them as fit and proper objects, to the furtherance of whatsoever it intended and absolutely proposed unto itself as its natural end and happiness.
XXXIV. Let not the general representation unto thyself of the wretchedness of this our mortal life, trouble thee. Let not thy mind wander up and down, and heap together in her thoughts the many troubles and grievous calamities which thou art as subject unto as any other. But as everything in particular doth happen, put this question unto thyself, and say: What is it that in this present matter, seems unto thee so intolerable? For thou wilt be ashamed to confess it. Then upon this presently call to mind, that neither that which is future, nor that which is past can hurt thee; but that only which is present. (And that also is much lessened, if thou dost lightly circumscribe it:) and then check thy mind if for so little a while, (a mere instant), it cannot hold out with patience.
XXXV. What? are either Panthea or Pergamus abiding to this day by their masters' tombs? or either Chabrias or Diotimus by that of Adrianus? O foolery! For what if they did, would their masters be sensible of It? or if sensible, would they be glad of it? or if glad, were these immortal? Was not it appointed unto them also (both men and women,) to become old in time, and then to die? And these once dead, what would become of these former? And when all is done, what is all this for, but for a mere bag of blood and corruption?
XXXVI. If thou beest quick-sighted, be so in matter of judgment, and best discretion, saith he.
XXXVII. In the whole constitution of man, I see not any virtue contrary to justice, whereby it may be resisted and opposed. But one whereby pleasure and voluptuousness may be resisted and opposed, I see: continence.
XXXVIII. If thou canst but withdraw conceit and opinion concerning that which may seem hurtful and offensive, thou thyself art as safe, as safe may be. Thou thyself? and who is that? Thy reason. 'Yea, but I am not reason.' Well, be it so. However, let not thy reason or understanding admit of grief, and if there be anything in thee that is grieved, let that, (whatsoever it be,) conceive its own grief, if it can.
XXXIX. That which is a hindrance of the senses, is an evil to the sensitive nature. That which is a hindrance of the appetitive and prosecutive faculty, is an evil to the sensitive nature. As of the sensitive, so of the vegetative constitution, whatsoever is a hindrance unto it, is also in that respect an evil unto the same. And so likewise, whatsoever is a hindrance unto the mind and understanding, must needs be the proper evil of the reasonable nature. Now apply all those things unto thyself. Do either pain or pleasure seize on thee? Let the senses look to that. Hast thou met with Some obstacle or other in thy purpose and intention? If thou didst propose without due reservation and exception now hath thy reasonable part received a blow indeed But if in general thou didst propose unto thyself what soever might be, thou art not thereby either hurt, nor properly hindered. For in those things that properly belong unto the mind, she cannot be hindered by any man. It is not fire, nor iron; nor the power of a tyrant nor the power of a slandering tongue; nor anything else that can penetrate into her.
XL. If once round and solid, there is no fear that ever it will change.
XLI. Why should I grieve myself; who never did willingly grieve any other! One thing rejoices one and another thing another. As for me, this is my joy, if my understanding be right and sound, as neither averse from any man, nor refusing any of those things which as a man I am subject unto; if I can look upon all things in the world meekly and kindly; accept all things and carry myself towards everything according to to true worth of the thing itself.
XLII. This time that is now present, bestow thou upon thyself. They that rather hunt for fame after death, do not consider, that those men that shall be hereafter, will be even such, as these whom now they can so hardly bear with. And besides they also will be mortal men. But to consider the thing in itself, if so many with so many voices, shall make such and such a sound, or shall have such and such an opinion concerning thee, what is it to thee?
XLIII. Take me and throw me where thou wilt: I am indifferent. For there also I shall have that spirit which is within me propitious; that is well pleased and fully contented both in that constant disposition, and with those particular actions, which to its own proper constitution are suitable and agreeable.
XLIV. Is this then a thing of that worth, that for it my soul should suffer, and become worse than it was? as either basely dejected, or disordinately affected, or confounded within itself, or terrified? What can there be, that thou shouldest so much esteem?
XLV. Nothing can happen unto thee, which is not incidental unto thee, as thou art a man. As nothing can happen either to an ox, a vine, or to a stone, which is not incidental unto them; unto every one in his own kind. If therefore nothing can happen unto anything, which is not both usual and natural; why art thou displeased? Sure the common nature of all would not bring anything upon any, that were intolerable. If therefore it be a thing external that causes thy grief, know, that it is not that properly that doth cause it, but thine own conceit and opinion concerning the thing: which thou mayest rid thyself of, when thou wilt. But if it be somewhat that is amiss in thine own disposition, that doth grieve thee, mayest thou not rectify thy moral tenets and opinions. But if it grieve thee, that thou doest not perform that which seemeth unto thee right and just, why doest not thou choose rather to perform it than to grieve? But somewhat that is stronger than thyself doth hinder thee. Let it not grieve thee then, if it be not thy fault that the thing is not performed. 'Yea but it is a thing of that nature, as that thy life is not worth the while, except it may be performed.' If it be so, upon condition that thou be kindly and lovingly disposed towards all men, thou mayest be gone. For even then, as much as at any time, art thou in a very good estate of performance, when thou doest die in charity with those, that are an obstacle unto thy performance.
XLVI. Remember that thy mind is of that nature as that it becometh altogether unconquerable, when once recollected in herself, she seeks no other content than this, that she cannot be forced: yea though it so fall out, that it be even against reason itself, that it cloth bandy. How much less when by the help of reason she is able to judge of things with discretion? And therefore let thy chief fort and place of defence be, a mind free from passions. A stronger place, (whereunto to make his refuge, and so to become impregnable) and better fortified than this, hath no man. He that seeth not this is unlearned. He that seeth it, and betaketh not himself to this place of refuge, is unhappy.
XLVII. Keep thyself to the first bare and naked apprehensions of things, as they present themselves unto thee, and add not unto them. It is reported unto thee, that such a one speaketh ill of thee. Well; that he speaketh ill of thee, so much is reported. But that thou art hurt thereby, is not reported: that is the addition of opinion, which thou must exclude. I see that my child is sick. That he is sick, I see, but that he is in danger of his life also, I see it not. Thus thou must use to keep thyself to the first motions and apprehensions of things, as they present themselves outwardly; and add not unto them from within thyself through mere conceit and opinion. Or rather add unto them: hut as one that understandeth the true nature of all things that happen in the world.
XLVIII. Is the cucumber bitter? set it away. Brambles are in the way? avoid them. Let this suffice. Add not presently speaking unto thyself, What serve these things for in the world? For, this, one that is acquainted with the mysteries of nature, will laugh at thee for it; as a carpenter would or a shoemaker, if meeting in either of their shops with some shavings, or small remnants of their work, thou shouldest blame them for it. And yet those men, it is not for want of a place where to throw them that they keep them in their shops for a while: but the nature of the universe hath no such out-place; but herein doth consist the wonder of her art and skill, that she having once circumscribed herself within some certain bounds and limits, whatsoever is within her that seems either corrupted, or old, or unprofitable, she can change it into herself, and of these very things can make new things; so that she needeth not to seek elsewhere out of herself either for a new supply of matter and substance, or for a place where to throw out whatsoever is irrecoverably putrid and corrupt. Thus she, as for place, so for matter and art, is herself sufficient unto herself.
XLIX. Not to be slack and negligent; or loose, and wanton in thy actions; nor contentious, and troublesome in thy conversation; nor to rove and wander in thy fancies and imaginations. Not basely to contract thy soul; nor boisterously to sally out with it, or furiously to launch out as it were, nor ever to want employment.
L. 'They kill me, they cut my flesh; they persecute my person with curses.' What then? May not thy mind for all this continue pure, prudent, temperate, just? As a fountain of sweet and clear water, though she be cursed by some stander by, yet do her springs nevertheless still run as sweet and clear as before; yea though either dirt or dung be thrown in, yet is it no sooner thrown, than dispersed, and she cleared. She cannot be dyed or infected by it. What then must I do, that I may have within myself an overflowing fountain, and not a well? Beget thyself by continual pains and endeavours to true liberty with charity, and true simplicity and modesty.
LI. He that knoweth not what the world is, knoweth not where he himself is. And he that knoweth not what the world was made for, cannot possibly know either what are the qualities, or what is the nature of the world. Now he that in either of these is to seek, for what he himself was made is ignorant also. What then dost thou think of that man, who proposeth unto himself, as a matter of great moment, the noise and applause of men, who both where they are, and what they are themselves, are altogether ignorant? Dost thou desire to be commended of that man, who thrice in one hour perchance, doth himself curse himself? Dost thou desire to please him, who pleaseth not himself? or dost thou think that he pleaseth himself, who doth use to repent himself almost of everything that he doth?
LII. Not only now henceforth to have a common breath, or to hold correspondency of breath, with that air, that compasseth us about; but to have a common mind, or to hold correspondency of mind also with that rational substance, which compasseth all things. For, that also is of itself, and of its own nature (if a man can but draw it in as he should) everywhere diffused; and passeth through all things, no less than the air doth, if a man can but suck it in.
LIII. Wickedness in general doth not hurt the world. Particular wickedness doth not hurt any other: only unto him it is hurtful, whosoever he be that offends, unto whom in great favour and mercy it is granted, that whensoever he himself shall but first desire it, he may be presently delivered of it. Unto my free-will my neighbour's free-will, whoever he be, (as his life, or his bode), is altogether indifferent. For though we are all made one for another, yet have our minds and understandings each of them their own proper and limited jurisdiction. For else another man's wickedness might be my evil which God would not have, that it might not be in another man's power to make me unhappy: which nothing now can do but mine own wickedness.
LIV. The sun seemeth to be shed abroad. And indeed it is diffused but not effused. For that diffusion of it is a τάσις or an extension. For therefore are the beams of it called ἀκτῖνες from the word ἐκτείνεσθαι to be stretched out and extended. Now what a sunbeam is, thou mayest know if thou observe the light of the sun, when through some narrow hole it pierceth into some room that is dark. For it is always in a direct line. And as by any solid body, that it meets with in the way that is not penetrable by air, it is divided and abrupted, and yet neither slides off, or falls down, but stayeth there nevertheless: such must the diffusion in the mind be; not an effusion, but an extension. What obstacles and impediments soever she meeteth within her way, she must not violently, and by way of an impetuous onset light upon them; neither must she fall down; but she must stand, and give light unto that which doth admit of it. For as for that which doth not, it is its own fault and loss, if it bereave itself of her light.
LV. He that feareth death, either feareth that he shall have no sense at all, or that his senses will not be the same. Whereas, he should rather comfort himself, that either no sense at all, and so no sense of evil; or if any sense, then another life, and so no death properly.
LVI. All men are made one for another: either then teach them better, or bear with them.
LVII. The motion of the mind is not as the motion of a dart. For the mind when it is wary and cautelous, and by way of diligent circumspection turneth herself many ways, may then as well be said to go straight on to the object, as when it useth no such circumspection.
LVIII. To pierce and penetrate into the estate of every one's understanding that thou hast to do with: as also to make the estate of thine own open, and penetrable to any other.
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THE NINTH BOOK
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I. He that is unjust, is also impious. For the nature of the universe, having made all reasonable creatures one for another, to the end that they should do one another good; more or less according to the several persons and occasions but in nowise hurt one another: it is manifest that he that doth transgress against this her will, is guilty of impiety towards the most ancient and venerable of all the deities. For the nature of the universe, is the nature the common parent of all, and therefore piously to be observed of all things that are, and that which now is, to whatsoever first was, and gave it its being, hath relation of blood and kindred. She is also called truth and is the first cause of all truths. He therefore that willingly and wittingly doth lie, is impious in that he doth receive, and so commit injustice: but he that against his will, in that he disagreeth from the nature of the universe, and in that striving with the nature of the world he doth in his particular, violate the general order of the world. For he doth no better than strive and war against it, who contrary to his own nature applieth himself to that which is contrary to truth. For nature had before furnished him with instincts and opportunities sufficient for the attainment of it; which he having hitherto neglected, is not now able to discern that which is false from that which is true. He also that pursues after pleasures, as that which is truly good and flies from pains, as that which is truly evil: is impious. For such a one must of necessity oftentimes accuse that common nature, as distributing many things both unto the evil, and unto the good, not according to the deserts of either: as unto the bad oftentimes pleasures, and the causes of pleasures; so unto the good, pains, and the occasions of pains. Again, he that feareth pains and crosses in this world, feareth some of those things which some time or other must needs happen in the world. And that we have already showed to be impious. And he that pursueth after pleasures, will not spare, to compass his desires, to do that which is unjust, and that is manifestly impious. Now those things which unto nature are equally indifferent (for she had not created both, both pain and pleasure, if both had not been unto her equally indifferent): they that will live according to nature, must in those things (as being of the same mind and disposition that she is) be as equally indifferent. Whosoever therefore in either matter of pleasure and pain; death and life; honour and dishonour, (which things nature in the administration of the world, indifferently doth make use of), is not as indifferent, it is apparent that he is impious. When I say that common nature doth indifferently make use of them, my meaning is, that they happen indifferently in the ordinary course of things, which by a necessary consequence, whether as principal or accessory, come to pass in the world, according to that first and ancient deliberation of Providence, by which she from some certain beginning, did resolve upon the creation of such a world, conceiving then in her womb as it were some certain rational generative seeds and faculties of things future, whether subjects, changes, successions; both such and such, and just so many.
II. It were indeed more happy and comfortable, for a man to depart out of this world, having lived all his life long clear from all falsehood, dissimulation, voluptuousness, and pride. But if this cannot be, yet it is some comfort for a man joyfully to depart as weary, and out of love with those; rather than to desire to live, and to continue long in those wicked courses. Hath not yet experience taught thee to fly from the plague? For a far greater plague is the corruption of the mind, than any certain change and distemper of the common air can be. This is a plague of creatures, as they are living creatures; but that of men as they are men or reasonable.
III. Thou must not in matter of death carry thyself scornfully, but as one that is well pleased with it, as being one of those things that nature hath appointed. For what thou dost conceive of these, of a boy to become a young man, to wax old, to grow, to ripen, to get teeth, or a beard, or grey hairs to beget, to bear, or to be delivered; or what other action soever it be, that is natural unto man according to the several seasons of his life; such a thing is it also to be dissolved. It is therefore the part of a wise man, in matter of death, not in any wise to carry himself either violently, or proudly but patiently to wait for it, as one of nature's operations: that with the same mind as now thou dost expect when that which yet is but an embryo in thy wife's belly shall come forth, thou mayst expect also when thy soul shall fall off from that outward coat or skin: wherein as a child in the belly it lieth involved and shut up. But thou desirest a more popular, and though not so direct and philosophical, yet a very powerful and penetrative recipe against the fear of death, nothing can make they more willing to part with thy life, than if thou shalt consider, both what the subjects themselves are that thou shalt part with, and what manner of disposition thou shalt no more have to do with. True it is, that, offended with them thou must not be by no means, but take care of them, and meekly bear with them However, this thou mayst remember, that whensoever it happens that thou depart, it shall not be from men that held the same opinions that thou dost. For that indeed, (if it were so) is the only thing that might make thee averse from death, and willing to continue here, if it were thy hap to live with men that had obtained the same belief that thou hast. But now, what a toil it is for thee to live with men of different opinions, thou seest: so that thou hast rather occasion to say, Hasten, I thee pray, O Death; lest I also in time forget myself.
IV. He that sinneth, sinneth unto himself. He that is unjust, hurts himself, in that he makes himself worse than he was before. Not he only that committeth, but he also that omitteth something, is oftentimes unjust.
V. If my present apprehension of the object be right, and my present action charitable, and this, towards whatsoever doth proceed from God, be my present disposition, to be well pleased with it, it sufficeth.
VI. To wipe away fancy, to use deliberation, to quench concupiscence, to keep the mind free to herself.
VII. Of all unreasonable creatures, there is but one unreasonable soul; and of all that are reasonable, but one reasonable soul, divided betwixt them all. As of all earthly things there is but one earth, and but one light that we see by; and but one air that we breathe in, as many as either breathe or see. Now whatsoever partakes of some common thing, naturally affects and inclines unto that whereof it is part, being of one kind and nature with it. Whatsoever is earthly, presseth downwards to the common earth. Whatsoever is liquid, would flow together. And whatsoever is airy, would be together likewise. So that without some obstacle, and some kind of violence, they cannot well be kept asunder. Whatsoever is fiery, doth not only by reason of the elementary fire tend upwards; but here also is so ready to join, and to burn together, that whatsoever doth want sufficient moisture to make resistance, is easily set on fire. Whatsoever therefore is partaker of that reasonable common nature, naturally doth as much and more long after his own kind. For by how much in its own nature it excels all other things, by so much more is it desirous to be joined and united unto that, which is of its own nature. As for unreasonable creatures then, they had not long been, but presently begun among them swarms, and flocks, and broods of young ones, and a kind of mutual love and affection. For though but unreasonable, yet a kind of soul these had, and therefore was that natural desire of union more strong and intense in them, as in creatures of a more excellent nature, than either in plants, or stones, or trees. But among reasonable creatures, begun commonwealths, friendships, families, public meetings, and even in their wars, conventions, and truces. Now among them that were yet of a more excellent nature, as the stars and planets, though by their nature far distant one from another, yet even among them began some mutual correspondency and unity. So proper is it to excellency in a high degree to affect unity, as that even in things so far distant, it could operate unto a mutual sympathy. But now behold, what is now come to pass. Those creatures that are reasonable, are now the only creatures that have forgotten their natural affection and inclination of one towards another. Among them alone of all other things that are of one kind, there is not to be found a general disposition to flow together. But though they fly from nature, yet are they stopt in their course, and apprehended. Do they what they can, nature doth prevail. And so shalt thou confess, if thou dost observe it. For sooner mayst thou find a thing earthly, where no earthly thing is, than find a man that naturally can live by himself alone.
VIII. Man, God, the world, every one in their kind, bear some fruits. All things have their proper time to bear. Though by custom, the word itself is in a manner become proper unto the vine, and the like, yet is it so nevertheless, as we have said. As for reason, that beareth both common fruit for the use of others; and peculiar, which itself doth enjoy. Reason is of a diffusive nature, what itself is in itself, it begets in others, and so doth multiply.
IX. Either teach them better if it be in thy power; or if it be not, remember that for this use, to bear with them patiently, was mildness and goodness granted unto thee. The Gods themselves are good unto such; yea and in some things, (as in matter of health, of wealth, of honour,) are content often to further their endeavours: so good and gracious are they. And mightest thou not be so too? or, tell me, what doth hinder thee?
X. Labour not as one to whom it is appointed to be wretched, nor as one that either would be pitied, or admired; but let this be thine only care and desire; so always and in all things to prosecute or to forbear, as the law of charity, or mutual society doth require.
XI. This day I did come out of all my trouble. Nay I have cast out all my trouble; it should rather be for that which troubled thee, whatsoever it was, was not without anywhere that thou shouldest come out of it, but within in thine own opinions, from whence it must be cast out, before thou canst truly and constantly be at ease.
XII. All those things, for matter of experience are usual and ordinary; for their continuance but for a day; and for their matter, most base and filthy. As they were in the days of those whom we have buried, so are they now also, and no otherwise.
XIII. The things themselves that affect us, they stand without doors, neither knowing anything themselves nor able to utter anything unto others concerning themselves. What then is it, that passeth verdict on them? The understanding.
XIV. As virtue and wickedness consist not in passion, but in action; so neither doth the true good or evil of a reasonable charitable man consist in passion, but in operation and action.
XV. To the stone that is cast up, when it comes down it is no hurt unto it; as neither benefit, when it doth ascend.
XVI. Sift their minds and understandings, and behold what men they be, whom thou dost stand in fear of what they shall judge of thee, what they themselves judge of themselves.
XVII. All things that are in the world, are always in the estate of alteration. Thou also art in a perpetual change, yea and under corruption too, in some part: and so is the whole world.
XVIII. it is not thine, but another man's sin. Why should it trouble thee? Let him look to it, whose sin it is.
XIX. Of an operation and of a purpose there is an ending, or of an action and of a purpose we say commonly, that it is at an end: from opinion also there is an absolute cessation, which is as it were the death of it. In all this there is no hurt. Apply this now to a man's age, as first, a child; then a youth, then a young man, then an old man; every change from one age to another is a kind of death And all this while here no matter of grief yet. Pass now unto that life first, that which thou livedst under thy grandfather, then under thy mother, then under thy father. And thus when through the whole course of thy life hitherto thou hast found and observed many alterations, many changes, many kinds of endings and cessations, put this question to thyself What matter of grief or sorrow dost thou find in any of these? Or what doest thou suffer through any of these? If in none of these, then neither in the ending and consummation of thy whole life, which is also but a cessation and change.
XX. As occasion shall require, either to thine own understanding, or to that of the universe, or to his, whom thou hast now to do with, let thy refuge be with all speed. To thine own, that it resolve upon nothing against justice. To that of the universe, that thou mayest remember, part of whom thou art. Of his, that thou mayest consider whether in the estate of ignorance, or of knowledge. And then also must thou call to mind, that he is thy kinsman.
XXI. As thou thyself, whoever thou art, were made for the perfection and consummation, being a member of it, of a common society; so must every action of thine tend to the perfection and consummation of a life that is truly sociable. What action soever of thine therefore that either immediately or afar off, hath not reference to the common good, that is an exorbitant and disorderly action; yea it is seditious; as one among the people who from such and such a consent and unity, should factiously divide and separate himself.
XXII. Children's anger, mere babels; wretched souls bearing up dead bodies, that they may not have their fall so soon: even as it is in that common dirge song.
XXIII. Go to the quality of the cause from which the effect doth proceed. Behold it by itself bare and naked, separated from all that is material. Then consider the utmost bounds of time that that cause, thus and thus qualified, can subsist and abide.
XXIV. Infinite are the troubles and miseries, that thou hast already been put to, by reason of this only, because that for all happiness it did not suffice thee, or, that thou didst not account it sufficient happiness, that thy understanding did operate according to its natural constitution.
XXV. When any shall either impeach thee with false accusations, or hatefully reproach thee, or shall use any such carriage towards thee, get thee presently to their minds and understandings, and look in them, and behold what manner of men they be. Thou shalt see, that there is no such occasion why it should trouble thee, what such as they are think of thee. Yet must thou love them still, for by nature they are thy friends. And the Gods themselves, in those things that they seek from them as matters of great moment, are well content, all manner of ways, as by dreams and oracles, to help them as well as others.
XXVI. Up and down, from one age to another, go the ordinary things of the world; being still the same. And either of everything in particular before it come to pass, the mind of the universe doth consider with itself and deliberate: and if so, then submit for shame unto the determination of such an excellent understanding: or once for all it did resolve upon all things in general; and since that whatsoever happens, happens by a necessary consequence, and all things indivisibly in a manner and inseparably hold one of another. In sum, either there is a God, and then all is well; or if all things go by chance and fortune, yet mayest thou use thine own providence in those things that concern thee properly; and then art thou well.
XXVII. Within a while the earth shall cover us all, and then she herself shall have her change. And then the course will be, from one period of eternity unto another, and so a perpetual eternity. Now can any man that shall consider with himself in his mind the several rollings or successions of so many changes and alterations, and the swiftness of all these rulings; can he otherwise but contemn in his heart and despise all worldly things? The cause of the universe is as it were a strong torrent, it carrieth all away.
XXVIII. And these your professed politicians, the only true practical philosophers of the world, (as they think of themselves) so full of affected gravity, or such professed lovers of virtue and honesty, what wretches be they in very deed; how vile and contemptible in themselves? O man! what ado doest thou keep? Do what thy nature doth now require. Resolve upon it, if thou mayest: and take no thought, whether anybody shall know it or no. Yea, but sayest thou, I must not expect a Plato's commonwealth. If they profit though never so little, I must be content; and think much even of that little progress. Doth then any of them forsake their former false opinions that I should think they profit? For without a change of opinions, alas! what is all that ostentation, but mere wretchedness of slavish minds, that groan privately, and yet would make a show of obedience to reason, and truth? Go too now and tell me of Alexander and Philippus, and Demetrius Phalereus. Whether they understood what the common nature requireth, and could rule themselves or no, they know best themselves. But if they kept a life, and swaggered; I (God be thanked) am not bound to imitate them. The effect of true philosophy is, unaffected simplicity and modesty. Persuade me not to ostentation and vainglory.
XXIX. From some high place as it were to look down, and to behold here flocks, and there sacrifices, without number; and all kind of navigation; some in a rough and stormy sea, and some in a calm: the general differences, or different estates of things, some, that are now first upon being; the several and mutual relations of those things that are together; and some other things that are at their last. Their lives also, who were long ago, and theirs who shall be hereafter, and the present estate and life of those many nations of barbarians that are now in the world, thou must likewise consider in thy mind. And how many there be, who never so much as heard of thy name, how many that will soon forget it; how many who but even now did commend thee, within a very little while perchance will speak ill of thee. So that neither fame, nor honour, nor anything else that this world doth afford, is worth the while. The sum then of all; whatsoever doth happen unto thee, whereof God is the cause, to accept it contentedly: whatsoever thou doest, whereof thou thyself art the cause, to do it justly: which will be, if both in thy resolution and in thy action thou have no further end, than to do good unto others, as being that, which by thy natural constitution, as a man, thou art bound unto.
XXX. Many of those things that trouble and straiten thee, it is in thy power to cut off, as wholly depending from mere conceit and opinion; and then thou shalt have room enough.
XXXI. To comprehend the whole world together in thy mind, and the whole course of this present age to represent it unto thyself, and to fix thy thoughts upon the sudden change of every particular object. How short the time is from the generation of anything, unto the dissolution of the same; but how immense and infinite both that which was before the generation, and that which after the generation of it shall be. All things that thou seest, will soon be perished, and they that see their corruptions, will soon vanish away themselves. He that dieth a hundred years old, and he that dieth young, shall come all to one.
XXXII. What are their minds and understandings; and what the things that they apply themselves unto: what do they love, and what do they hate for? Fancy to thyself the estate of their souls openly to be seen. When they think they hurt them shrewdly, whom they speak ill of; and when they think they do them a very good turn, whom they commend and extol: O how full are they then of conceit, and opinion!
XXXIII. Loss and corruption, is in very deed nothing else but change and alteration; and that is it, which the nature of the universe doth most delight in, by which, and according to which, whatsoever is done, is well done. For that was the estate of worldly things from the beginning, and so shall it ever be. Or wouldest thou rather say, that all things in the world have gone ill from the beginning for so many ages, and shall ever go ill? And then among so many deities, could no divine power be found all this while, that could rectify the things of the world? Or is the world, to incessant woes and miseries, for ever condemned?
XXXIV. How base and putrid, every common matter is! Water, dust, and from the mixture of these bones, and all that loathsome stuff that our bodies do consist of: so subject to be infected, and corrupted. And again those other things that are so much prized and admired, as marble stones, what are they, but as it were the kernels of the earth? gold and silver, what are they, but as the more gross faeces of the earth? Thy most royal apparel, for matter, it is but as it were the hair of a silly sheep, and for colour, the very blood of a shell-fish; of this nature are all other things. Thy life itself, is some such thing too; a mere exhalation of blood: and it also, apt to be changed into some other common thing.
XXXV. Will this querulousness, this murmuring, this complaining and dissembling never be at an end? What then is it, that troubleth thee? Doth any new thing happen unto thee? What doest thou so wonder at? At the cause, or the matter? Behold either by itself, is either of that weight and moment indeed? And besides these, there is not anything. But thy duty towards the Gods also, it is time thou shouldst acquit thyself of it with more goodness and simplicity.
XXXVI. It is all one to see these things for a hundred of years together or but for three years.
XXXVII. If he have sinned, his is the harm, not mine. But perchance he hath not.
XXXVIII. Either all things by the providence of reason happen unto every particular, as a part of one general body; and then it is against reason that a part should complain of anything that happens for the good of the whole; or if, according to Epicurus, atoms be the cause of all things and that life be nothing else but an accidentary confusion of things, and death nothing else, but a mere dispersion and so of all other things: what doest thou trouble thyself for?
XXXIX. Sayest thou unto that rational part, Thou art dead; corruption hath taken hold on thee? Doth it then also void excrements? Doth it like either oxen, or sheep, graze or feed; that it also should be mortal, as well as the body?
XL. Either the Gods can do nothing for us at all, or they can still and allay all the distractions and distempers of thy mind. If they can do nothing, why doest thou pray? If they can, why wouldst not thou rather pray, that they will grant unto thee, that thou mayst neither fear, nor lust after any of those worldly things which cause these distractions and distempers of it? Why not rather, that thou mayst not at either their absence or presence, be grieved and discontented: than either that thou mayst obtain them, or that thou mayst avoid them? For certainly it must needs be, that if the Gods can help us in anything, they may in this kind also. But thou wilt say perchance, 'In those things the Gods have given me my liberty: and it is in mine own power to do what I will.' But if thou mayst use this liberty, rather to set thy mind at true liberty, than wilfully with baseness and servility of mind to affect those things, which either to compass or to avoid is not in thy power, wert not thou better? And as for the Gods, who hath told thee, that they may not help us up even in those things that they have put in our own power? whether it be so or no, thou shalt soon perceive, if thou wilt but try thyself and pray. One prayeth that he may compass his desire, to lie with such or such a one, pray thou that thou mayst not lust to lie with her. Another how he may be rid of such a one; pray thou that thou mayst so patiently bear with him, as that thou have no such need to be rid of him. Another, that he may not lose his child. Pray thou that thou mayst not fear to lose him. To this end and purpose, let all thy prayer be, and see what will be the event.
XLI. 'In my sickness' (saith Epicurus of himself:) 'my discourses were not concerning the nature of my disease, neither was that, to them that came to visit me, the subject of my talk; but in the consideration and contemplation of that, which was of especial weight and moment, was all my time bestowed and spent, and among others in this very thing, how my mind, by a natural and unavoidable sympathy partaking in some sort with the present indisposition of my body, might nevertheless keep herself free from trouble, and in present possession of her own proper happiness. Neither did I leave the ordering of my body to the physicians altogether to do with me what they would, as though I expected any great matter from them, or as though I thought it a matter of such great consequence, by their means to recover my health: for my present estate, methought, liked me very well, and gave me good content.' Whether therefore in sickness (if thou chance to sicken) or in what other kind of extremity soever, endeavour thou also to be in thy mind so affected, as he doth report of himself: not to depart from thy philosophy for anything that can befall thee, nor to give ear to the discourses of silly people, and mere naturalists.
XLII. It is common to all trades and professions to mind and intend that only, which now they are about, and the instrument whereby they work.
XLIII. When at any time thou art offended with any one's impudency, put presently this question to thyself: 'What? Is it then possible, that there should not be any impudent men in the world! Certainly it is not possible.' Desire not then that which is impossible. For this one, (thou must think) whosoever he be, is one of those impudent ones, that the world cannot be without. So of the subtile and crafty, so of the perfidious, so of every one that offendeth, must thou ever be ready to reason with thyself. For whilst in general thou dost thus reason with thyself, that the kind of them must needs be in the world, thou wilt be the better able to use meekness towards every particular. This also thou shalt find of very good use, upon every such occasion, presently to consider with thyself, what proper virtue nature hath furnished man with, against such a vice, or to encounter with a disposition vicious in this kind. As for example, against the unthankful, it hath given goodness and meekness, as an antidote, and so against another vicious in another kind some other peculiar faculty. And generally, is it not in thy power to instruct him better, that is in an error? For whosoever sinneth, doth in that decline from his purposed end, and is certainly deceived, And again, what art thou the worse for his sin? For thou shalt not find that any one of these, against whom thou art incensed, hath in very deed done anything whereby thy mind (the only true subject of thy hurt and evil) can be made worse than it was. And what a matter of either grief or wonder is this, if he that is unlearned, do the deeds of one that is unlearned? Should not thou rather blame thyself, who, when upon very good grounds of reason, thou mightst have thought it very probable, that such a thing would by such a one be committed, didst not only not foresee it, but moreover dost wonder at it, that such a thing should be. But then especially, when thou dost find fault with either an unthankful, or a false man, must thou reflect upon thyself. For without all question, thou thyself art much in fault, if either of one that were of such a disposition, thou didst expect that he should be true unto thee: or when unto any thou didst a good turn, thou didst not there bound thy thoughts, as one that had obtained his end; nor didst not think that from the action itself thou hadst received a full reward of the good that thou hadst done. For what wouldst thou have more? Unto him that is a man, thou hast done a good turn: doth not that suffice thee? What thy nature required, that hast thou done. Must thou be rewarded for it? As if either the eye for that it seeth, or the feet that they go, should require satisfaction. For as these being by nature appointed for such an use, can challenge no more, than that they may work according to their natural constitution: so man being born to do good unto others whensoever he doth a real good unto any by helping them out of error; or though but in middle things, as in matter of wealth, life, preferment, and the like, doth help to further their desires he doth that for which he was made, and therefore can require no more.
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THE TENTH BOOK
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I. O my soul, the time I trust will be, when thou shalt be good, simple, single, more open and visible, than that body by which it is enclosed. Thou wilt one day be sensible of their happiness, whose end is love, and their affections dead to all worldly things. Thou shalt one day be full, and in want of no external thing: not seeking pleasure from anything, either living or insensible, that this world can afford; neither wanting time for the continuation of thy pleasure, nor place and opportunity, nor the favour either of the weather or of men. When thou shalt have content in thy present estate, and all things present shall add to thy content: when thou shalt persuade thyself, that thou hast all things; all for thy good, and all by the providence of the Gods: and of things future also shalt be as confident, that all will do well, as tending to the maintenance and preservation in some sort, of his perfect welfare and happiness, who is perfection of life, of goodness, and beauty; who begets all things, and containeth all things in himself, and in himself doth recollect all things from all places that are dissolved, that of them he may beget others again like unto them. Such one day shall be thy disposition, that thou shalt be able, both in regard of the Gods, and in regard of men, so to fit and order thy conversation, as neither to complain of them at any time, for anything that they do; nor to do anything thyself, for which thou mayest justly be condemned.
II. As one who is altogether governed by nature, let it be thy care to observe what it is that thy nature in general doth require. That done, if thou find not that thy nature, as thou art a living sensible creature, will be the worse for it, thou mayest proceed. Next then thou must examine, what thy nature as thou art a living sensible creature, doth require. And that, whatsoever it be, thou mayest admit of and do it, if thy nature as thou art a reasonable living creature, will not be the worse for it. Now whatsoever is reasonable, is also sociable, Keep thyself to these rules, and trouble not thyself about idle things.
III. Whatsoever doth happen unto thee, thou art naturally by thy natural constitution either able, or not able to bear. If thou beest able, be not offended, but bear it according to thy natural constitution, or as nature hath enabled thee. If thou beest not able, be not offended. For it will soon make an end of thee, and itself, (whatsoever it be) at the same time end with thee. But remember, that whatsoever by the strength of opinion, grounded upon a certain apprehension of both true profit and duty, thou canst conceive tolerable; that thou art able to bear that by thy natural constitution.
IV. Him that offends, to teach with love and meek ness, and to show him his error. But if thou canst not, then to blame thyself; or rather not thyself neither, if thy will and endeavours have not been wanting.
V. Whatsoever it be that happens unto thee, it is that which from all time was appointed unto thee. For by the same coherence of causes, by which thy substance from all eternity was appointed to be, was also whatsoever should happen unto it, destinated and appointed.
VI. Either with Epicurus, we must fondly imagine the atoms to be the cause of all things, or we must needs grant a nature. Let this then be thy first ground, that thou art part of that universe, which is governed by nature. Then secondly, that to those parts that are of the same kind and nature as thou art, thou hast relation of kindred. For of these, if I shall always be mindful, first as I am a part, I shall never be displeased with anything, that falls to my particular share of the common chances of the world. For nothing that is behoveful unto the whole, can be truly hurtful to that which is part of it. For this being the common privilege of all natures, that they contain nothing in themselves that is hurtful unto them; it cannot be that the nature of the universe (whose privilege beyond other particular natures, is, that she cannot against her will by any higher external cause be constrained,) should beget anything and cherish it in her bosom that should tend to her own hurt and prejudice. As then I bear in mind that I am a part of such an universe, I shall not be displeased with anything that happens. And as I have relation of kindred to those parts that are of the same kind and nature that I am, so I shall be careful to do nothing that is prejudicial to the community, but in all my deliberations shall they that are of my kind ever be; and the common good, that, which all my intentions and resolutions shall drive unto, as that which is contrary unto it, I shall by all means endeavour to prevent and avoid. These things once so fixed and concluded, as thou wouldst think him a happy citizen, whose constant study and practice were for the good and benefit of his fellow citizens, and the carriage of the city such towards him, that he were well pleased with it; so must it needs be with thee, that thou shalt live a happy life.
VII. All parts of the world, (all things I mean that are contained within the whole world), must of necessity at some time or other come to corruption. Alteration I should say, to speak truly and properly; but that I may be the better understood, I am content at this time to use that more common word. Now say I, if so be that this be both hurtful unto them, and yet unavoidable, would not, thinkest thou, the whole itself be in a sweet case, all the parts of it being subject to alteration, yea and by their making itself fitted for corruption, as consisting of things different and contrary? And did nature then either of herself thus project and purpose the affliction and misery of her parts, and therefore of purpose so made them, not only that haply they might, but of necessity that they should fall into evil; or did not she know what she did, when she made them? For either of these two to say, is equally absurd. But to let pass nature in general, and to reason of things particular according to their own particular natures; how absurd and ridiculous is it, first to say that all parts of the whole are, by their proper natural constitution, subject to alteration; and then when any such thing doth happen, as when one doth fall sick and dieth, to take on and wonder as though some strange thing had happened? Though this besides might move not so grievously to take on when any such thing doth happen, that whatsoever is dissolved, it is dissolved into those things, whereof it was compounded. For every dissolution is either a mere dispersion, of the elements into those elements again whereof everything did consist, or a change, of that which is more solid into earth; and of that which is pure and subtile or spiritual, into air. So that by this means nothing is lost, but all resumed again into those rational generative seeds of the universe; and this universe, either after a certain period of time to lie consumed by fire, or by continual changes to be renewed, and so for ever to endure. Now that solid and spiritual that we speak of, thou must not conceive it to be that very same, which at first was, when thou wert born. For alas! all this that now thou art in either kind, either for matter of substance, or of life, hath but two or three days ago partly from meats eaten, and partly from air breathed in, received all its influx, being the same then in no other respect, than a running river, maintained by the perpetual influx and new supply of waters, is the same. That therefore which thou hast since received, not that which came from thy mother, is that which comes to change and corruption. But suppose that that for the general substance, and more solid part of it, should still cleave unto thee never so close, yet what is that to the proper qualities and affections of it, by which persons are distinguished, which certainly are quite different?
VIII. Now that thou hast taken these names upon thee of good, modest, true; of ἔμφρων, σύμφρων, ὑπέρφρων; take heed lest at any times by doing anything that is contrary, thou be but improperly so called, and lose thy right to these appellations. Or if thou do, return unto them again with all possible speed. And remember, that the word ἔμφρων notes unto thee an intent and intelligent consideration of every object that presents itself unto thee, without distraction. And the word σύμφρων, a ready and contented acceptation of whatsoever by the appointment of the common nature, happens unto thee. And the word ὑπέρφρων, a super-extension, or a transcendent, and outreaching disposition of thy mind, whereby it passeth by all bodily pains and pleasures, honour and credit, death and whatsoever is of the same nature, as matters of absolute indifferency, and in no wise to be stood upon by a wise man. These then if inviolably thou shalt observe, and shalt not be ambitious to be so called by others, both thou thyself shalt become a new man, and thou shalt begin a new life. For to continue such as hitherto thou hast been, to undergo those distractions and distempers as thou must needs for such a life as hitherto thou hast lived, is the part of one that is very foolish, and is overfond of his life. Whom a man might compare to one of those half-eaten wretches, matched in the amphitheatre with wild beasts; who as full as they are all the body over with wounds and blood, desire for a great favour, that they may be reserved till the next day, then also, and in the same estate to be exposed to the same nails and teeth as before. Away therefore, ship thyself; and from the troubles and distractions of thy former life convey thyself as it were unto these few names; and if thou canst abide in them, or be constant in the practice and possession of them, continue there as glad and joyful as one that were translated unto some such place of bliss and happiness as that which by Hesiod and Plato is called the Islands of the Blessed, by others called the Elysian Fields. And whensoever thou findest thyself; that thou art in danger of a relapse, and that thou art not able to master and overcome those difficulties and temptations that present themselves in thy present station: get thee into any private corner, where thou mayst be better able. Or if that will not serve forsake even thy life rather. But so that it be not in passion but in a plain voluntary modest way: this being the only commendable action of thy whole life that thus thou art departed, or this having been the main work and business of thy whole life, that thou mightest thus depart. Now for the better remembrance of those names that we have spoken of, thou shalt find it a very good help, to remember the Gods as often as may be: and that, the thing which they require at our hands of as many of us, as are by nature reasonable creation is not that with fair words, and outward show of piety and devotion we should flatter them, but that we should become like unto them: and that as all other natural creatures, the fig tree for example; the dog the bee: both do, all of them, and apply themselves unto that which by their natural constitution, is proper unto them; so man likewise should do that, which by his nature, as he is a man, belongs unto him.
IX. Toys and fooleries at home, wars abroad: sometimes terror, sometimes torpor, or stupid sloth: this is thy daily slavery. By little and little, if thou doest not better look to it, those sacred dogmata will be blotted out of thy mind. How many things be there, which when as a mere naturalist, thou hast barely considered of according to their nature, thou doest let pass without any further use? Whereas thou shouldst in all things so join action and contemplation, that thou mightest both at the same time attend all present occasions, to perform everything duly and carefully and yet so intend the contemplative part too, that no part of that delight and pleasure, which the contemplative knowledge of everything according to its true nature doth of itself afford, might be lost. Or, that the true and contemnplative knowledge of everything according to its own nature, might of itself, (action being subject to many lets and impediments) afford unto thee sufficient pleasure and happiness. Not apparent indeed, but not concealed. And when shalt thou attain to the happiness of true simplicity, and unaffected gravity? When shalt thou rejoice in the certain knowledge of every particular object according to its true nature: as what the matter and substance of it is; what use it is for in the world: how long it can subsist: what things it doth consist of: who they be that are capable of it, and who they that can give it, and take it away?
X. As the spider, when it hath caught the fly that it hunted after, is not little proud, nor meanly conceited of herself: as he likewise that hath caught an hare, or hath taken a fish with his net: as another for the taking of a boar, and another of a bear: so may they be proud, and applaud themselves for their valiant acts against the Sarmatai, or northern nations lately defeated. For these also, these famous soldiers and warlike men, if thou dost look into their minds and opinions, what do they for the most part but hunt after prey?
XI. To find out, and set to thyself some certain way and method of contemplation, whereby thou mayest clearly discern and represent unto thyself, the mutual change of all things, the one into the other. Bear it in thy mind evermore, and see that thou be throughly well exercised in this particular. For there is not anything more effectual to beget true magnanimity.
XII. He hath got loose from the bonds of his body, and perceiving that within a very little while he must of necessity bid the world farewell, and leave all these things behind him, he wholly applied himself, as to righteousness in all his actions, so to the common nature in all things that should happen unto him. And contenting himself with these two things, to do all things justly, and whatsoever God doth send to like well of it: what others shall either say or think of him, or shall do against him, he doth not so much as trouble his thoughts with it. To go on straight, whither right and reason directed him, and by so doing to follow God, was the only thing that he did mind, that, his only business and occupation.
XIII. What use is there of suspicion at all? or, why should thoughts of mistrust, and suspicion concerning that which is future, trouble thy mind at all? What now is to be done, if thou mayest search and inquiry into that, what needs thou care for more? And if thou art well able to perceive it alone, let no man divert thee from it. But if alone thou doest not so well perceive it, suspend thine action, and take advice from the best. And if there be anything else that doth hinder thee, go on with prudence and discretion, according to the present occasion and opportunity, still proposing that unto thyself, which thou doest conceive most right and just. For to hit that aright, and to speed in the prosecution of it, must needs be happiness, since it is that only which we can truly and properly be said to miss of, or miscarry in.
XIV. What is that that is slow, and yet quick? merry, and yet grave? He that in all things doth follow reason for his guide.
XV. In the morning as soon as thou art awaked, when thy judgment, before either thy affections, or external objects have wrought upon it, is yet most free and impartial: put this question to thyself, whether if that which is right and just be done, the doing of it by thyself, or by others when thou art not able thyself; be a thing material or no. For sure it is not. And as for these that keep such a life, and stand so much upon the praises, or dispraises of other men, hast thou forgotten what manner of men they be? that such and such upon their beds, and such at their board: what their ordinary actions are: what they pursue after, and what they fly from: what thefts and rapines they commit, if not with their hands and feet, yet with that more precious part of theirs, their minds: which (would it but admit of them) might enjoy faith, modesty, truth, justice, a good spirit.
XVI. Give what thou wilt, and take away what thou wilt, saith he that is well taught and truly modest, to Him that gives, and takes away. And it is not out of a stout and peremptory resolution, that he saith it, but in mere love, and humble submission.
XVII. So live as indifferent to the world and all worldly objects, as one who liveth by himself alone upon some desert hill. For whether here, or there, if the whole world be but as one town, it matters not much for the place. Let them behold and see a man, that is a man indeed, living according to the true nature of man. If they cannot bear with me, let them kill me. For better were it to die, than so to live as they would have thee.
XVIII. Make it not any longer a matter of dispute or discourse, what are the signs and proprieties of a good man, but really and actually to be such.
XIX. Ever to represent unto thyself; and to set before thee, both the general age and time of the world, and the whole substance of it. And how all things particular in respect of these are for their substance, as one of the least seeds that is: and for their duration, as the turning of the pestle in the mortar once about. Then to fix thy mind upon every particular object of the world, and to conceive it, (as it is indeed,) as already being in the state of dissolution, and of change; tending to some kind of either putrefaction or dispersion; or whatsoever else it is, that is the death as it were of everything in his own kind.
XX. Consider them through all actions and occupations, of their lives: as when they eat, and when they sleep: when they are in the act of necessary exoneration, and when in the act of lust. Again, when they either are in their greatest exultation; and in the middle of all their pomp and glory; or being angry and displeased, in great state and majesty, as from an higher place, they chide and rebuke. How base and slavish, but a little while ago, they were fain to be, that they might come to this; and within a very little while what will be their estate, when death hath once seized upon them.
XXI. That is best for every one, that the common nature of all doth send unto every one, and then is it best, when she doth send it.
XXII. The earth, saith the poet, doth often long after the rain. So is the glorious sky often as desirous to fall upon the earth, which argues a mutual kind of love between them. And so (say I) doth the world bear a certain affection of love to whatsoever shall come to pass With thine affections shall mine concur, O world. The same (and no other) shall the object of my longing be which is of thine. Now that the world doth love it is true indeed so is it as commonly said, and acknowledged ledged, when, according to the Greek phrase, imitated by the Latins, of things that used to be, we say commonly, that they love to be.
XXIII. Either thou dost Continue in this kind of life and that is it, which so long thou hast been used unto and therefore tolerable: or thou doest retire, or leave the world, and that of thine own accord, and then thou hast thy mind: or thy life is cut off; and then mayst thou rejoice that thou hast ended thy charge. One of these must needs be. Be therefore of good comfort.
XXIV Let it always appear and be manifest unto thee that solitariness, and desert places, by many philosophers so much esteemed of and affected, are of themselves but thus and thus; and that all things are them to them that live in towns, and converse with others as they are the same nature everywhere to be seen and observed: to them that have retired themselves to the top of mountains, and to desert havens, or what other desert and inhabited places soever. For anywhere it thou wilt mayest thou quickly find and apply that to thyself; which Plato saith of his philosopher, in a place: as private and retired, saith he, as if he were shut up and enclosed about in some shepherd's lodge, on the top of a hill. There by thyself to put these questions to thyself or to enter in these considerations: What is my chief and principal part, which hath power over the rest? What is now the present estate of it, as I use it; and what is it, that I employ it about? Is it now void of reason ir no? Is it free, and separated; or so affixed, so congealed and grown together as it were with the flesh, that it is swayed by the motions and inclinations of it?
XXV. He that runs away from his master is a fugitive. But the law is every man's master. He therefore that forsakes the law, is a fugitive. So is he, whosoever he be, that is either sorry, angry, or afraid, or for anything that either hath been, is, or shall be by his appointment, who is the Lord and Governor of the universe. For he truly and properly is Νόμος, or the law, as the only νέμων, or distributor and dispenser of all things that happen unto any one in his lifetime—Whatsoever then is either sorry, angry, or afraid, is a fugitive.
XXVI. From man is the seed, that once cast into the womb man hath no more to do with it. Another cause succeedeth, and undertakes the work, and in time brings a child (that wonderful effect from such a beginning!) to perfection. Again, man lets food down through his throat; and that once down, he hath no more to do with it. Another cause succeedeth and distributeth this food into the senses, and the affections: into life, and into strength; and doth with it those other many and marvellous things, that belong unto man. These things therefore that are so secretly and invisibly wrought and brought to pass, thou must use to behold and contemplate; and not the things themselves only, but the power also by which they are effected; that thou mayst behold it, though not with the eyes of the body, yet as plainly and visibly as thou canst see and discern the outward efficient cause of the depression and elevation of anything.
XXVII. Ever to mind and consider with thyself; how all things that now are, have been heretofore much after the same sort, and after the same fashion that now they are: and so to think of those things which shall be hereafter also. Moreover, whole dramata, and uniform scenes, or scenes that comprehend the lives and actions of men of one calling and profession, as many as either in thine own experience thou hast known, or by reading of ancient histories; (as the whole court of Adrianus, the whole court of Antoninus Pius, the whole court of Philippus, that of Alexander, that of Crœsus): to set them all before thine eyes. For thou shalt find that they are all but after one sort and fashion: only that the actors were others.
XXVIII. As a pig that cries and flings when his throat is cut, fancy to thyself every one to be, that grieves for any worldly thing and takes on. Such a one is he also, who upon his bed alone, doth bewail the miseries of this our mortal life. And remember this, that Unto reasonable creatures only it is granted that they may willingly and freely submit unto Providence: but absolutely to submit, is a necessity imposed upon all creatures equally.
XXIX. Whatsoever it is that thou goest about, consider of it by thyself, and ask thyself, What? because I shall do this no more when I am dead, should therefore death seem grievous unto me?
XXX. When thou art offended with any man's transgression, presently reflect upon thyself; and consider what thou thyself art guilty of in the same kind. As that thou also perchance dost think it a happiness either to be rich, or to live in pleasure, or to be praised and commended, and so of the rest in particular. For this if thou shalt call to mind, thou shalt soon forget thine anger; especially when at the same time this also shall concur in thy thoughts, that he was constrained by his error and ignorance so to do: for how can he choose as long as he is of that opinion? Do thou therefore if thou canst, take away that from him, that forceth him to do as he doth.
XXXI. When thou seest Satyro, think of Socraticus and Eutyches, or Hymen, and when Euphrates, think of Eutychio, and Sylvanus, when Alciphron, of Tropaeophorus, when Xenophon, of Crito, or Severus. And when thou doest look upon thyself, fancy unto thyself some one or other of the Cæsars; and so for every one, some one or other that hath been for estate and profession answerable unto him. Then let this come to thy mind at the same time; and where now are they all? Nowhere or anywhere? For so shalt thou at all time be able to perceive how all worldly things are but as the smoke, that vanisheth away: or, indeed, mere nothing. Especially when thou shalt call to mind this also, that whatsoever is once changed, shall never be again as long as the world endureth. And thou then, how long shalt thou endure? And why doth it not suffice thee, if virtuously, and as becometh thee, thou mayest pass that portion of time, how little soever it be, that is allotted unto thee?
XXXII. What a subject, and what a course of life is it, that thou doest so much desire to be rid of. For all these things, what are they, but fit objects for an understanding, that beholdeth everything according to its true nature, to exercise itself upon? Be patient, therefore, until that (as a strong stomach that turns all things into his own nature; and as a great fire that turneth in flame and light, whatsoever thou doest cast into it) thou have made these things also familiar, and as it were natural unto thee.
XXXIII. Let it not be in any man's power, to say truly of thee, that thou art not truly simple, or sincere and open, or not good. Let him be deceived whosoever he be that shall have any such opinion of thee. For all this doth depend of thee. For who is it that should hinder thee from being either truly simple or good? Do thou only resolve rather not to live, than not to be such. For indeed neither doth it stand with reason that he should live that is not such. What then is it that may upon this present occasion according to best reason and discretion, either be said or done? For whatsoever it be, it is in thy power either to do it, or to say it, and therefore seek not any pretences, as though thou wert hindered. Thou wilt never cease groaning and complaining, until such time as that, what pleasure is unto the voluptuous, be unto thee, to do in everything that presents itself, whatsoever may be done conformably and agreeably to the proper constitution of man, or, to man as he is a man. For thou must account that pleasure, whatsoever it be, that thou mayest do according to thine own nature. And to do this, every place will fit thee. Unto the cylindrus, or roller, it is not granted to move everywhere according to its own proper motion, as neither unto the water, nor unto the fire, nor unto any other thing, that either is merely natural, or natural and sensitive; but not rational for many things there be that can hinder their operations. But of the mind and understanding this is the proper privilege, that according to its own nature, and as it will itself, it can pass through every obstacle that it finds, and keep straight on forwards. Setting therefore before thine eyes this happiness and felicity of thy mind, whereby it is able to pass through all things, and is capable of all motions, whether as the fire, upwards; or as the stone downwards, or as the cylindrus through that which is sloping: content thyself with it, and seek not after any other thing. For all other kind of hindrances that are not hindrances of thy mind either they are proper to the body, or merely proceed from the opinion, reason not making that resistance that it should, but basely, and cowardly suffering itself to be foiled; and of themselves can neither wound, nor do any hurt at all. Else must he of necessity, whosoever he be that meets with any of them, become worse than he was before. For so is it in all other subjects, that that is thought hurtful unto them, whereby they are made worse. But here contrariwise, man (if he make that good use of them that he should) is rather the better and the more praiseworthy for any of those kind of hindrances, than otherwise. But generally remember that nothing can hurt a natural citizen, that is not hurtful unto the city itself, nor anything hurt the city, that is not hurtful unto the law itself. But none of these casualties, or external hindrances, do hurt the law itself; or, are contrary to that course of justice and equity, by which public societies are maintained: neither therefore do they hurt either city or citizen.
XXXIV. As he that is bitten by a mad dog, is afraid of everything almost that he seeth: so unto him, whom the dogmata have once bitten, or in whom true knowledge hath made an impression, everything almost that he sees or reads be it never so short or ordinary, doth afford a good memento; to put him out of all grief and fear, as that of the poet, 'The winds blow upon the trees, and their leaves fall upon the ground. Then do the trees begin to bud again, and by the spring-time they put forth new branches. So is the generation of men; some come into the world, and others go out of it.' Of these leaves then thy children are. And they also that applaud thee so gravely, or, that applaud thy speeches, with that their usual acclamation, ἀξιοπίστως, O wisely spoken I and speak well of thee, as on the other side, they that stick not to curse thee, they that privately and secretly dispraise and deride thee, they also are but leaves. And they also that shall follow, in whose memories the names of men famous after death, is preserved, they are but leaves neither. For even so is it of all these worldly things. Their spring comes, and they are put forth. Then blows the wind, and they go down. And then in lieu of them grow others out of the wood or common matter of all things, like unto them. But, to endure but for a while, is common unto all. Why then shouldest thou so earnestly either seek after these things, or fly from them, as though they should endure for ever? Yet a little while, and thine eyes will be closed up, and for him that carries thee to thy grave shall another mourn within a while after.
XXXV. A good eye must be good to see whatsoever is to be seen, and not green things only. For that is proper to sore eyes. So must a good ear, and a good smell be ready for whatsoever is either to be heard, or smelt: and a good stomach as indifferent to all kinds of food, as a millstone is, to whatsoever she was made for to grind. As ready therefore must a sound understanding be for whatsoever shall happen. But he that saith, O that my children might live! and, O that all men might commend me for whatsoever I do! is an eye that seeks after green things; or as teeth, after that which is tender.
XXXVI. There is not any man that is so happy in his death, but that some of those that are by him when he dies, will be ready to rejoice at his supposed calamity. Is it one that was virtuous and wise indeed? will there not some one or other be found, who thus will say to himself; 'Well now at last shall I be at rest from this pedagogue. He did not indeed otherwise trouble us much: but I know well enough that in his heart, he did much condemn us.' Thus will they speak of the virtuous. But as for us, alas I how many things be there, for which there be many that glad would be to be rid of us. This therefore if thou shalt think of whensoever thou diest, thou shalt die the more willingly, when thou shalt think with thyself; I am now to depart from that world, wherein those that have been my nearest friends and acquaintances, they whom I have so much suffered for, so often prayed for, and for whom I have taken such care, even they would have me die, hoping that after my death they shall live happier, than they did before. What then should any man desire to continue here any longer? Nevertheless, whensoever thou diest, thou must not be less kind and loving unto them for it; but as before, see them, continue to be their friend, to wish them well, and meekly, and gently to carry thyself towards them, but yet so that on the other side, it make thee not the more unwilling to die. But as it fareth with them that die an easy quick death, whose soul is soon separated from their bodies, so must thy separation from them be. To these had nature joined and annexed me: now she parts us; I am ready to depart, as from friends and kinsmen, but yet without either reluctancy or compulsion. For this also is according to Nature.
XXXVII. Use thyself; as often, as thou seest any man do anything, presently (if it be possible) to say unto thyself, What is this man's end in this his action? But begin this course with thyself first of all, and diligently examine thyself concerning whatsoever thou doest.
XXXVIII. Remember, that that which sets a man at work, and hath power over the affections to draw them either one way, or the other way, is not any external thing properly, but that which is hidden within every man's dogmata, and opinions: That, that is rhetoric; that is life; that (to speak true) is man himself. As for thy body, which as a vessel, or a case, compasseth thee about, and the many and curious instruments that it hath annexed unto it, let them not trouble thy thoughts. For of themselves they are but as a carpenter's axe, but that they are born with us, and naturally sticking unto us. But otherwise, without the inward cause that hath power to move them, and to restrain them, those parts are of themselves of no more use unto us, than the shuttle is of itself to the weaver, or the pen to the writer, or the whip to the coachman.
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THE ELEVENTH BOOK
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I. The natural properties, and privileges of a reasonable soul are: That she seeth herself; that she can order, and compose herself: that she makes herself as she will herself: that she reaps her own fruits whatsoever, whereas plants, trees, unreasonable creatures, what fruit soever (be it either fruit properly, or analogically only) they bear, they bear them unto others, and not to themselves. Again; whensoever, and wheresoever, sooner or later, her life doth end, she hath her own end nevertheless. For it is not with her, as with dancers and players, who if they be interrupted in any part of their action, the whole action must needs be imperfect: but she in what part of time or action soever she be surprised, can make that which she hath in her hand whatsoever it be, complete and full, so that she may depart with that comfort, 'I have lived; neither want I anything of that which properly did belong unto me.' Again, she compasseth the whole world, and penetrateth into the vanity, and mere outside (wanting substance and solidity) of it, and stretcheth herself unto the infiniteness of eternity; and the revolution or restoration of all things after a certain period of time, to the same state and place as before, she fetcheth about, and doth comprehend in herself; and considers withal, and sees clearly this, that neither they that shall follow us, shall see any new thing, that we have not seen, nor they that went before, anything more than we: but that he that is once come to forty (if he have any wit at all) can in a manner (for that they are all of one kind) see all things, both past and future. As proper is it, and natural to the soul of man to love her neighbour, to be true and modest; and to regard nothing so much as herself: which is also the property of the law: whereby by the way it appears, that sound reason and justice comes all to one, and therefore that justice is the chief thing, that reasonable creatures ought to propose unto themselves as their end.
II. A pleasant song or dance; the Pancratiast's exercise, sports that thou art wont to be much taken with, thou shalt easily contemn; if the harmonious voice thou shalt divide into so many particular sounds whereof it doth consist, and of every one in particular shall ask thyself; whether this or that sound is it, that doth so conquer thee. For thou wilt be ashamed of it. And so for shame, if accordingly thou shalt consider it, every particular motion and posture by itself: and so for the wrestler's exercise too. Generally then, whatsoever it be, besides virtue, and those things that proceed from virtue that thou art subject to be much affected with, remember presently thus to divide it, and by this kind of division, in each particular to attain unto the contempt of the whole. This thou must transfer and apply to thy whole life also.
III. That soul which is ever ready, even now presently (if need be) from the body, whether by way of extinction, or dispersion, or continuation in another place and estate to be separated, how blessed and happy is it! But this readiness of it, it must proceed, not from an obstinate and peremptory resolution of the mind, violently and passionately set upon Opposition, as Christians are wont; but from a peculiar judgment; with discretion and gravity, so that others may be persuaded also and drawn to the like example, but without any noise and passionate exclamations.
IV. Have I done anything charitably? then am I benefited by it. See that this upon all occasions may present itself unto thy mind, and never cease to think of it. What is thy profession? to be good. And how should this be well brought to pass, but by certain theorems and doctrines; some Concerning the nature of the universe, and some Concerning the proper and particular constitution of man?
V. Tragedies were at first brought in and instituted, to put men in mind of worldly chances and casualties: that these things in the ordinary course of nature did so happen: that men that were much pleased and delighted by such accidents upon this stage, would not by the same things in a greater stage be grieved and afflicted: for here you see what is the end of all such things; and that even they that cry out so mournfully to Cithaeron, must bear them for all their cries and exclamations, as well as others. And in very truth many good things are spoken by these poets; as that (for example) is an excellent passage: 'But if so be that I and my two children be neglected by the Gods, they have some reason even for that,' &c. And again, 'It will but little avail thee to storm and rage against the things themselves,' &c. Again, 'To reap one's life, as a ripe ear of corn;' and whatsoever else is to be found in them, that is of the same kind. After the tragedy, the ancient comedy was brought in, which had the liberty to inveigh against personal vices; being therefore through this her freedom and liberty of speech of very good use and effect, to restrain men from pride and arrogancy. To which end it was, that Diogenes took also the same liberty. After these, what were either the Middle, or New Comedy admitted for, but merely, (Or for the most part at least) for the delight and pleasure of curious and excellent imitation? 'It will steal away; look to it,' &c. Why, no man denies, but that these also have some good things whereof that may be one: but the whole drift and foundation of that kind of dramatical poetry, what is it else, but as we have said?
VI. How clearly doth it appear unto thee, that no other course of thy life could fit a true philosopher's practice better, than this very course, that thou art now already in?
VII. A branch cut off from the continuity of that which was next unto it, must needs be cut off from the whole tree: so a man that is divided from another man, is divided from the whole society. A branch is cut off by another, but he that hates and is averse, cuts himself off from his neighbour, and knows not that at the same time he divides himself from the whole body, or corporation. But herein is the gift and mercy of God, the Author of this society, in that, once cut off we may grow together and become part of the whole again. But if this happen often the misery is that the further a man is run in this division, the harder he is to be reunited and restored again: and however the branch which, once cut of afterwards was graffed in, gardeners can tell you is not like that which sprouted together at first, and still continued in the unity of the body.
VIII. To grow together like fellow branches in matter of good correspondence and affection; but not in matter of opinions. They that shall oppose thee in thy right courses, as it is not in their power to divert thee from thy good action, so neither let it be to divert thee from thy good affection towards them. But be it thy care to keep thyself constant in both; both in a right judgment and action, and in true meekness towards them, that either shall do their endeavour to hinder thee, or at least will be displeased with thee for what thou hast done. For to fail in either (either in the one to give over for fear, or in the other to forsake thy natural affection towards him, who by nature is both thy friend and thy kinsman) is equally base, and much savouring of the disposition of a cowardly fugitive soldier.
IX. It is not possible that any nature should be inferior unto art, since that all arts imitate nature. If this be so; that the most perfect and general nature of all natures should in her operation come short of the skill of arts, is most improbable. Now common is it to all arts, to make that which is worse for the better's sake. Much more then doth the common nature do the same. Hence is the first ground of justice. From justice all other virtues have their existence. For justice cannot be preserved, if either we settle our minds and affections upon worldly things; or be apt to be deceived, or rash, and inconstant.
X. The things themselves (which either to get or to avoid thou art put to so much trouble) come not unto thee themselves; but thou in a manner goest unto them. Let then thine own judgment and opinion concerning those things be at rest; and as for the things themselves, they stand still and quiet, without any noise or stir at all; and so shall all pursuing and flying cease.
XI. Then is the soul as Empedocles doth liken it, like unto a sphere or globe, when she is all of one form and figure: when she neither greedily stretcheth out herself unto anything, nor basely contracts herself, or lies flat and dejected; but shineth all with light, whereby she does see and behold the true nature, both that of the universe, and her own in particular.
XII. Will any contemn me? let him look to that, upon what grounds he does it: my care shall be that I may never be found either doing or speaking anything that doth truly deserve contempt. Will any hate me? let him look to that. I for my part will be kind and loving unto all, and even unto him that hates me, whom-soever he be, will I be ready to show his error, not by way of exprobation or ostentation of my patience, but ingenuously and meekly: such as was that famous Phocion, if so be that he did not dissemble. For it is inwardly that these things must be: that the Gods who look inwardly, and not upon the outward appearance, may behold a man truly free from all indignation and grief. For what hurt can it be unto thee whatsoever any man else doth, as long as thou mayest do that which is proper and suitable to thine own nature? Wilt not thou (a man wholly appointed to be both what, and as the common good shall require) accept of that which is now seasonable to the nature of the universe?
XIII. They contemn one another, and yet they seek to please one another: and whilest they seek to surpass one another in worldly pomp and greatness, they most debase and prostitute themselves in their better part one to another.
XIV. How rotten and insincere is he, that saith, I am resolved to carry myself hereafter towards you with all ingenuity and simplicity. O man, what doest thou mean! what needs this profession of thine? the thing itself will show it. It ought to be written upon thy forehead. No sooner thy voice is heard, than thy countenance must be able to show what is in thy mind: even as he that is loved knows presently by the looks of his sweetheart what is in her mind. Such must he be for all the world, that is truly simple and good, as he whose arm-holes are offensive, that whosoever stands by, as soon as ever he comes near him, may as it were smell him whether he will or no. But the affectation of simplicity is nowise laudable. There is nothing more shameful than perfidious friendship. Above all things, that must be avoided. However true goodness, simplicity, and kindness cannot so be hidden, but that as we have already said in the very eyes and countenance they will show themselves.
XV. To live happily is an inward power of the soul, when she is affected with indifferency, towards those things that are by their nature indifferent. To be thus affected she must consider all worldly objects both divided and whole: remembering withal that no object can of itself beget any opinion in us, neither can come to us, but stands without still and quiet; but that we ourselves beget, and as it were print in ourselves opinions concerning them. Now it is in our power, not to print them; and if they creep in and lurk in some corner, it is in our power to wipe them off. Remembering moreover, that this care and circumspection of thine, is to continue but for a while, and then thy life will be at an end. And what should hinder, but that thou mayest do well with all these things? For if they be according to nature, rejoice in them, and let them be pleasing and acceptable unto thee. But if they be against nature, seek thou that which is according to thine own nature, and whether it be for thy credit or no, use all possible speed for the attainment of it: for no man ought to be blamed, for seeking his own good and happiness.
XVI. Of everything thou must consider from whence it came, of what things it doth consist, and into what it will be changed: what will be the nature of it, or what it will be like unto when it is changed; and that it can suffer no hurt by this change. And as for other men's either foolishness or wickedness, that it may not trouble and grieve thee; first generally thus; What reference have I unto these? and that we are all born for one another's good: then more particularly after another consideration; as a ram is first in a flock of sheep, and a bull in a herd of cattle, so am I born to rule over them. Begin yet higher, even from this: if atoms be not the beginning of all things, than which to believe nothing can be more absurd, then must we needs grant that there is a nature, that doth govern the universe. If such a nature, then are all worse things made for the better's sake; and all better for one another's sake. Secondly, what manner of men they be, at board, and upon their beds, and so forth. But above all things, how they are forced by their opinions that they hold, to do what they do; and even those things that they do, with what pride and self-conceit they do them. Thirdly, that if they do these things rightly, thou hast no reason to be grieved. But if not rightly, it must needs be that they do them against their wills, and through mere ignorance. For as, according to Plato's opinion, no soul doth willingly err, so by consequent neither doth it anything otherwise than it ought, but against her will. Therefore are they grieved, whensoever they hear themselves charged, either of injustice, or unconscionableness, or covetousness, or in general, of any injurious kind of dealing towards their neighbours. Fourthly, that thou thyself doest transgress in many things, and art even such another as they are. And though perchance thou doest forbear the very act of some sins, yet hast thou in thyself an habitual disposition to them, but that either through fear, or vainglory, or some such other ambitious foolish respect, thou art restrained. Fifthly, that whether they have sinned or no, thou doest not understand perfectly. For many things are done by way of discreet policy; and generally a man must know many things first, before he be able truly and judiciously to judge of another man's action. Sixthly, that whensoever thou doest take on grievously, or makest great woe, little doest thou remember then that a man's life is but for a moment of time, and that within a while we shall all be in our graves. Seventhly, that it is not the sins and transgressions themselves that trouble us properly; for they have their existence in their minds and understandings only, that commit them; but our own opinions concerning those sins. Remove then, and be content to part with that conceit of thine, that it is a grievous thing, and thou hast removed thine anger. But how should I remove it? How? reasoning with thyself that it is not shameful. For if that which is shameful, be not the only true evil that is, thou also wilt be driven whilest thou doest follow the common instinct of nature, to avoid that which is evil, to commit many unjust things, and to become a thief, and anything, that will make to the attainment of thy intended worldly ends. Eighthly, how many things may and do oftentimes follow upon such fits of anger and grief; far more grievous in themselves, than those very things which we are so grieved or angry for. Ninthly, that meekness is a thing unconquerable, if it be true and natural, and not affected or hypocritical. For how shall even the most fierce and malicious that thou shalt conceive, be able to hold on against thee, if thou shalt still continue meek and loving unto him; and that even at that time, when he is about to do thee wrong, thou shalt be well disposed, and in good temper, with all meekness to teach him, and to instruct him better? As for example; My son, we were not born for this, to hurt and annoy one another; it will be thy hurt not mine, my son: and so to show him forcibly and fully, that it is so in very deed: and that neither bees do it one to another, nor any other creatures that are naturally sociable. But this thou must do, not scoffingly, not by way of exprobation, but tenderly without any harshness of words. Neither must thou do it by way of exercise, or ostentation, that they that are by and hear thee, may admire thee: but so always that nobody be privy to it, but himself alone: yea, though there be more present at the same time. These nine particular heads, as so many gifts from the Muses, see that thou remember well: and begin one day, whilest thou art yet alive, to be a man indeed. But on the other side thou must take heed, as much to flatter them, as to be angry with them: for both are equally uncharitable, and equally hurtful. And in thy passions, take it presently to thy consideration, that to be angry is not the part of a man, but that to be meek and gentle, as it savours of more humanity, so of more manhood. That in this, there is strength and nerves, or vigour and fortitude: whereof anger and indignation is altogether void. For the nearer everything is unto unpassionateness, the nearer it is unto power. And as grief doth proceed from weakness, so doth anger. For both, both he that is angry and that grieveth, have received a wound, and cowardly have as it were yielded themselves unto their affections. If thou wilt have a tenth also, receive this tenth gift from Hercules the guide and leader of the Muses: that is a mad man's part, to look that there should be no wicked men in the world, because it is impossible. Now for a man to brook well enough, that there should be wicked men in the world, but not to endure that any should transgress against himself, is against all equity, and indeed tyrannical.
XVII. Four several dispositions or inclinations there be of the mind and understanding, which to be aware of, thou must carefully observe: and whensoever thou doest discover them, thou must rectify them, saying to thyself concerning every one of them, This imagination is not necessary; this is uncharitable: this thou shalt speak as another man's slave, or instrument; than which nothing can be more senseless and absurd: for the fourth, thou shalt sharply check and upbraid thyself; for that thou doest suffer that more divine part in thee, to become subject and obnoxious to that more ignoble part of thy body, and the gross lusts and concupiscences thereof.
XVIII. What portion soever, either of air or fire there be in thee, although by nature it tend upwards, submitting nevertheless to the ordinance of the universe, it abides here below in this mixed body. So whatsoever is in thee, either earthy, or humid, although by nature it tend downwards, yet is it against its nature both raised upwards, and standing, or consistent. So obedient are even the elements themselves to the universe, abiding patiently wheresoever (though against their nature) they are placed, until the sound as it were of their retreat, and separation. Is it not a grievous thing then, that thy reasonable part only should be disobedient, and should not endure to keep its place: yea though it be nothing enjoined that is contrary unto it, but that only which is according to its nature? For we cannot say of it when it is disobedient, as we say of the fire, or air, that it tends upwards towards its proper element, for then goes it the quite contrary way. For the motion of the mind to any injustice, or incontinency, or to sorrow, or to fear, is nothing else but a separation from nature. Also when the mind is grieved for anything that is happened by the divine providence, then doth it likewise forsake its own place. For it was ordained unto holiness and godliness, which specially consist in an humble submission to God and His providence in all things; as well as unto justice: these also being part of those duties, which as naturally sociable, we are bound unto; and without which we cannot happily converse one with another: yea and the very ground and fountain indeed of all just actions.
XIX. He that hath not one and the self-same general end always as long as he liveth, cannot possibly be one and the self-same man always. But this will not suffice except thou add also what ought to be this general end. For as the general conceit and apprehension of all those things which upon no certain ground are by the greater part of men deemed good, cannot be uniform and agreeable, but that only which is limited and restrained by some certain proprieties and conditions, as of community: that nothing be conceived good, which is not commonly and publicly good: so must the end also that we propose unto ourselves, be common and sociable. For he that doth direct all his own private motions and purposes to that end, all his actions will be agreeable and uniform; and by that means will be still the same man.
XX. Remember the fable of the country mouse and the city mouse, and the great fright and terror that this was put into.
XXI. Socrates was wont to call the common conceits and opinions of men, the common bugbears of the world: the proper terror of silly children.
XXII. The Lacedæmonians at their public spectacles were wont to appoint seats and forms for their strangers in the shadow, they themselves were content to sit anywhere.
XXIII. What Socrates answered unto Perdiccas, why he did not come unto him, Lest of all deaths I should die the worst kind of death, said he: that is, not able to requite the good that hath been done unto me.
XXIV. In the ancient mystical letters of the Ephesians, there was an item, that a man should always have in his mind some one or other of the ancient worthies.
XXV. The Pythagoreans were wont betimes in the morning the first thing they did, to look up unto the heavens, to put themselves in mind of them who constantly and invariably did perform their task: as also to put themselves in mind of orderliness, or good order, and of purity, and of naked simplicity. For no star or planet hath any cover before it.
XXVI. How Socrates looked, when he was fain to gird himself with a skin, Xanthippe his wife having taken away his clothes, and carried them abroad with her, and what he said to his fellows and friends, who were ashamed; and out of respect to him, did retire themselves when they saw him thus decked.
XXVII. In matter of writing or reading thou must needs be taught before thou can do either: much more in matter of life. 'For thou art born a mere slave, to thy senses and brutish affections;' destitute without teaching of all true knowledge and sound reason.
XXVIII. 'My heart smiled within me.' 'They will accuse even virtue herself; with heinous and opprobrious words.'
XXIX. As they that long after figs in winter when they cannot be had; so are they that long after children, before they be granted them.
XXX. 'As often as a father kisseth his child, he should say secretly with himself' (said Epictetus,) 'tomorrow perchance shall he die.' But these words be ominous. No words ominous (said he) that signify anything that is natural: in very truth and deed not more ominous than this, 'to cut down grapes when they are ripe.' Green grapes, ripe grapes, dried grapes, or raisins: so many changes and mutations of one thing, not into that which was not absolutely, but rather so many several changes and mutations, not into that which hath no being at all, but into that which is not yet in being.
XXXI. 'Of the free will there is no thief or robber:' out of Epictetus; Whose is this also: that we should find a certain art and method of assenting; and that we should always observe with great care and heed the inclinations of our minds, that they may always be with their due restraint and reservation, always charitable, and according to the true worth of every present object. And as for earnest longing, that we should altogether avoid it: and to use averseness in those things only, that wholly depend of our own wills. It is not about ordinary petty matters, believe it, that all our strife and contention is, but whether, with the vulgar, we should be mad, or by the help of philosophy wise and sober, said he. XXXII. Socrates said, 'What will you have? the souls of reasonable, or unreasonable creatures? Of reasonable. But what? Of those whose reason is sound and perfect? or of those whose reason is vitiated and corrupted? Of those whose reason is sound and perfect. Why then labour ye not for such? Because we have them already. What then do ye so strive and contend between you?'
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THE TWELFTH BOOK
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I. Whatsoever thou doest hereafter aspire unto, thou mayest even now enjoy and possess, if thou doest not envy thyself thine own happiness. And that will be, if thou shalt forget all that is past, and for the future, refer thyself wholly to the Divine Providence, and shalt bend and apply all thy present thoughts and intentions to holiness and righteousness. To holiness, in accepting willingly whatsoever is sent by the Divine Providence, as being that which the nature of the universe hath appointed unto thee, which also hath appointed thee for that, whatsoever it be. To righteousness, in speaking the truth freely, and without ambiguity; and in doing all things justly and discreetly. Now in this good course, let not other men's either wickedness, or opinion, or voice hinder thee: no, nor the sense of this thy pampered mass of flesh: for let that which suffers, look to itself. If therefore whensoever the time of thy departing shall come, thou shalt readily leave all things, and shalt respect thy mind only, and that divine part of thine, and this shall be thine only fear, not that some time or other thou shalt cease to live, but thou shalt never begin to live according to nature: then shalt thou be a man indeed, worthy of that world, from which thou hadst thy beginning; then shalt thou cease to be a stranger in thy country, and to wonder at those things that happen daily, as things strange and unexpected, and anxiously to depend of divers things that are not in thy power.
II. God beholds our minds and understandings, bare and naked from these material vessels, and outsides, and all earthly dross. For with His simple and pure understanding, He pierceth into our inmost and purest parts, which from His, as it were by a water pipe and channel, first flowed and issued. This if thou also shalt use to do, thou shalt rid thyself of that manifold luggage, wherewith thou art round about encumbered. For he that does regard neither his body, nor his clothing, nor his dwelling, nor any such external furniture, must needs gain unto himself great rest and ease. Three things there be in all, which thou doest consist of; thy body, thy life, and thy mind. Of these the two former, are so far forth thine, as that thou art bound to take care for them. But the third alone is that which is properly thine. If then thou shalt separate from thyself, that is from thy mind, whatsoever other men either do or say, or whatsoever thou thyself hast heretofore either done or said; and all troublesome thoughts concerning the future, and whatsoever, (as either belonging to thy body or life:) is without the jurisdiction of thine own will, and whatsoever in the ordinary course of human chances and accidents doth happen unto thee; so that thy mind (keeping herself loose and free from all outward coincidental entanglements; always in a readiness to depart:) shall live by herself, and to herself, doing that which is just, accepting whatsoever doth happen, and speaking the truth always; if, I say, thou shalt separate from thy mind, whatsoever by sympathy might adhere unto it, and all time both past and future, and shalt make thyself in all points and respects, like unto Empedocles his allegorical sphere, 'all round and circular,' &c., and shalt think of no longer life than that which is now present: then shalt thou be truly able to pass the remainder of thy days without troubles and distractions; nobly and generously disposed, and in good favour and correspondency, with that spirit which is within thee.
III. I have often wondered how it should come to pass, that every man loving himself best, should more regard other men's opinions concerning himself than his own. For if any God or grave master standing by, should command any of us to think nothing by himself but what he should presently speak out; no man were able to endure it, though but for one day. Thus do we fear more what our neighbours will think of us, than what we ourselves.
IV. how come it to pass that the Gods having ordered all other things so well and so lovingly, should be overseen in this one only thing, that whereas then hath been some very good men that have made many covenants as it were with God and by many holy actions and outward services contracted a kind of familiarity with Him; that these men when once they are dead, should never be restored to life, but be extinct for ever. But this thou mayest be sure of, that this (if it be so indeed) would never have been so ordered by the Gods, had it been fit otherwise. For certainly it was possible, had it been more just so and had it been according to nature, the nature of the universe would easily have borne it. But now because it is not so, (if so be that it be not so indeed) be therefore confident that it was not fit it should be so for thou seest thyself, that now seeking after this matter, how freely thou doest argue and contest with God. But were not the Gods both just and good in the highest degree, thou durst not thus reason with them. Now if just and good, it could not be that in the creation of the world, they should either unjustly or unreasonably oversee anything.
V. Use thyself even unto those things that thou doest at first despair of. For the left hand we see, which for the most part lieth idle because not used; yet doth it hold the bridle with more strength than the right, because it hath been used unto it.
VI. Let these be the objects of thy ordinary meditation: to consider, what manner of men both for soul and body we ought to be, whensoever death shall surprise us: the shortness of this our mortal life: the immense vastness of the time that hath been before, and will he after us: the frailty of every worldly material object: all these things to consider, and behold clearly in themselves, all disguisement of external outside being removed and taken away. Again, to consider the efficient causes of all things: the proper ends and references of all actions: what pain is in itself; what pleasure, what death: what fame or honour, how every man is the true and proper ground of his own rest and tranquillity, and that no man can truly be hindered by any other: that all is but conceit and opinion. As for the use of thy dogmata, thou must carry thyself in the practice of them, rather like unto a pancratiastes, or one that at the same time both fights and wrestles with hands and feet, than a gladiator. For this, if he lose his sword that he fights with, he is gone: whereas the other hath still his hand free, which he may easily turn and manage at his will.
VII. All worldly things thou must behold and consider, dividing them into matter, form, and reference, or their proper end.
VIII. How happy is man in this his power that hath been granted unto him: that he needs not do anything but what God shall approve, and that he may embrace contentedly, whatsoever God doth send unto him?
IX. Whatsoever doth happen in the ordinary course and consequence of natural events, neither the Gods, (for it is not possible, that they either wittingly or unwittingly should do anything amiss) nor men, (for it is through ignorance, and therefore against their wills that they do anything amiss) must be accused. None then must be accused.
X. How ridiculous and strange is he, that wonders at anything that happens in this life in the ordinary course of nature!
XI. Either fate, (and that either an absolute necessity, and unavoidable decree; or a placable and flexible Providence) or all is a mere casual confusion, void of all order and government. If an absolute and unavoidable necessity, why doest thou resist? If a placable and exorable Providence, make thyself worthy of the divine help and assistance. If all be a mere confusion without any moderator, or governor, then hast thou reason to congratulate thyself; that in such a general flood of confusion thou thyself hast obtained a reasonable faculty, whereby thou mayest govern thine own life and actions. But if thou beest carried away with the flood, it must be thy body perchance, or thy life, or some other thing that belongs unto them that is carried away: thy mind and understanding cannot. Or should it be so, that the light of a candle indeed is still bright and lightsome until it be put out: and should truth, and righteousness, and temperance cease to shine in thee whilest thou thyself hast any being?
XII. At the conceit and apprehension that such and such a one hath sinned, thus reason with thyself; What do I know whether this be a sin indeed, as it seems to be? But if it be, what do I know but that he himself hath already condemned himself for it? And that is all one as if a man should scratch and tear his own face, an object of compassion rather than of anger. Again, that he that would not have a vicious man to sin, is like unto him that would not have moisture in the fig, nor children to welp nor a horse to neigh, nor anything else that in the course of nature is necessary. For what shall he do that hath such an habit? If thou therefore beest powerful and eloquent, remedy it if thou canst.
XIII. If it be not fitting, do it not. If it be not true, speak it not. Ever maintain thine own purpose and resolution free from all compulsion and necessity.
XIV. Of everything that presents itself unto thee, to consider what the true nature of it is, and to unfold it, as it were, by dividing it into that which is formal: that which is material: the true use or end of it, and the just time that it is appointed to last.
XV. It is high time for thee, to understand that there is somewhat in thee, better and more divine than either thy passions, or thy sensual appetites and affections. What is now the object of my mind, is it fear, or suspicion, or lust, or any such thing? To do nothing rashly without some certain end; let that be thy first care. The next, to have no other end than the common good. For, alas! yet a little while, and thou art no more: no more will any, either of those things that now thou seest, or of those men that now are living, be any more. For all things are by nature appointed soon to be changed, turned, and corrupted, that other things might succeed in their room.
XVI. Remember that all is but opinion, and all opinion depends of the mind. Take thine opinion away, and then as a ship that hath stricken in within the arms and mouth of the harbour, a present calm; all things safe and steady: a bay, not capable of any storms and tempests: as the poet hath it.
XVII. No operation whatsoever it he, ceasing for a while, can be truly said to suffer any evil, because it is at an end. Neither can he that is the author of that operation; for this very respect, because his operation is at an end, be said to suffer any evil. Likewise then, neither can the whole body of all our actions (which is our life) if in time it cease, be said to suffer any evil for this very reason, because it is at an end; nor he truly be said to have been ill affected, that did put a period to this series of actions. Now this time or certain period, depends of the determination of nature: sometimes of particular nature, as when a man dieth old; but of nature in general, however; the parts whereof thus changing one after another, the whole world still continues fresh and new. Now that is ever best and most seasonable, which is for the good of the whole. Thus it appears that death of itself can neither be hurtful to any in particular, because it is not a shameful thing (for neither is it a thing that depends of our own will, nor of itself contrary to the common good) and generally, as it is both expedient and seasonable to the whole, that in that respect it must needs be good. It is that also, which is brought unto us by the order and appointment of the Divine Providence; so that he whose will and mind in these things runs along with the Divine ordinance, and by this concurrence of his will and mind with the Divine Providence, is led and driven along, as it were by God Himself; may truly be termed and esteemed the θεοφόρητος, or divinely led and inspired.
XVIII. These three things thou must have always in a readiness: first concerning thine own actions, whether thou doest nothing either idly, or otherwise, than justice and equity do require: and concerning those things that happen unto thee externally, that either they happen unto thee by chance, or by providence; of which two to accuse either, is equally against reason. Secondly, what like unto our bodies are whilest yet rude and imperfect, until they be animated: and from their animation, until their expiration: of what things they are compounded, and into what things they shall be dissolved. Thirdly, how vain all things will appear unto thee when, from on high as it were, looking down thou shalt contemplate all things upon earth, and the wonderful mutability, that they are subject unto: considering withal, the infinite both greatness and variety of things aerial and things celestial that are round about it. And that as often as thou shalt behold them, thou shalt still see the same: as the same things, so the same shortness of continuance of all those things. And, behold, these be the things that we are so proud and puffed up for.
XIX. Cast away from thee opinion, and thou art safe. And what is it that hinders thee from casting of it away? When thou art grieved at anything, hast thou forgotten that all things happen according to the nature of the universe; and that him only it concerns, who is in fault; and moreover, that what is now done, is that which from ever hath been done in the world, and will ever be done, and is now done everywhere: how nearly all men are allied one to another by a kindred not of blood, nor of seed, but of the same mind. Thou hast also forgotten that every man's mind partakes of the Deity, and issueth from thence; and that no man can properly call anything his own, no not his son, nor his body, nor his life; for that they all proceed from that One who is the giver of all things: that all things are but opinion; that no man lives properly, but that very instant of time which is now present. And therefore that no man whensoever he dieth can properly be said to lose any more, than an instant of time.
XX. Let thy thoughts ever run upon them, who once for some one thing or other, were moved with extraordinary indignation; who were once in the highest pitch of either honour, or calamity; or mutual hatred and enmity; or of any other fortune or condition whatsoever. Then consider what's now become of all those things. All is turned to smoke; all to ashes, and a mere fable; and perchance not so much as a fable. As also whatsoever is of this nature, as Fabius Catulinus in the field; Lucius Lupus, and Stertinius, at Baiæ Tiberius at Capreæ and Velius Rufus, and all such examples of vehement prosecution in worldly matters; let these also run in thy mind at the same time; and how vile every object of such earnest and vehement prosecution is; and how much more agreeable to true philosophy it is, for a man to carry himself in every matter that offers itself; justly, and moderately, as one that followeth the Gods with all simplicity. For, for a man to be proud and high conceited, that he is not proud and high conceited, is of all kind of pride and presumption, the most intolerable.
XXI. To them that ask thee, Where hast thou seen the Gods, or how knowest thou certainly that there be Gods, that thou art so devout in their worship? I answer first of all, that even to the very eye, they are in some manner visible and apparent. Secondly, neither have I ever seen mine own soul, and yet I respect and honour it. So then for the Gods, by the daily experience that I have of their power and providence towards myself and others, I know certainly that they are, and therefore worship them.
XXII. Herein doth consist happiness of life, for a man to know thoroughly the true nature of everything; what is the matter, and what is the form of it: with all his heart and soul, ever to do that which is just, and to speak the truth. What then remaineth but to enjoy thy life in a course and coherence of good actions, one upon another immediately succeeding, and never interrupted, though for never so little a while?
XXIII. There is but one light of the sun, though it be intercepted by walls and mountains, and other thousand objects. There is but one common substance of the whole world, though it be concluded and restrained into several different bodies, in number infinite. There is but one common soul, though divided into innumerable particular essences and natures. So is there but one common intellectual soul, though it seem to be divided. And as for all other parts of those generals which we have mentioned, as either sensitive souls or subjects, these of themselves (as naturally irrational) have no common mutual reference one unto another, though many of them contain a mind, or reasonable faculty in them, whereby they are ruled and governed. But of every reasonable mind, this the particular nature, that it hath reference to whatsoever is of her own kind, and desireth to be united: neither can this common affection, or mutual unity and correspondency, be here intercepted or divided, or confined to particulars as those other common things are.
XXIV. What doest thou desire? To live long. What? To enjoy the operations of a sensitive soul; or of the appetitive faculty? or wouldst thou grow, and then decrease again? Wouldst thou long be able to talk, to think and reason with thyself? Which of all these seems unto thee a worthy object of thy desire? Now if of all these thou doest find that they be but little worth in themselves, proceed on unto the last, which is, in all things to follow God and reason. But for a man to grieve that by death he shall be deprived of any of these things, is both against God and reason.
XXV. What a small portion of vast and infinite eternity it is, that is allowed unto every one of us, and how soon it vanisheth into the general age of the world: of the common substance, and of the common soul also what a small portion is allotted unto us: and in what a little clod of the whole earth (as it were) it is that thou doest crawl. After thou shalt rightly have considered these things with thyself; fancy not anything else in the world any more to be of any weight and moment but this, to do that only which thine own nature doth require; and to conform thyself to that which the common nature doth afford.
XXVI. What is the present estate of my understanding? For herein lieth all indeed. As for all other things, they are without the compass of mine own will: and if without the compass of my will, then are they as dead things unto me, and as it were mere smoke.
XXVII. To stir up a man to the contempt of death this among other things, is of good power and efficacy, that even they who esteemed pleasure to be happiness, and pain misery, did nevertheless many of them contemn death as much as any. And can death be terrible to him, to whom that only seems good, which in the ordinary course of nature is seasonable? to him, to whom, whether his actions be many or few, so they be all good, is all one; and who whether he behold the things of the world being always the same either for many years, or for few years only, is altogether indifferent? O man! as a citizen thou hast lived, and conversed in this great city the world. Whether just for so many years, or no, what is it unto thee? Thou hast lived (thou mayest be sure) as long as the laws and orders of the city required; which may be the common comfort of all. Why then should it be grievous unto thee, if (not a tyrant, nor an unjust judge, but) the same nature that brought thee in, doth now send thee out of the world? As if the praetor should fairly dismiss him from the stage, whom he had taken in to act a while. Oh, but the play is not yet at an end, there are but three acts yet acted of it? Thou hast well said: for in matter of life, three acts is the whole play. Now to set a certain time to every man's acting, belongs unto him only, who as first he was of thy composition, so is now the cause of thy dissolution. As for thyself; thou hast to do with neither. Go thy ways then well pleased and contented: for so is He that dismisseth thee.
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APPENDIX
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CORRESPONDENCE OF M. AURELIUS ANTONINUS AND M. CORNELIUS FRONTO[1]
M. CORNELIUS FRONTO was a Roman by descent, but of provincial birth, being native to Cirta, in Numidia. Thence he migrated to Rome in the reign of Hadrian, and became the most famous rhetorician of his day. As a pleader and orator he was counted by his contemporaries hardly inferior to Tully himself, and as a teacher his aid was sought for the noblest youths of Rome. To him was entrusted the education of M.
Aurelius and of his colleague L. Verus in their boyhood; and he was rewarded for his efforts by a seat in the Senate and the consular rank (A.D. 143). By the exercise of his profession he became wealthy; and if he speaks of his means as not great,[2] he must be comparing his wealth with the grandees of Rome, not with the ordinary citizen.
Before the present century nothing was known of the works of Fronto, except a grammatical treatise; but in 1815 Cardinal Mai published a number of letters and some short essays of Fronto, which he had discovered in a palimpsest at Milan. Other parts of the same MS. he found later in the Vatican, the whole being collected
[1]References are made to the edition of Naber, Leipzig (Trübner), 1867.
[2]Ad Verum imp. Aur. Caes., ii, 7. and edited in the year 1823.
We now possess parts of his correspondence with Antoninus Pius, with M. Aurelius, with L. Verus, and with certain of his friends, and also several rhetorical and historical fragments. Though none of the more ambitious works of Fronto have survived, there are enough to give proof of his powers. Never was a great literary reputation less deserved. It would be hard to conceive of anything more vapid than the style and conception of these letters; clearly the man was a pedant without imagination or taste. Such indeed was the age he lived in, and it is no marvel that he was like to his age. But there must have been more in him than mere pedantry; there was indeed a heart in the man, which Marcus found, and he found also a tongue which could speak the truth. Fronto's letters are by no means free from exaggeration and laudation, but they do not show that loathsome flattery which filled the Roman court. He really admires what he praises, and his way of saying so is not unlike what often passes for criticism at the present day. He is not afraid to reprove what he thinks amiss; and the astonishment of Marcus at this will prove, if proof were needed, that he was not used to plain dealing. "How happy I am," he writes, "that my friend Marcus Cornelius, so distinguished as an orator and so noble as a man, thinks me worth praising and blaming."[3] In another place he deems himself blest because Pronto had taught him to speak the truth[4] although the context shows him to be speaking of expression, it is still a point in favour of Pronto. A sincere heart is better than literary taste; and if Fronto had not done his duty by the young prince, it is not easy to understand the friendship which remained between them up to the last.
[3]Ad M. Caes iii. 17
[4]Ad M. Caes iii. 12
An example of the frankness which was between them is given by a difference they had over the case of Herodes Atticus. Herodes was a Greek rhetorician who had a school at Rome, and Marcus Aurelius was among his pupils. Both Marcus and the Emperor Antoninus had a high opinion of Herodes; and all we know goes to prove he was a man of high character and princely generosity. When quite young he was made administrator of the free cities in Asia, nor is it surprising to find that he made bitter enemies there; indeed, a just ruler was sure to make enemies. The end of it was that an Athenian deputation, headed by the orators Theodotus and Demostratus, made serious accusations against his honour. There is no need to discuss the merits of the case here; suffice it to say, Herodes succeeded in defending himself to the satisfaction of the emperor. Pronto appears to have taken the delegates' part, and to have accepted a brief for the prosecution, urged to some extent by personal considerations; and in this cause Marcus Aurelius writes to Fronto as follows:—
'AURELIUS CÆSAR to his friend FRONTO, greeting.[5]
'I know you have often told me you were anxious to find how you might best please me. Now is the time; now you can increase my love towards you, if it can be increased. A trial is at hand, in which people seem likely not only to hear your speech with pleasure, but to see your indignation with impatience. I see no one who dares give you a hint in the matter; for those who are less friendly, prefer to see you act with some inconsistency; and those who are more friendly, fear to seem too friendly to your opponent if they should dissuade you from your accusation; then again, in case you have prepared something neat for the occasion, they cannot endure to rob you of your harangue by silencing you. Therefore, whether you think me a rash counsellor, or a bold boy, or too kind to your opponent, not because I think it better, I will offer my counsel with some caution. But why have I said, offer my counsel? No, I demand it from you; I demand it boldly, and if I succeed, I promise to remain under your obligation. What? you will say if I am attackt, shall I not pay tit for tat? Ah, but you will get greater glory, if even when attackt you answer nothing. Indeed, if he begins it, answer as you will and you will have fair excuse; but I have demanded of him that he shall not begin, and I think I have succeeded. I love each of you according to your merits and I know that lie was educated in the house of P. Calvisius, my grandfather, and that I was educated by you; therefore I am full of anxiety that this most disagreeable business shall be managed as honourably as possible. I trust you may approve my advice, for my intention you will approve. At least I prefer to write unwisely rather than to be silent unkindly.'
[5]Ad M. Caes ii., 2.
Fronto replied, thanking the prince for his advice, and promising that he will confine himself to the facts of the case. But he points out that the charges brought against Herodes were such, that they can hardly be made agreeable; amongst them being spoliation, violence, and murder. However, he is willing even to let some of these drop if it be the prince's pleasure. To this Marcus returned the following answer:—[6] 'This one thing, my dearest Fronto, is enough to make me truly grateful to you, that so far from rejecting my counsel, you have even approved it. As to the question you raise in your kind letter, my opinion is this: all that concerns the case which you are supporting must be clearly brought forward; what concerns your own feelings, though you may have had just provocation, should be left unsaid.' The story does credit to both. Fronto shows no loss of temper at the interference, nor shrinks from stating his case with frankness; and Marcus, with forbearance remarkable in a prince, does not command that his friend be left unmolested, but merely stipulates for a fair trial on the merits of the case.
[6]Ad. M. Caes., iii. 5.
Another example may be given from a letter of Fronto's[7] Here is something else quarrelsome and querulous. I have sometimes found fault with you in your absence somewhat seriously in the company of a few of my most intimate friends: at times, for example, when you mixt in society with a more solemn look than was fitting, or would read books in the theatre or in a banquet; nor did I absent myself from theatre or banquet when you did.[8] Then I used to call you a hard man, no good company, even disagreeable, sometimes, when anger got the better of me. But did any one else in the same banquet speak against you, I could not endure to hear it with equanimity. Thus it was easier for me to say something to your disadvantage myself, than to hear others do it; just as I could more easily bear to chastise my daughter Gratia, than to see her chastised by another.'
[7]Ad. M. Caes., iv. 12.
[8]The text is obscure
The affection between them is clear from every page of the correspondence. A few instances are now given, which were written at different periods
To MY MASTER.[9]
'This is how I have past the last few days. My sister was suddenly seized with an internal pain, so violent that I was horrified at her looks; my mother in her trepidation on that account accidentally bruised her side on a corner of the wall; she and we were greatly troubled about that blow. For myself; on going to rest I found a scorpion in my bed; but I did not lie down upon him, I killed him first. If you are getting on better, that is a consolation. My mother is easier now, thanks be to God. Good-bye, best and sweetest master. My lady sends you greeting.'
[9]Ad M. Caes., v. 8.
[10]'What words can I find to fit my had luck, or how shall I upbraid as it deserves the hard constraint which is laid upon me? It ties me fast here, troubled my heart is, and beset by such anxiety; nor does it allow me to make haste to my Fronto, my life and delight, to be near him at such a moment of ill-health in particular, to hold his hands, to chafe gently that identical foot, so far as may be done without discomfort, to attend him in the bath, to support his steps with my arm.'
[10]Ad M. Caes., i. 2.
[11]'This morning I did not write to you, because I heard you were better, and because I was myself engaged in other business, and I cannot ever endure to write anything to you unless with mind at ease and untroubled and free. So if we are all right, let me know: what I desire, you know, and how properly I desire it, I know. Farewell, my master, always in every chance first in my mind, as you deserve to be. My master, see I am not asleep, and I compel myself to sleep, that you may not be angry with me. You gather I am writing this late at night.'
[11]iii. 21.
[12]'What spirit do you suppose is in me, when I remember how long it is since I have seen you, and why I have not seen you! and it may be I shall not see you for a few days yet, while you are strengthening yourself; as you must. So while you lie on the sick-bed, my spirit also will lie low anti, whenas,[13] by God's mercy you shall stand upright, my spirit too will stand firm, which is now burning with the strongest desire for you. Farewell, soul of your prince, your pupil.'
[14]O my dear Fronto, most distinguished Consul! I yield, you have conquered: all who have ever loved before, you have conquered out and out in love's contest. Receive the victor's wreath; and the herald shall proclaim your victory aloud before your own tribunal: "M. Cornelius Fronto, Consul, wins, and is crowned victor in the Open International Love-race."[15] But beaten though I may be, I shall neither slacken nor relax my own zeal. Well, you shall love me more than any man loves any other man; but I, who possess a faculty of loving less strong, shall love you more than any one else loves you; more indeed than you love yourself. Gratia and I will have to fight for it; I doubt I shall not get the better of her. For, as Plautus says, her love is like rain, whose big drops not only penetrate the dress, but drench to the very marrow.'
[12]Ad M. Caes., iii. 19.
[13]The writer sometimes uses archaisms such as quom, which I render'whenas'.
[14]Ad M. Caes., ii. 2.
[15]The writer parodies the proclamation at the Greek games; the words also areGreek.
Marcus Aurelius seems to have been about eighteen years of age when the correspondence begins, Fronto being some thirty years older.[16] The systematic education of the young prince seems to have been finisht, and Pronto now acts more as his adviser than his tutor. He recommends the prince to use simplicity in his public speeches, and to avoid affectation.[17] Marcus devotes his attention to the old authors who then had a great vogue at Rome: Ennius, Plautus, Nævius, and such orators as Cato and Gracchus.[18] Pronto urges on him the study of Cicero, whose letters, he says, are all worth reading.
[16]From internal evidence: the letters are not arranged in order of time. SeeNaher's Prolegomena, p. xx. foll.
[17]Ad M. Caes., iii. x.
[18]Ad M. Caes ii. 10,; iii. 18,; ii. 4.
When he wishes to compliment Marcus he declares one or other of his letters has the true Tullian ring. Marcus gives his nights to reading when he ought to be sleeping. He exercises himself in verse composition and on rhetorical themes.
'It is very nice of you,' he writes to Fronto,[19] 'to ask for my hexameters; I would have sent them at once if I had them by me. The fact is my secretary, Anicetus-you know who I mean-did not pack up any of my compositions for me to take away with me. He knows my weakness; he was afraid that if I got hold of them I might, as usual, make smoke of them. However, there was no fear for the hexameters. I must confess the truth to my master: I love them. I study at night, since the day is taken up with the theatre. I am weary of an evening, and sleepy in the daylight, and so I don't do much. Yet I have made extracts from sixty books, five volumes of them, in these latter days. But when you read remember that the "sixty" includes plays of Novius, and farces, and some little speeches of Scipio; don't be too much startled at the number. You remember your Polemon; but I pray you do not remember Horace, who has died with Pollio as far as I am concerned.[20] Farewell, my dearest and most affectionate friend, most distinguished consul and my beloved master, whom I have not seen these two years. Those who say two months, count the days. Shall I ever see you again?'
[19]Ad M. Caes., ii. 10.
[20]He implies, as in i. 6, that he has ceased to study Horace.
Sometimes Fronto sends him a theme to work up, as thus: 'M. Lucilius tribune of the people violently throws into prison a free Roman citizen, against the opinion of his colleagues who demand his release. For this act he is branded by the censor. Analyse the case, and then take both sides in turn, attacking and defending.'[21] Or again: 'A Roman consul, doffing his state robe, dons the gauntlet and kills a lion amongst the young men at the Quinquatrus in full view of the people of Rome. Denunciation before the censors.'[22] The prince has a fair knowledge of Greek, and quotes from Homer, Plato, Euripides, but for some reason Fronto dissuaded him from this study.[23] His Meditations are written in Greek. He continued his literary studies throughout his life, and after he became emperor we still find him asking his adviser for copies of Cicero's Letters, by which he hopes to improve his vocabulary.[24] Pronto helps him with a supply of similes, which, it seems, he did not think of readily. It is to be feared that the fount of Marcus's eloquence was pumped up by artificial means.
[21]Pollio was a grammarian, who taught Marcus.
[22]Ad M. Caes., v. 27,; V. 22.
[23]Ep. Gracae, 6.
[24]Ad Anton. Imp., II. 4.
Some idea of his literary style may be gathered from the letter whichfollows:[25]
'I heard Polemo declaim the other day, to say something of things sublunary. If you ask what I thought of him, listen. He seems to me an industrious farmer, endowed with the greatest skill, who has cultivated a large estate for corn and vines only, and indeed with a rich return of fine crops. But yet in that land of his there is no Pompeian fig or Arician vegetable, no Tarentine rose, or pleasing coppice, or thick grove, or shady plane tree; all is for use rather than for pleasure, such as one ought rather to commend, but cares not to love.
[25]Ad M. Caes, ii. 5.
A pretty bold idea, is it not, and rash judgment, to pass censure on a man of such reputation? But whenas I remember that I am writing to you, I think I am less bold than you would have me.
'In that point I am wholly undecided.
'There's an unpremeditated hendecasyllable for you. So before I begin to poetize, I'll take an easy with you. Farewell, my heart's desire, your Verus's best beloved, most distinguisht consul, master most sweet. Farewell I ever pray, sweetest soul.
What a letter do you think you have written me I could make bold to say, that never did she who bore me and nurst me, write anything SO delightful, so honey-sweet. And this does not come of your fine style and eloquence: otherwise not my mother only, but all who breathe.'
To the pupil, never was anything on earth so fine as his master's eloquence; on this theme Marcus fairly bubbles over with enthusiasm.
[26]'Well, if the ancient Greeks ever wrote anything like this, let those who know decide it: for me, if I dare say so, I never read any invective of Cato's so fine as your encomtum. O if my Lord[27] could be sufficiently praised, sufficiently praised he would have been undoubtedly by you! This kind of thing is not done nowadays.[28] It were easier to match Pheidias, easier to match Apelles, easier in a word to match Demosthenes himself, or Cato himself; than to match this finisht and perfect work. Never have I read anything more refined, anything more after the ancient type, anything more delicious, anything more Latin. O happy you, to be endowed with eloquence so great! O happy I, to be tinder the charge of such a master! O arguments,[29] O arrangement, O elegance, O wit, O beauty, O words, O brilliancy, O subtilty, O grace, O treatment, O everything! Mischief take me, if you ought not to have a rod put in your hand one day, a diadem on your brow, a tribunal raised for you; then the herald would summon us all-why do I say "us"? Would summnon all, those scholars and orators: one by one you would beckon them forward with your rod and admonish them. Hitherto I have had no fear of this admonition; many things help me to enter within your school. I write this in the utmost haste; for whenas I am sending you so kindly a letter from my Lord, what needs a longer letter of mine? Farewell then, glory of Roman eloquence, boast of your friends, magnifico, most delightful man, most distinguished consul, master most sweet.
[26]Ad M. Caes., ii. 3.
[27]The Emperor Antoninus Pius is spoken of as dominus meus.
[28]This sentence is written in Greek.
[29]Several of these words are Greek, and the meaning is not quite clear.
'After this you will take care not to tell so many fibs of me, especially in the Senate. A monstrous fine speech this is! O if I could kiss your head at every heading of it! You have looked down on all with a vengeance. This oration once read, in vain shall we study, in vain shall we toil, in vain strain every nerve. Farewell always, most sweet master.'
Sometimes Fronto descends from the heights of eloquence to offer practical advice; as when he suggests how Marcus should deal with his suite. It is more difficult, he admits, to keep courtiers in harmony than to tame lions with a lute; but if it is to be done, it must be by eradicating jealousy. 'Do not let your friends,' says Fronto,'[30] 'envy each other, or think that what you give to another is filched from them.
[30]Ad M Caes., iv. 1.
Keep away envy from your suite, and you will find your friends kindly and harmonious.'
Here and there we meet with allusions to his daily life, which we could wish to be more frequent. He goes to the theatre or the law-courts,[31] or takes part in court ceremony, but his heart is always with his books. The vintage season, with its religious rites, was always spent by Antoninus Pius in the country. The following letters give sonic notion of a day's occupation at that time:[32]
[31]ii. 14
[32]iv. 5,6.
'MY DEAREST MASTER,—I am well. To-day I studied from the ninth hour of the night to the second hour of day, after taking food. I then put on my slippers, and from time second to the third hour had a most enjoyable walk up and down before my chamber. Then booted and cloaked-for so we were commanded to appear-I went to wait upon my lord the emperor. We went a-hunting, did doughty deeds, heard a rumour that boars had been caught, but there was nothing to see. However, we climbed a pretty steep hill, and in the afternoon returned home. I went straight to my books. Off with the boots, down with the cloak; I spent a couple of hours in bed. I read Cato's speech on the Property of Pulchra, and another in which he impeaches a tribune. Ho, ho! I hear you cry to your man, Off with you as fast as you can, and bring me these speeches from the library of Apollo. No use to send: I have those books with me too. You must get round the Tiberian librarian; you will have to spend something on the matter; and when I return to town, I shall expect to go shares with him. Well, after reading these speeches I wrote a wretched trifle, destined for drowning or burning. No, indeed my attempt at writing did not come off at all to-day; the composition of a hunter or a vintager, whose shouts are echoing through my chamber, hateful and wearisome as the law-courts. What have I said? Yes, it was rightly said, for my master is an orator. I think I have caught cold, whether from walking in slippers or from writing badly, I do not know. I am always annoyed with phlegm, but to-day I seem to snivel more than usual. Well, I will pour oil on my head and go off to sleep. I don't mean to put one drop in my lamp to-day, so weary am I from riding and sneezing. Farewell, dearest and most beloved master, whom I miss, I may say, more than Rome itself.'
'MY BELOVED MASTER,-I am well. I slept a little more than usual for my slight cold, which seems to be well again. So I spent the time from the eleventh hour of the night to the third of the day partly in reading in Cato's Agriculture, partly in writing, not quite so badly as yesterday indeed. Then, after waiting upon my father, I soothed my throat with honey-water, ejecting it without swallowing: I might say gargle, but I won't, though I think the word is found in Novius and elsewhere. After attending to my throat I went to my father, and stood by his side as he sacrificed. Then to luncheon. What do you think I had to eat? A bit of bread so big, while I watched others gobbling boiled beans, onions, and fish full of roe. Then we set to work at gathering the grapes, with plenty of sweat and shouting, and, as the quotation runs, "A few high-hanging clusters did we leave survivors of the vintage." After the sixth hour we returned home. I did a little work, and poor work at that. Then I had a long gossip with my dear mother sitting on the bed. My conversation was: What do you think my friend Fronto is doing just now? She said: And what do you think of my friend Gratia?'[33] My turn now: And what of our little Gratia,[34] the sparrowkin? After this kind of talk, and an argument as to which of you loved the other most, the gong sounded, the signal that my father had gone to the bath. We supped, after ablutions in the oil-cellar-I mean we supped after ablutions, not after ablutions in the oil-cellar; and listened with enjoyment to the rustics gibing. After returning, before turning on my side to snore, I do my task and give an account of the day to my delightful master, whom if I could long for a little more, I should not mind growing a trifle thinner. Farewell, Fronto, wherever you are, honey-sweet, my darling, my delight. Why do I want you? I can love you while far away.'
[33]Fronto's wife.
[34]Fronto's daughter
One anecdote puts Marcus before us in a new light:[35]
[35]Ad M. Caes ii. 12.
'When my father returned home from the vineyards, I mounted my horse as usual, and rode on ahead some little way. Well, there on the road was a herd of sheep, standing all crowded together as though the place were a desert, with four dogs and two shepherds, but nothing else. Then one shepherd said to another shepherd, on seeing a number of horsemen: 'I say,' says he, 'look you at those horsemen; they do a deal of robbery.' When I heard this, I clap spurs to my horse, and ride straight for the sheep. In consternation the sheep scatter; hither and thither they are fleeting and bleating. A shepherd throws his fork, and the fork falls on the horseman who came next to me. We make our escape.' We like Marcus none the worse for this spice of mischief.
Another letter[36] describes a visit to a country town, and shows the antiquarian spirit of the writer:—
'M. CÆSAR to his MASTER M. FRONTO, greeting.
'After I entered the carriage, after I took leave of you, we made a journey comfortable enough, but we had a few drops of rain to wet us. But before coming to the country-house, we broke our journey at Anagnia, a mile or so from the highroad. Then we inspected that ancient town, a miniature it is, but has in it many antiquities, temples, and religious ceremonies quite out of the way. There is not a corner without its shrine, or fane, or temple; besides, many books written on linen, which belongs to things sacred. Then on the gate as we came out was written twice, as follows: "Priest don the fell."[37] I asked one of the inhabitants what that word was. He said it was the word in the Hernican dialect for the victim's skin, which the priest puts over his conical cap when he enters the city. I found out many other things which I desired to know, but the only thing I do not desire is that you should be absent from me; that is my chief anxiety. Now for yourself, when you left that place, did you go to Aurelia or to Campania? Be sure to write to me, and say whether you have opened the vintage, or carried a host of books to the country-house; this also, whether you miss me; I am foolish to ask it, whenas you tell it me of yourself. Now if you miss me and if you love me, send me your letters often, which is a comfort and consolation to me. Indeed I should prefer ten times to read your letters than all the vines of Gaurus or the Marsians; for these Signian vines have grapes too rank and fruit too sharp in the taste, but I prefer wine to must for drinking. Besides, those grapes are nicer to eat dried than fresh-ripe; I vow I would rather tread them under foot than put my teeth in them. But I pray they may be gracious and forgiving, and grant me free pardon for these jests of mine. Farewell, best friend, dearest, most learned, sweetest master. When you see the must ferment in the vat, remember that just so in my heart the longing for you is gushing and flowing and bubbling. Good-bye.'
[36]Ad Verum. Imp ii. 1, s. fin.
[37]Santentum
Making all allowances for conventional exaggerations, it is clear from the correspondence that there was deep love between Marcus and his preceptor. The letters cover several years in succession, but soon after the birth of Marcus's daughter, Faustina, there is a large gap. It does not follow that the letters ceased entirely, because we know part of the collection is lost; but there was probably less intercourse between Marcus and Fronto after Marcus took to the study of philosophy under the guidance of Rusticus.
When Marcus succeeded to the throne in 161, the letters begin again, with slightly increased formality on Fronto's part, and they go on for some four years, when Fronto, who has been continually complaining of ill-health, appears to have died. One letter of the later period gives some interesting particulars of the emperor's public life, which are worth quoting. Fronto speaks of Marcus's victories and eloquence in the usual strain of high praise, and then continues.[38]
'The army when you took it in hand was sunk in luxury and revelry, and corrupted with long inactivity. At Antiochia the soldiers had been Wont to applaud at the stage plays, knew more of the gardens at the nearest restaurant than of the battlefield. Horses were hairy from lack of grooming, horsemen smooth because their hairs had been pulled out by the roots[39] a rare thing it was to see a soldier with hair on arm or leg. Moreover, they were better drest than armed; so much so, that Laelianus Pontius, a strict man of the old discipline, broke the cuirasses of some of them with his finger-tips, and observed cushions on the horses' backs. At his direction the tufts were cut through, and out of the horsemen's saddles came what appeared to be feathers pluckt from geese. Few of the men could vault on horseback, the rest clambered up with difficulty by aid of heel and knee and leg not many could throw a lance hurtling, most did it without force or power, as though they were things of wool-dicing was common in the camp, sleep lasted all night, or if they kept watch it was over the winecup. By what regulations to restrain such soldiers as these, and to turn them to honesty and industry, did you not learn from Hannibal's sternness, the discipline of Africanus, the acts of Metellus recorded in history.
[38]Ad Verum. imp., ii. I, s.fin.
[39]A common mark of the effeminate at Rome.
After the preceptorial letters cease the others are concerned with domestic events, health and sickness, visits or introductions, birth or death. Thus the empperor writes to his old friend, who had shown some diffidence in seeking an interview:[40]
[40]Ad Verum. Imp. Aur. Caes., i. 3.
'To MY MASTER.
'I have a serious grievance against you, my dear master, yet indeed my grief is more than my grievance, because after so long a time I neither embraced you nor spoke to you, though you visited the palace, and the moment after I had left the prince my brother. I reproached my brother severely for not recalling me; nor durst he deny the fault.' Fronto again writes on one occasion: 'I have seen your daughter. It was like seeing you and Faustina in infancy, so much that is charming her face has taken from each of yours.' Or again, at a later date:[41] I have seen your chicks, most delightful sight that ever I saw in my life, so like you that nothing is more like than the likeness.... By the mercy of Heaven they have a healthy colour and strong lungs. One held a piece of white bread, like a little prince, the other a common piece, like a true philosophers son.'
[41]Ad Ant. Imp i., 3.
Marcus, we know, was devoted to his children. They were delicate in health, in spite of Fronto's assurance, and only one son survived the father. We find echoes of this affection now and again in the letters. 'We have summer heat here still,' writes Marcus, 'but since my little girls are pretty well, if I may say so, it is like the bracing climate of spring to us.'[42] When little Faustina came back from the valley of the shadow of death, her father at once writes to inform Fronto.[43] The sympathy he asks he also gives, and as old age brings more and more infirmity, Marcus becomes even more solicitous for his beloved teacher. The poor old man suffered a heavy blow in the death of his grandson, on which Marcus writes:[44] 'I have just heard of your misfortune. Feeling grieved as I do when one of your joints gives you pain, what do you think I feel, dear master, when you have pain of mind?' The old man's reply, in spite of a certain self-consciousness, is full of pathos. He recounts with pride the events of a long and upright life, in which he has wronged no man, and lived in harmony with his friends and family. His affectations fall away from him, as the cry of pain is forced from his heart:—
[42]Ad M. Caes., v. 19
[43]iv. 11
[44]De Nepote Amissa
[45]'Many such sorrows has fortune visited me with all my life long. To pass by my other afflictions, I have lost five children under the most pitiful conditions possible: for the five I lost one by one when each was my only child, suffering these blows of bereavement in such a manner that each child was born to one already bereaved. Thus I ever lost my children without solace, and got them amidst fresh grief.....'
[45]De Nepote Amissa 2
The letter continues with reflections on the nature of death, 'more to be rejoiced at than bewailed, the younger one dies,' and an arraignment of Providence not without dignity, wrung from him as it were by this last culminating misfortune. It concludes with a summing-up of his life in protest against the blow which has fallen on his grey head.
'Through my long life I have committed nothing which might bring dishonour, or disgrace, or shame: no deed of avarice or treachery have I done in all my day's: nay, but much generosity, much kindness, much truth and faithfulness have I shown, often at the risk of my own life. I have lived in amity with my good brother, whom I rejoice to see in possession of the highest office by your father's goodness, and by your friendship at peace and perfect rest. The offices which I have myself obtained I never strove for by any underhand means. I have cultivated my mind rather than my body; the pursuit of learning I have preferred to increasing my wealth. I preferred to be poor rather than bound by any' man's obligation, even to want rather than to beg. I have never been extravagant in spending money, I have earned it sometimes because I must. I have scrupulously spoken the truth, and have been glad to hear it spoken to me. I have thought it better to be neglected than to fawn, to be dumb than to feign, to be seldom a friend than to be often a flatterer. I have sought little, deserved not little. So far as I could, I have assisted each according to my means. I have given help readily to the deserving, fearlessly to the undeserving. No one by proving to be ungrateful has made me more slow to bestow promptly all benefits I could give, nor have I ever been harsh to ingratitude. (A fragmentary passage follows, in which he appears to speak of his desire for a peaceful end, and the desolation of his house.) I have suffered long and painful sickness, my beloved Marcus. Then I was visited by pitiful misfortunes: my wife I have lost, my grandson I have lost in Germany:[46] woe is me! I have lost my Decimanus. If I were made of iron, at this tine I could write no more.'
[46]In the war against the Catti.
It is noteworthy that in his Meditations Marcus Aurelius mentions Fronto only once.[47] All his literary studies, his oratory and criticism (such as it was) is forgotten; and, says he, 'Fronto taught me not to expect natural affection from the highly-born.' Fronto really said more than this: that 'affection' is not a Roman quality, nor has it a Latin name.[48] Roman or not Roman, Marcus found affection in Fronto; and if he outgrew his master's intellectual training, he never lost touch with the true heart of the man it is that which Fronto's name brings up to his remembrance, not dissertations on compound verbs or fatuous criticisms of style.
[47]Book I., 8.
[48]Ad Verum, ii. 7
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NOTES
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This being neither a critical edition of the text nor an emended edition of Casaubon's translation, it has not been thought necessary to add full notes. Casaubon's own notes have been omitted, because for the most part they are discursive, and not necessary to an understanding of what is written. In those which here follow, certain emendations of his are mentioned, which he proposes in his notes, and follows in the translation. In addition, one or two corrections are made where he has mistaken the Greek, and the translation might be misleading. Those which do not come under these two heads will explain themselves.
The text itself has been prepared by a comparison of the editions of 1634 and 1635. It should be borne in mind that Casaubon's is often rather a paraphrase than a close translation; and it did not seem worth while to notice every variation or amplification of the original. In the original editions all that Casaubon conceives as understood, but not expressed, is enclosed in square brackets. These brackets are here omitted, as they interfere with the comfort of the reader; and so have some of the alternative renderings suggested by the translator. In a few cases, Latin words in the text have been replaced by English.
Numbers in brackets refer to the Teubner text of Stich, but the divisions of the text are left unaltered. For some of the references identified I am indebted to Mr. G. H. Rendall's Marcus Aurelius.
BOOK II "Both to frequent" (4). Gr. τὸ μή, C. conjectures τὸ μὲ. The text is probably right: "I did not frequent public lectures, and I was taught at home."
VI Idiots.... philosophers (9). The reading is doubtful, but the meaning seems to be: "simple and unlearned men"
XII "Claudius Maximus" (15). The reading of the Palatine MS. (now lost) was paraklhsiz Maximon, which C. supposes to conceal the letters kl as an abbreviation of Claudius.
XIII "Patient hearing... He would not" (16). C. translates his conjectural reading epimonon ollan. on proapsth Stich suggests a reading with much the same sense: .....epimonon all antoi "Strict and rigid dealing" (16). C. translates tonvn (Pal. MS.) as though from tonoz, in the sense of "strain." "rigour." The reading of other MSS. tonvn is preferable.
XIII "Congiaries" (13). dianomais, "doles."
XIV "Cajeta" (17). The passage is certainly corrupt. C. spies a reference to Chryses praying by the sea-shore in the Illiad, and supposes M. Aurelius to have done the like. None of the emendations suggested is satisfactory. At § XV. Book II. is usually reckoned to begin. BOOK II III. "Do, soul" (6). If the received reading be right, it must be sarcastic; but there are several variants which show how unsatisfactory it is. C. translates "en gar o bioz ekasty so par eanty", which I do not understand. The sense required is: "Do not violence to thyself, for thou hast not long to use self-respect. Life is not (v. 1. so long for each, and this life for thee is all but done."
X. "honour and credit do proceed" (12). The verb has dropt out of the text, but C. has supplied one of the required meaning.
XI. "Consider," etc. (52). This verb is not in the Greek, which means: "(And reason also shows) how man, etc."
BOOK IV XV. "Agathos" (18): This is probably not a proper name, but the text seems to be unsound. The meaning may be "the good man ought"
XVI. oikonomian (16) is a "practical benefit," a secondary end. XXXIX. "For herein lieth all...." (~3). C. translates his conjecture olan for ola.
BOOK V XIV. katorqwseiz (15): Acts of "rightness" or "straightness." XXIII. "Roarer" (28): Gr. "tragedian." Ed. 1 has whoremonger,' ed. 2 corrects to "harlot," but omits to alter' the word at its second occurrence.
XXV. "Thou hast... them" (33): A quotation from Homer, Odyssey, iv. 690.
XXVII. "One of the poets" (33): Hesiod, Op. et Dies, 197.
XXIX and XXX. (36). The Greek appears to contain quotations from sources not known, and the translation is a paraphrase. (One or two alterations are here made on the authority of the second edition.) BOOK VI XIII. "Affected and qualified" (i4): exis, the power of cohesion shown in things inanimate; fusiz, power of growth seen in plants and the like.
XVII. "Wonder at them" (18): i.e. mankind.
XXXVII. "Chrysippus" (42): C. refers to a passage of Plutarch De Communibus Notitiis (c. xiv.), where Chrysippus is represented as saying that a coarse phrase may be vile in itself, yet have due place in a comedy as contributing to a certain effect.
XL. "Man or men..." There is no hiatus in the Greek, which means: "Whatever (is beneficial) for a man is so for other men also."
XLII. There is no hiatus in the Greek.
BOOK VII IX. C. translates his conjecture mh for h. The Greek means "straight, or rectified," with a play on the literal and metaphorical meaning of ortoz.
XIV. endaimonia. contains the word daimwn in composition. XXII. The text is corrupt, but the words "or if it be but few" should be "that is little enough."
XXIII. "Plato": Republic, vi. p. 486 A.
XXV. "It will," etc. Euripides, Belerophon, frag. 287 (Nauck).
"Lives," etc. Euripides, Hypsipyle, frag. 757 (Nauck). "As long," etc. Aristophanes, Acharne, 66 i.
"Plato" Apology, p. 28 B.
"For thus" Apology, p. 28 F.
XXVI. "But, O noble sir," etc. Plato, Gorgias, 512 D. XXVII. "And as for those parts," etc. A quotation from Euripides, Chryssipus, frag. 839 (Nauck).
"With meats," etc. From Euripides, Supplices, 1110. XXXIII. "They both," i.e. life and wrestling.
"Says he" (63): Plato, quoted by Epictetus, Arr. i. 28, 2 and 22.
XXXVII. "How know we," etc. The Greek means: "how know we whether Telauges were not nobler in character than Sophocles?" The allusion is unknown.
XXVII. "Frost" The word is written by Casaubon as a proper name, "Pagus.'
"The hardihood of Socrates was famous"; see Plato, Siymposium, p. 220.
BOOK X XXII. The Greek means, "paltry breath bearing up corpses, so that the tale of Dead Man's Land is clearer."
XXII. "The poet" (21): Euripides, frag. 898 (Nauck); compare Aeschylus, Danaides, frag. 44.
XXIV. "Plato" (23): Theaetetus, p. 174 D.
XXXIV. "The poet" (34): Homer, Iliad, vi. 147.
XXXIV. "Wood": A translation of ulh, "matter."
XXXVIII. "Rhetoric" (38): Rather "the gift of speech"; or perhaps the "decree" of the reasoning faculty.
BOOK XI V. "Cithaeron" (6): Oedipus utters this cry after discovering that he has fulfilled his awful doom, he was exposed on Cithaeron as an infant to die, and the cry implies that he wishes he had died there. Sophocles, Oedipus Tyrannus, 1391.
V. "New Comedy...," etc. C. has here strayed from the Greek rather widely. Translate: "and understand to what end the New Comedy was adopted, which by small degrees degenerated into a mere show of skill in mimicry." C. writes Comedia Vetus, Media, Nova. XII. "Phocion" (13): When about to be put to death he charged his son to bear no malice against the Athenians.
XXVIII. "My heart," etc. (31): From Homer, Odyssey ix. 413. "They will" From Hesiod, Opera et Dies, 184.
"Epictetus" Arr. i. II, 37.
XXX. "Cut down grapes" (35): Correct "ears of corn." "Epictetus"(36): Arr. 3, 22, 105.
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GLOSSARY
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This Glossary includes all proper names (excepting a few which are insignificant or unknown) and all obsolete or obscure words. ADRIANUS, or Hadrian (76-138 A. D.), 14th Roman Emperor.
Agrippa, M. Vipsanius (63-12 B.C.), a distinguished soldier under Augustus.
Alexander the Great, King of Macedonia, and Conqueror of the East, 356-323 B.C.
Antisthenes of Athens, founder of the sect of Cynic philosophers, and an opponent of Plato, 5th century B.C Antoninus Pius, 15th Roman Emperor, 138-161 AD. one of the best princes that ever mounted a throne.
Apathia: the Stoic ideal was calmness in all circumstance an insensibility to pain, and absence of all exaltation at, pleasure or good fortune.
Apelles, a famous painter of antiquity.
Apollonius of Alexandria, called Dyscolus, or the 'ill-tempered,' a great grammarian.
Aposteme, tumour, excrescence.
Archimedes of Syracuse 287-212 B.C., the most famous mathematician of antiquity.
Athos, a mountain promontory at the N. of the Aegean Sea.
Augustus, first Roman Emperor (ruled 31 B.C.-14 AD.).
Avoid, void.
BACCHIUS: there Were several persons of this name, and the one meant is perhaps the musician.
Brutus (1) the liberator of the Roman people from their kings, and (2) the murderer of Cæsar.
Both names were household words.
Cæsar, Caius, Julius, the Dictator and Conqueror.
Caieta, a town in Latium.
Camillus, a famous dictator in the early days of the Roman Republic.
Carnuntum, a town on the Danube in Upper Pannonia.
Cato, called of Utica, a Stoic who died by his own hand after the battle of Thapsus, 46 B.C. His name was proverbial for virtue and courage.
Cautelous, cautious.
Cecrops, first legendary King of Athens.
Charax, perhaps the priestly historian of that name, whose date is unknown, except that it must be later than Nero.
Chirurgeon, surgeon.
Chrysippus, 280-207 B.C., a Stoic philosopher, and the founder of Stoicism as a systematic philosophy.
Circus, the Circus Maximus at Rome, where games were held. There were four companies who contracted to provide horses, drivers, etc. These were called Factiones, and each had its distinguishing colour: russata (red), albata (white), veneta (blue), prasina (green). There was high rivalry between them, and riots and bloodshed not infrequently.
Cithaeron, a mountain range N. of Attica.
Comedy, ancient; a term applied to the Attic comedy of Aristophanes and his time, which criticised persons and politics, like a modern comic journal, such as Punck. See New Comedy.
Compendious, short.
Conceit, opinion.
Contentation, contentment.
Crates, a Cynic philosopher of the 4th century B.C.
Crœsus, King of Lydia, proverbial for wealth; he reigned 560-546 B.C.
Cynics, a school of philosophers, founded by Antisthenes. Their texts were a kind of caricature of Socraticism. Nothing was good but virtue, nothing bad but vice. The Cynics repudiated all civil and social claims, and attempted to return to what they called a state of nature. Many of them were very disgusting in their manners.
DEMETRIUS of Phalerum, an Athenian orator, statesman, philosopher, and poet. Born 345 B.C.
Democritus of Abdera (460-361 B.C.), celebrated as the 'laughing philosopher,' whose constant thought was 'What fools these mortals be.' He invented the Atomic Theory.
Dio of Syracuse, a disciple of Plato, and afterwards tyrant of Syracuse. Murdered 353 B.C.
Diogenes, the Cynic, born about 412 B.C., renowned for his rudeness and hardihood.
Diognetus, a painter.
Dispense with, put up with.
Dogmata, pithy sayings, or philosophical rules of life.
EMPEDOCLES of Agrigentum, fl. 5th century B.C., a philosopher, who first laid down that there were "four elements." He believed in the transmigration of souls, and the indestructibility of matter.
Epictetus, a famous Stoic philosopher. He was of Phrygia, at first a slave, then freedman, lame, poor, and contented. The work called Encheiridion was compiled by a pupil from his discourses.
Epicureans, a sect of philosophers founded by Epicurus, who "combined the physics of Democritus," i.e. the atomic theory, "with the ethics of Aristippus."
They proposed to live for happiness, but the word did not bear that coarse and vulgar sense originally which it soon took.
Epicurus of Samos, 342-270 B.C.
Lived at Athens in his "gardens," an urbane and kindly, if somewhat useless, life. His character was simple and temperate, and had none of the vice or indulgence which was afterwards associated with the name of Epicurean.
Eudoxus of Cnidus, a famous astronomer and physician of the 4th century B. C.
FATAL, fated.
Fortuit, chance (adj.).
Fronto, M. Cornelius, a rhetorician and pleader, made consul in 143 A.D. A number of his letters to M, Aur. and others are extant.
GRANUA, a tributary of the Danube.
HELICE, ancient capital city of Achaia, swallowed up by an earthquake, 373 B.C.
Helvidius Priscus, son-in-law of Thrasea Paetus, a noble man and a lover of liberty. He was banished by Nero, and put to death by Vespasian.
Heraclitus of Ephesus, who lived in the 6th century B.C. He wrote on philosophy and natural science.
Herculaneum, near Mount Vesuvius, buried by the eruption of 79 AD.
Hercules, p. 167, should be Apollo. See Muses.
Hiatus, gap.
Hipparchus of Bithynia, an astronomer of the 2nd century B.C., "The true father of astronomy."
Hippocrates of Cos, about 460-357 B.C. One of the most famous physicians of antiquity.
IDIOT, means merely the non-proficient in anything, the "layman," he who was not technically trained in any art, craft, or calling.
LEONNATUS, a distinguished general under Alexander the Great.
Lucilla, daughter of M. Aurelius, and wife of Verus, whom she survived.
MÆCENAS, a trusted adviser of Augustus, and a munificent patron of wits and literary men.
Maximus, Claudius, a Stoic philosopher.
Menippus, a Cynic philosopher.
Meteores, ta metewrologika, "high philosophy," used specially of astronomy and natural philosophy, which were bound up with other speculations.
Middle Comedy, something midway between the Old and New Comedy. See Comedy, Ancient, and New Comedy.
Middle things, Book 7, XXV. The Stoics divided all things into virtue, vice, and indifferent things; but as "indifferent" they regarded most of those things which the world regards as good or bad, such as wealth or poverty. Of these, some were "to be desired," some "to be rejected."
Muses, the nine deities who presided over various kinds of poesy, music, etc. Their leader was Apollo, one of whose titles is Musegetes, the Leader of the Muses.
NERVES, strings.
New Comedy, the Attic Comedy of Menander and his school, which criticised not persons but manners, like a modern comic opera. See Comedy, Ancient.
PALESTRA, wrestling school.
Pancratiast, competitor in the pancratium, a combined contest which comprised boxing and wrestling.
Parmularii, gladiators armed with a small round shield (parma).
Pheidias, the most famous sculptor of antiquity.
Philippus, founder of the Macedonian supremacy, and father of Alexander the Great.
Phocion, an Athenian general and statesman, a noble and high-minded man, 4th century B.C.
He was called by Demosthenes, "the pruner of my periods."
He was put to death by the State in 317, on a false suspicion, and left a message for his son "to bear no grudge against the Athenians."
Pine, torment.
Plato of Athens, 429-347 B.C. He used the dialectic method invented by his master Socrates.
He was, perhaps, as much poet as philosopher. He is generally identified with the Theory of Ideas, that things are what they are by participation with our eternal Idea. His "Commonwealth" was a kind of Utopia.
Platonics, followers of Plato.
Pompeii, near Mount Vesuvius, buried in the eruption of 79 A. D.
Pompeius, C. Pompeius Magnus, a very successful general at the end of the Roman Republic (106-48 B.C.).
Prestidigitator, juggler.
Pythagoras of Samos, a philosopher, scientist, and moralist of the 6th century B.C.
QUADI, a tribe of S. Germany.
M. Aurelius carried on war against them, and part of this book was written in the field.
RICTUS, gape, jaws.
Rusticus, Q. Junius, or Stoic philosopher, twice made consul by M. Aurelius.
SACRARY, shrine.
Salaminius, Book 7, XXXVII. Leon of Sala-mis. Socrates was ordered by the Thirty Tyrants to fetch him before them, and Socrates, at his own peril, refused.
Sarmatae, a tribe dwelling in Poland.
Sceletum, skeleton.
Sceptics, a school of philosophy founded by Pyrrho (4th century B.C.). He advocated "suspension of judgment," and taught the relativity of knowledge and impossibility of proof. The school is not unlike the Agnostic school.
Scipio, the name of two great soldiers, P. Corn. Scipio Africanus, conqueror of Hannibal, and P.
Corn. Sc. Afr. Minor, who came into the family by adoption, who destroyed Carthage.
Secutoriani (a word coined by C.), the Sececutores, light-armed gladiators, who were pitted against others with net and trident.
Sextus of Chaeronea, a Stoic philosopher, nephew of Plutarch.
Silly, simple, common.
Sinuessa, a town in Latium.
Socrates, an Athenian philosopher (469-399 B.C.), founder of the dialectic method. Put to death on a trumped-up charge by his countrymen.
Stint, limit (without implying niggardliness).
Stoics, a philosophic system founded by Zeno (4th century B.C.), and systematised by Chrysippus (3rd century B.C.). Their physical theory was a pantheistic materialism, their summum bonum "to live according to nature." Their wise man needs nothing, he is sufficient to himself; virtue is good, vice bad, external things indifferent.
THEOPHRASTUS, a philosopher, pupil of Aristotle, and his successor as president of the Lyceum. He wrote a large number of works on philosophy and natural history. Died 287 B.C.
Thrasea, P. Thrasea Pactus, a senator and Stoic philosopher, a noble and courageous man. He was condemned to death by Nero.
Tiberius, 2nd Roman Emperor (14-31 AD.). He spent the latter part of his life at Capreae (Capri), off Naples, in luxury or debauchery, neglecting his imperial duties.
To-torn, torn to pieces.
Trajan, 13th Roman Emperor, 52-117 A.D.
VERUS, Lucius Aurelius, colleague of M. Aurelius in the Empire.
He married Lucilla, daughter of M. A., and died 169 A.D.
Vespasian, 9th Roman Emperor XENOCRATES of Chalcedon, 396-314 B.C., a philosopher, and president of the Academy.
HIS FIRST BOOK
I. Of my grandfather Verus I have learned to be gentle and meek, and to
II. Of him that brought me up, not to be fondly addicted to either of
III. Of Diognetus, not to busy myself about vain things, and not easily
IV. To Rusticus I am beholding, that I first entered into the conceit
V. From Apollonius, true liberty, and unvariable steadfastness, and not
VI. Of Sextus, mildness and the pattern of a family governed with
VII. From Alexander the Grammarian, to be un-reprovable myself, and not
VIII. Of Fronto, to how much envy and fraud and hypocrisy the state of a
IX. Of Alexander the Platonic, not often nor without great necessity to
X. Of Catulus, not to contemn any friend's expostulation, though unjust,
XI. From my brother Severus, to be kind and loving to all them of my
XII. From Claudius Maximus, in all things to endeavour to have power
XIII. In my father, I observed his meekness; his constancy without
XIV. From the gods I received that I had good grandfathers, and parents,
XV. In the country of the Quadi at Granua, these. Betimes in the morning
XVI. Whatsoever I am, is either flesh, or life, or that which we
XVII. Whatsoever proceeds from the gods immediately, that any man will
THE SECOND BOOK
I. Remember how long thou hast already put off these things, and how
II. Let it be thy earnest and incessant care as a Roman and a man to
III. Do, soul, do; abuse and contemn thyself; yet a while and the time
IV. Why should any of these things that happen externally, so much
V. For not observing the state of another man's soul, scarce was ever
VI. These things thou must always have in mind: What is the nature
VII. Theophrastus, where he compares sin with sin (as after a vulgar
VIII. Whatsoever thou dost affect, whatsoever thou dost project, so do,
IX. Consider how quickly all things are dissolved and resolved: the
X. It is the part of a man endowed with a good understanding faculty, to
XI. Consider with thyself how man, and by what part of his, is joined
XII. If thou shouldst live three thousand, or as many as ten thousands
XIII. Remember that all is but opinion and conceit, for those things
XIV. A man's soul doth wrong and disrespect itself first and especially,
XV. The time of a man's life is as a point; the substance of it ever
THE THIRD BOOK
I. A man must not only consider how daily his life wasteth and
II. This also thou must observe, that whatsoever it is that naturally
III. Hippocrates having cured many sicknesses, fell sick himself and
IV. Spend not the remnant of thy days in thoughts and fancies concerning
V. Do nothing against thy will, nor contrary to the community, nor
VI. To be cheerful, and to stand in no need, either of other men's help
VII. If thou shalt find anything in this mortal life better than
VIII. Never esteem of anything as profitable, which shall ever constrain
IX. In the mind that is once truly disciplined and purged, thou canst
X. Use thine opinative faculty with all honour and respect, for in
XI. To these ever-present helps and mementoes, let one more be added,
XII. What is this, that now my fancy is set upon? of what things doth
XIII. If thou shalt intend that which is present, following the rule of
XIV. As physicians and chirurgeons have always their instruments ready
XV. Be not deceived; for thou shalt never live to read thy moral
XVI. To steal, to sow, to buy, to be at rest, to see what is to be done
XVII. To be capable of fancies and imaginations, is common to man and
THE FOURTH BOOK
I. That inward mistress part of man if it be in its own true natural
II. Let nothing be done rashly, and at random, but all things according
III. They seek for themselves private retiring
IV. If to understand and to be reasonable be common unto all men, then
V. As generation is, so also death, a secret of nature's wisdom: a
VI. Such and such things, from such and such causes, must of necessity
VII. Let opinion be taken away, and no man will think himself wronged.
VIII. Whatsoever doth happen in the world, doth happen justly, and so if
IX. Conceit no such things, as he that wrongeth thee conceiveth,
X. These two rules, thou must have always in a readiness. First, do
XI. Hast thou reason? I have. Why then makest thou not use of it? For if
XII. As a part hitherto thou hast had a particular subsistence: and now
XIII. Within ten days, if so happen, thou shalt be esteemed a god of
XIV. Not as though thou hadst thousands of years to live. Death hangs
XV. Now much time and leisure doth he gain, who is not curious to know
XVI. He who is greedy of credit and reputation after his death, doth
XVII. If so be that the souls remain after death (say they that will not
XVIII. Not to wander out of the way, but upon every motion and desire,
XIX. Whatsoever is expedient unto thee, O World, is expedient unto me;
XX. They will say commonly, Meddle not with many things, if thou wilt
XXI. Try also how a good man's life; (of one, who is well pleased with
XXII. Either this world is a kosmoz or comely piece, because all
XXIII. A black or malign disposition, an effeminate disposition; an
XXIV. He is a true fugitive, that flies from reason, by which men are
XXV. There is, who without so much as a coat; and there is, who without
XXVI. What art and profession soever thou hast learned, endeavour to
XXVII. Consider in my mind, for example's sake, the times of Vespasian:
XXVIII. Those words which once were common and ordinary, are now become
XXIX. Whatsoever is now present, and from day to day hath its existence;
XXX. Thou art now ready to die, and yet hast thou not attained to
XXXI. Behold and observe, what is the state of their rational part; and
XXXII. In another man's mind and understanding thy evil Cannot subsist,
XXXIII. Ever consider and think upon the world as being but one living
XXXIV. What art thou, that better and divine part excepted, but as
XXXV. To suffer change can be no hurt; as no benefit it is, by change to
XXXVI. Whatsoever doth happen in the world, is, in the course of nature,
XXXVII. Let that of Heraclitus never be out of thy mind, that the death
XXXVIII. Even as if any of the gods should tell thee, Thou shalt
XXXIX. Let it be thy perpetual meditation, how many physicians who
XL. Thou must be like a promontory of the sea, against which though
XLI. Oh, wretched I, to whom this mischance is happened! nay, happy I,
XLII. It is but an ordinary coarse one, yet it is a good effectual
XLIII. Let thy course ever be the most compendious way. The most
THE FIFTH BOOK
I. In the morning when thou findest thyself unwilling to rise, consider
II. How easy a thing is it for a man to put off from him all turbulent
III. Think thyself fit and worthy to speak, or to do anything that is
IV. I continue my course by actions according to nature, until I
V. No man can admire thee for thy sharp acute language, such is thy
VI. Such there be, who when they have done a good turn to any, are ready
VII. The form of the Athenians' prayer did run thus: 'O rain, rain, good
VIII. As we say commonly, The physician hath prescribed unto this man,
IX. Be not discontented, be not disheartened, be not out of hope, if
X. Thou must comfort thyself in the expectation of thy natural
XI. What is the use that now at this present I make of my soul? Thus
XII. What those things are in themselves, which by the greatest part are
XIII. All that I consist of, is either form or matter. No corruption can
XIV. Reason, and rational power, are faculties which content themselves
XV. Such as thy thoughts and ordinary cogitations are, such will thy
XVI. To desire things impossible is the part of a mad man. But it is a
XVII. After one consideration, man is nearest unto us; as we are bound
XVIII. Honour that which is chiefest and most powerful in the world, and
XIX. That which doth not hurt the city itself; cannot hurt any citizen.
XX. Let not that chief commanding part of thy soul be ever subject to
XXI. To live with the Gods. He liveth with the Gods, who at all times
XXII. Be not angry neither with him whose breath, neither with him whose
XXIII. 'Where there shall neither roarer be, nor harlot.' Why so? As
XXIV. That rational essence by which the universe is governed, is for
XXV. How hast thou carried thyself hitherto towards the Gods? towards
XXVI. Why should imprudent unlearned souls trouble that which is
XXVII. Within a very little while, thou wilt be either ashes, or a
XXVIII. Thou mayest always speed, if thou wilt but make choice of the
XXIX. If this neither be my wicked act, nor an act anyways depending
XXX. Let death surprise rue when it will, and where it will, I may be a
THE SIXTH BOOK
I. The matter itself, of which the universe doth consist, is of itself
II. Be it all one unto thee, whether half frozen or well warm; whether
III. Look in, let not either the proper quality, or the true worth of
IV. All substances come soon to their change, and either they shall
V. The best kind of revenge is, not to become like unto them.
VI. Let this be thy only joy, and thy only comfort, from one sociable
VII. The rational commanding part, as it alone can stir up and turn
VIII. According to the nature of the universe all things particular are
IX. Whensoever by some present hard occurrences thou art constrained to
X. If it were that thou hadst at one time both a stepmother, and
XI. How marvellous useful it is for a man to represent unto himself
XII. See what Crates pronounceth concerning Xenocrates himself.
XIII. Those things which the common sort of people do admire, are most
XIV. Some things hasten to be, and others to be no more. And even
XV. Not vegetative spiration, it is not surely (which plants have) that
XVI. Under, above, and about, are the motions of the elements; but
XVII. Who can choose but wonder at them? They will not speak well of
XVIII. Do not ever conceive anything impossible to man, which by thee
XIX. Suppose that at the palestra somebody hath all to-torn thee with
XX. If anybody shall reprove me, and shall make it apparent unto me,
XXI. I for my part will do what belongs unto me; as for other things,
XXII. Alexander of Macedon, and he that dressed his mules, when once
XXIII Consider how many different things, whether they concern our
XXIV. if any should put this question unto thee, how this word Antoninus
XXV. Is it not a cruel thing to forbid men to affect those things, which
XXVI. Death is a cessation from the impression of the senses, the
XXVII. If in this kind of life thy body be able to hold out, it is a
XXVIII. Do all things as becometh the disciple of Antoninus Pius.
XXIX. Stir up thy mind, and recall thy wits again from thy natural
XXX. I consist of body and soul. Unto my body all things are
XXXI. As long as the foot doth that which belongeth unto it to do, and
XXXII. Dost thou not see, how even those that profess mechanic arts,
XXXIII. Asia, Europe; what are they, but as corners of the whole world;
XXXIV He that seeth the things that are now, hath Seen all that either
XXXV. Fit and accommodate thyself to that estate and to those
XXXVI. What things soever are not within the proper power and
XXXVII. We all work to one effect, some willingly, and with a rational
XXXVIII. Doth either the sun take upon him to do that which belongs to
XXXIX. If so be that the Gods have deliberated in particular of those
XL. Whatsoever in any kind doth happen to any one, is expedient to the
XLI. As the ordinary shows of the theatre and of other such places,
XLII. Let the several deaths of men of all sorts, and of all sorts of
XLIII. When thou wilt comfort and cheer thyself, call to mind the
XLIV. Dost thou grieve that thou dost weigh but so many pounds, and not
XLV. Let us do our best endeavours to persuade them; but however, if
XLVI. The ambitious supposeth another man's act, praise and applause, to
XLVII. It is in thy power absolutely to exclude all manner of conceit
XLVIII. Use thyself when any man speaks unto thee, so to hearken unto
XLIX. That which is not good for the bee-hive, cannot be good for the
L. Will either passengers, or patients, find fault and complain, either
LI. How many of them who came into the world at the same time when I
LII. To them that are sick of the jaundice, honey seems bitter; and to
LIII. No man can hinder thee to live as thy nature doth require. Nothing
LIV. What manner of men they be whom they seek to please, and what to
THE SEVENTH BOOK
I. What is wickedness? It is that which many time and often thou hast
II. What fear is there that thy dogmata, or philosophical resolutions
III. That which most men would think themselves most happy for, and
IV. Word after word, every one by itself, must the things that are
V. Is my reason, and understanding sufficient for this, or no? If it be
VI. Let not things future trouble thee. For if necessity so require that
VII. Whatsoever is material, doth soon vanish away into the common
VIII. To a reasonable creature, the same action is both according
IX. Straight of itself, not made straight.
X. As several members in one body united, so are reasonable creatures
XI. Of things that are external, happen what will to that which can
XII. Whatsoever any man either doth or saith, thou must be good; not for
XIII. This may ever be my comfort and security: my understanding, that
XIV. What is rv&nfLovia, or happiness: but a7~o~ &d~wv, or, a good
XV. Is any man so foolish as to fear change, to which all things that
XVI. Through the substance of the universe, as through a torrent pass
XVII. The nature of the universe, of the common substance of all things
XVIII. An angry countenance is much against nature, and it is oftentimes
XIX. Whensoever any man doth trespass against other, presently consider
XX. Fancy not to thyself things future, as though they were present
XXI. Wipe off all opinion stay the force and violence of unreasonable
XXII. All things (saith he) are by certain order and appointment. And
XXIII. Out of Plato. 'He then whose mind is endowed with true
XXIV. Out of Antisthenes. 'It is a princely thing to do well, and to be
XXV. Out of several poets and comics. 'It will but little avail thee,
XXVI. Out of Plato. 'My answer, full of justice and equity, should be
XXVII. To look back upon things of former ages, as upon the manifold
XXVIII. He hath a stronger body, and is a better wrestler than I. What
XXIX. Where the matter may be effected agreeably to that reason, which
XXX. Look not about upon other men's minds and understandings; but look
XXXI. As one who had lived, and were now to die by right, whatsoever is
XXXII. Thou must use thyself also to keep thy body fixed and steady;
XXXIII. The art of true living in this world is more like a wrestler's,
XXXIV. Thou must continually ponder and consider with thyself, what
XXXV. What pain soever thou art in, let this presently come to thy mind,
XXXVI. Take heed lest at any time thou stand so affected, though towards
XXXVII. How know we whether Socrates were so eminent indeed, and of so
XXXVIII. For it is a thing very possible, that a man should be a very
XXXIX. Free from all compulsion in all cheerfulness and alacrity thou
XL. Then hath a man attained to the estate of perfection in his life and
XLI. Can the Gods, who are immortal, for the continuance of so many ages
XLII. What object soever, our reasonable and sociable faculty doth meet
XLIII. When thou hast done well, and another is benefited by thy action,
XLIV. The nature of the universe did once certainly before it was
THE EIGHTH BOOK
I. This also, among other things, may serve to keep thee from vainglory;
II. Upon every action that thou art about, put this question to thyself;
III. Alexander, Caius, Pompeius; what are these to Diogenes, Heraclitus,
IV. What they have done, they will still do, although thou shouldst hang
V. That which the nature of the universe doth busy herself about, is;
VI. Every particular nature hath content, when in its own proper course
VII. Thou hast no time nor opportunity to read. What then? Hast thou
VIII. Forbear henceforth to complain of the trouble of a courtly life,
IX. Repentance is an inward and self-reprehension for the neglect or
X. This, what is it in itself, and by itself, according to its proper
XI. When thou art hard to be stirred up and awaked out of thy sleep,
XII. As every fancy and imagination presents itself unto thee, consider
XIII. At thy first encounter with any one, say presently to thyself:
XIV. Remember, that to change thy mind upon occasion, and to follow him
XV. If it were thine act and in thine own power, wouldest thou do
XVI. Whatsoever dieth and falleth, however and wheresoever it die
XVII. Whatsoever is, was made for something: as a horse, a vine. Why
XVIII. Nature hath its end as well in the end and final consummation of
XIX. As one that tosseth up a ball. And what is a ball the better, if
XX. That which must be the subject of thy consideration, is either the
XXI. Most justly have these things happened unto thee: why dost not
XXII. Shall I do it? I will; so the end of my action be to do good unto
XXIII. By one action judge of the rest: this bathing which usually takes
XXIV. Lucilla buried Verus; then was Lucilla herself buried by others.
XXV. The true joy of a man, is to do that which properly belongs unto a
XXVI. If pain be an evil, either it is in regard of the body; (and that
XXVII. Wipe off all idle fancies, and say unto thyself incessantly; Now
XXVIII. Whether thou speak in the Senate or whether thou speak to any
XXIX. Augustus his court; his wife, his daughter, his nephews, his
XXX. Contract thy whole life to the measure and proportion of one single
XXXI. Receive temporal blessings without ostentation, when they are sent
XXXII. If ever thou sawest either a hand, or a foot, or a head lying by
XXXIII. As almost all her other faculties and properties the nature of
XXXIV. Let not the general representation unto thyself of the
XXXV. What? are either Panthea or Pergamus abiding to this day by their
XXXVI. If thou beest quick-sighted, be so in matter of judgment, and
XXXVII. In the whole constitution of man, I see not any virtue contrary
XXXVIII. If thou canst but withdraw conceit and opinion concerning that
XXXIX. That which is a hindrance of the senses, is an evil to the
XL. If once round and solid, there is no fear that ever it will change.
XLI. Why should I grieve myself; who never did willingly grieve any
XLII. This time that is now present, bestow thou upon thyself. They that
XLIII. Take me and throw me where thou wilt: I am indifferent. For there
XLIV. Is this then a thing of that worth, that for it my soul should
XLV. Nothing can happen unto thee, which is not incidental unto thee, as
XLVI. Remember that thy mind is of that nature as that it becometh
XLVII. Keep thyself to the first bare and naked apprehensions of things,
XLVIII. Is the cucumber bitter? set it away. Brambles are in the way?
XLIX. Not to be slack and negligent; or loose, and wanton in thy
L. 'They kill me, they cut my flesh; they persecute my person with
LI. He that knoweth not what the world is, knoweth not where he himself
LII. Not only now henceforth to have a common breath, or to hold
LIII. Wickedness in general doth not hurt the world. Particular
LIV. The sun seemeth to be shed abroad. And indeed it is diffused but
LV. He that feareth death, either feareth that he shall have no sense at
LVI. All men are made one for another: either then teach them better, or
LVII. The motion of the mind is not as the motion of a dart. For
LVIII. To pierce and penetrate into the estate of every one's
THE NINTH BOOK
I. He that is unjust, is also impious. For the nature of the universe,
II. It were indeed more happy and comfortable, for a man to depart out
III. Thou must not in matter of death carry thyself scornfully, but as
IV. He that sinneth, sinneth unto himself. He that is unjust, hurts
V. If my present apprehension of the object be right, and my present
VI. To wipe away fancy, to use deliberation, to quench concupiscence, to
VII. Of all unreasonable creatures, there is but one unreasonable soul;
VIII. Man, God, the world, every one in their kind, bear some fruits.
IX. Either teach them better if it be in thy power; or if it be not,
X. Labour not as one to whom it is appointed to be wretched, nor as one
XI. This day I did come out of all my trouble. Nay I have cast out all
XII. All those things, for matter of experience are usual and ordinary;
XIII. The things themselves that affect us, they stand without doors,
XIV. As virtue and wickedness consist not in passion, but in action; so
XV. To the stone that is cast up, when it comes down it is no hurt unto
XVI. Sift their minds and understandings, and behold what men they be,
XVII. All things that are in the world, are always in the estate
XVIII. it is not thine, but another man's sin. Why should it trouble
XIX. Of an operation and of a purpose there is an ending, or of an
XX. As occasion shall require, either to thine own understanding, or to
XXI. As thou thyself, whoever thou art, were made for the perfection and
XXII. Children's anger, mere babels; wretched souls bearing up dead
XXIII. Go to the quality of the cause from which the effect doth
XXIV. Infinite are the troubles and miseries, that thou hast already
XXV. When any shall either impeach thee with false accusations, or
XXVI. Up and down, from one age to another, go the ordinary things of
XXVII. Within a while the earth shall cover us all, and then she herself
XXVIII. And these your professed politicians, the only true practical
XXIX. From some high place as it were to look down, and to behold
XXX. Many of those things that trouble and straiten thee, it is in thy
XXXI. To comprehend the whole world together in thy mind, and the whole
XXXII. What are their minds and understandings; and what the things that
XXXIII. Loss and corruption, is in very deed nothing else but change and
XXXIV. How base and putrid, every common matter is! Water, dust, and
XXXV. Will this querulousness, this murmuring, this complaining and
XXXVI. It is all one to see these things for a hundred of years together
XXXVII. If he have sinned, his is the harm, not mine. But perchance he
XXXVIII. Either all things by the providence of reason happen unto every
XXXIX. Sayest thou unto that rational part, Thou art dead; corruption
XL. Either the Gods can do nothing for us at all, or they can still and
XLI. 'In my sickness' (saith Epicurus of himself:) 'my discourses were
XLII. It is common to all trades and professions to mind and intend that
XLIII. When at any time thou art offended with any one's impudency, put
THE TENTH BOOK
I. O my soul, the time I trust will be, when thou shalt be good, simple,
II. As one who is altogether governed by nature, let it be thy care to
III. Whatsoever doth happen unto thee, thou art naturally by thy natural
IV. Him that offends, to teach with love and meek ness, and to show him
V. Whatsoever it be that happens unto thee, it is that which from all
VI. Either with Epicurus, we must fondly imagine the atoms to be the
VII. All parts of the world, (all things I mean that are contained
VIII. Now that thou hast taken these names upon thee of good, modest,
IX. Toys and fooleries at home, wars abroad: sometimes terror, sometimes
X. As the spider, when it hath caught the fly that it hunted after, is
XI. To find out, and set to thyself some certain way and method of
XII. He hath got loose from the bonds of his body, and perceiving that
XIII. What use is there of suspicion at all? or, why should thoughts
XIV. What is that that is slow, and yet quick? merry, and yet grave? He
XV. In the morning as soon as thou art awaked, when thy judgment, before
XVI. Give what thou wilt, and take away what thou wilt, saith he that is
XVII. So live as indifferent to the world and all worldly objects, as
XVIII. Make it not any longer a matter of dispute or discourse, what are
XIX. Ever to represent unto thyself; and to set before thee, both the
XX. Consider them through all actions and occupations, of their lives:
XXI. That is best for every one, that the common nature of all doth send
XXII. The earth, saith the poet, doth often long after the rain. So is
XXIII. Either thou dost Continue in this kind of life and that is it,
XXIV Let it always appear and be manifest unto thee that solitariness,
XXV. He that runs away from his master is a fugitive. But the law is
XXVI. From man is the seed, that once cast into the womb man hath no
XXVII. Ever to mind and consider with thyself; how all things that now
XXVIII. As a pig that cries and flings when his throat is cut, fancy to
XXIX. Whatsoever it is that thou goest about, consider of it by thyself,
XXX. When thou art offended with any man's transgression, presently
XXXI. When thou seest Satyro, think of Socraticus and Eutyches, or
XXXII. What a subject, and what a course of life is it, that thou doest
XXXIII. Let it not be in any man's power, to say truly of thee, that
XXXIV. As he that is bitten by a mad dog, is afraid of everything almost
XXXV. A good eye must be good to see whatsoever is to be seen, and not
XXXVI. There is not any man that is so happy in his death, but that some
XXXVII. Use thyself; as often, as thou seest any man do anything,
XXXVIII. Remember, that that which sets a man at work, and hath power
THE ELEVENTH BOOK
I. The natural properties, and privileges of a reasonable soul are: That
II. A pleasant song or dance; the Pancratiast's exercise, sports that
III. That soul which is ever ready, even now presently (if need be) from
IV. Have I done anything charitably? then am I benefited by it. See
V. Tragedies were at first brought in and instituted, to put men in mind
VI. How clearly doth it appear unto thee, that no other course of thy
VII. A branch cut off from the continuity of that which was next unto
VIII. To grow together like fellow branches in matter of good
IX. It is not possible that any nature should be inferior unto art,
X. The things themselves (which either to get or to avoid thou art put
XI. Then is the soul as Empedocles doth liken it, like unto a sphere or
XII. Will any contemn me? let him look to that, upon what grounds he
XIII. They contemn one another, and yet they seek to please one another:
XIV. How rotten and insincere is he, that saith, I am resolved to carry
XV. To live happily is an inward power of the soul, when she is affected
XVI. Of everything thou must consider from whence it came, of what
XVII. Four several dispositions or inclinations there be of the mind and
XVIII. What portion soever, either of air or fire there be in thee,
XIX. He that hath not one and the self-same general end always as long
XX. Remember the fable of the country mouse and the city mouse, and the
XXI. Socrates was wont to call the common conceits and opinions of men,
XXII. The Lacedæmonians at their public spectacles were wont to appoint
XXIII. What Socrates answered unto Perdiccas, why he did not come unto
XXIV. In the ancient mystical letters of the Ephesians, there was an
XXV. The Pythagoreans were wont betimes in the morning the first thing
XXVI. How Socrates looked, when he was fain to gird himself with a
XXVII. In matter of writing or reading thou must needs be taught before
XXVIII. 'My heart smiled within me.' 'They will accuse even virtue
XXIX. As they that long after figs in winter when they cannot be had; so
XXX. 'As often as a father kisseth his child, he should say secretly
XXXI. 'Of the free will there is no thief or robber:' out of Epictetus;
THE TWELFTH BOOK
I. Whatsoever thou doest hereafter aspire unto, thou mayest even now
II. God beholds our minds and understandings, bare and naked from these
III. I have often wondered how it should come to pass, that every man
IV. how come it to pass that the Gods having ordered all other things
V. Use thyself even unto those things that thou doest at first despair
VI. Let these be the objects of thy ordinary meditation: to consider,
VII. All worldly things thou must behold and consider, dividing them
VIII. How happy is man in this his power that hath been granted unto
IX. Whatsoever doth happen in the ordinary course and consequence of
X. How ridiculous and strange is he, that wonders at anything that
XI. Either fate, (and that either an absolute necessity, and unavoidable
XII. At the conceit and apprehension that such and such a one hath
XIII. If it be not fitting, do it not. If it be not true, speak it not.
XIV. Of everything that presents itself unto thee, to consider what the
XV. It is high time for thee, to understand that there is somewhat in
XVI. Remember that all is but opinion, and all opinion depends of the
XVII. No operation whatsoever it he, ceasing for a while, can be truly
XVIII. These three things thou must have always in a readiness: first
XIX. Cast away from thee opinion, and thou art safe. And what is it that
XX. Let thy thoughts ever run upon them, who once for some one thing or
XXI. To them that ask thee, Where hast thou seen the Gods, or how
XXII. Herein doth consist happiness of life, for a man to know
XXIII. There is but one light of the sun, though it be intercepted by
XXIV. What doest thou desire? To live long. What? To enjoy the
XXV. What a small portion of vast and infinite eternity it is, that is
XXVI. What is the present estate of my understanding? For herein lieth
XXVII. To stir up a man to the contempt of death this among other
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CHAPTER I. TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTH
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Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it willbe prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitiousname, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, aworkhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need nottrouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence tothe reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortalitywhose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter.
For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, bythe parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether thechild would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat morethan probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had,that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed theinestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography,extant in the literature of any age or country.
Although I am not disposed to maintain that being born in a workhouse, isin itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befalla human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was thebest thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The factis, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take uponhimself the office of respiration,—a troublesome practice, but one which customhas rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gaspingon a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and thenext: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during thisbrief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxiousaunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would mostinevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by,however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwontedallowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract;Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that,after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise tothe inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed uponthe parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expectedfrom a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, avoice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter.
As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, thepatchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled;the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faintvoice imperfectly articulated the words, “Let me see the child, and die.”
The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving thepalms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, herose, and advancing to the bed’s head, said, with more kindness than might havebeen expected of him:
“Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.”
“Lor bless her dear heart, no!” interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in herpocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in acorner with evident satisfaction.
“Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and hadthirteen children of her own, and all on ’em dead except two, and them in thewurkus with me, she’ll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dearheart! Think what it is to be a mother, there’s a dear young lamb, do.”
Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother’s prospects failed inproducing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out herhand towards the child.
The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lipspassionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildlyround; shuddered; fell back—and died. They chafed her breast, hands, andtemples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort.They had been strangers too long.
“It’s all over, Mrs. Thingummy!” said the surgeon at last.
“Ah, poor dear, so it is!” said the nurse, picking up the cork of the greenbottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up thechild. “Poor dear!”
“You needn’t mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse,” said thesurgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. “It’s very likely itwill be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is.” He put on hishat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, “She was agood-looking girl, too; where did she come from?”
“She was brought here last night,” replied the old woman, “by the overseer’sorder. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for hershoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to,nobody knows.”
The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. “The old story,” hesaid, shaking his head: “no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!”
The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once moreapplied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire,and proceeded to dress the infant.
What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist was!Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he mighthave been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been hard for thehaughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station in society. But nowthat he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in thesame service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once—aparish child—the orphan of a workhouse—the humble, half-starved drudge—to becuffed and buffeted through the world—despised by all, and pitied by none.
Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to thetender mercies of churchwardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried thelouder.
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CHAPTER II. TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST’S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD
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For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic courseof treachery and deception. He was brought up by hand. The hungry and destitutesituation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the workhouse authoritiesto the parish authorities. The parish authorities inquired with dignity of theworkhouse authorities, whether there was no female then domiciled in “thehouse” who was in a situation to impart to Oliver Twist, the consolation andnourishment of which he stood in need. The workhouse authorities replied withhumility, that there was not. Upon this, the parish authorities magnanimouslyand humanely resolved, that Oliver should be “farmed,” or, in other words, thathe should be dispatched to a branch-workhouse some three miles off, wheretwenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against the poor-laws, rolled aboutthe floor all day, without the inconvenience of too much food or too muchclothing, under the parental superintendence of an elderly female, who receivedthe culprits at and for the consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny per smallhead per week. Sevenpence-halfpenny’s worth per week is a good round diet for achild; a great deal may be got for sevenpence-halfpenny, quite enough tooverload its stomach, and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female was a womanof wisdom and experience; she knew what was good for children; and she had avery accurate perception of what was good for herself. So, she appropriated thegreater part of the weekly stipend to her own use, and consigned the risingparochial generation to even a shorter allowance than was originally providedfor them. Thereby finding in the lowest depth a deeper still; and provingherself a very great experimental philosopher.
Everybody knows the story of another experimental philosopher who had a greattheory about a horse being able to live without eating, and who demonstrated itso well, that he had got his own horse down to a straw a day, and wouldunquestionably have rendered him a very spirited and rampacious animal onnothing at all, if he had not died, four-and-twenty hours before he was to havehad his first comfortable bait of air. Unfortunately for the experimentalphilosophy of the female to whose protecting care Oliver Twist was deliveredover, a similar result usually attended the operation of her system; forat the very moment when the child had contrived to exist upon the smallestpossible portion of the weakest possible food, it did perversely happen ineight and a half cases out of ten, either that it sickened from want and cold,or fell into the fire from neglect, or got half-smothered by accident; in anyone of which cases, the miserable little being was usually summoned intoanother world, and there gathered to the fathers it had never known in this.
Occasionally, when there was some more than usually interesting inquest upon aparish child who had been overlooked in turning up a bedstead, or inadvertentlyscalded to death when there happened to be a washing—though the latter accidentwas very scarce, anything approaching to a washing being of rare occurrence inthe farm—the jury would take it into their heads to ask troublesome questions,or the parishioners would rebelliously affix their signatures to aremonstrance. But these impertinences were speedily checked by the evidence ofthe surgeon, and the testimony of the beadle; the former of whom had alwaysopened the body and found nothing inside (which was very probable indeed), andthe latter of whom invariably swore whatever the parish wanted; which was veryself-devotional. Besides, the board made periodical pilgrimages to the farm,and always sent the beadle the day before, to say they were going. The childrenwere neat and clean to behold, when they went; and what more would thepeople have!
It cannot be expected that this system of farming would produce any veryextraordinary or luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist’s ninth birthday found him a palethin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small incircumference. But nature or inheritance had implanted a good sturdy spirit inOliver’s breast. It had had plenty of room to expand, thanks to the spare dietof the establishment; and perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed hishaving any ninth birth-day at all. Be this as it may, however, it washis ninth birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a selectparty of two other young gentleman, who, after participating with him in asound thrashing, had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry,when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of the house, was unexpectedly startled by theapparition of Mr. Bumble, the beadle, striving to undo the wicket of thegarden-gate.
“Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?” said Mrs. Mann, thrustingher head out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy. “(Susan, takeOliver and them two brats upstairs, and wash ’em directly.)—My heart alive! Mr.Bumble, how glad I am to see you, sure-ly!”
Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead of responding tothis open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave the little wicket atremendous shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick which could have emanatedfrom no leg but a beadle’s.
“Lor, only think,” said Mrs. Mann, running out,—for the three boys had beenremoved by this time,—“only think of that! That I should have forgotten thatthe gate was bolted on the inside, on account of them dear children! Walk insir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir.”
Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might havesoftened the heart of a churchwarden, it by no means mollified the beadle.
“Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann,” inquired Mr.Bumble, grasping his cane, “to keep the parish officers a waiting at yourgarden-gate, when they come here upon porochial business with the porochialorphans? Are you aweer, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I may say, a porochialdelegate, and a stipendiary?”
“I’m sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only a telling one or two of the dear childrenas is so fond of you, that it was you a coming,” replied Mrs. Mann with greathumility.
Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his importance. He haddisplayed the one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed.
“Well, well, Mrs. Mann,” he replied in a calmer tone; “it may be as you say; itmay be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and have somethingto say.”
Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed aseat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the tablebefore him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walkhad engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, hesmiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.
“Now don’t you be offended at what I’m a going to say,” observed Mrs. Mann,with captivating sweetness. “You’ve had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn’tmention it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink, Mr. Bumble?”
“Not a drop. Nor a drop,” said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in adignified, but placid manner.
“I think you will,” said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the refusal,and the gesture that had accompanied it. “Just a leetle drop, with a littlecold water, and a lump of sugar.”
Mr. Bumble coughed.
“Now, just a leetle drop,” said Mrs. Mann persuasively.
“What is it?” inquired the beadle.
“Why, it’s what I’m obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put into theblessed infants’ Daffy, when they ain’t well, Mr. Bumble,” replied Mrs. Mann asshe opened a corner cupboard, and took down a bottle and glass. “It’s gin. I’llnot deceive you, Mr. B. It’s gin.”
“Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?” inquired Bumble, following withhis eyes the interesting process of mixing.
“Ah, bless ’em, that I do, dear as it is,” replied the nurse. “I couldn’t see’em suffer before my very eyes, you know sir.”
“No”; said Mr. Bumble approvingly; “no, you could not. You are a humane woman,Mrs. Mann.” (Here she set down the glass.) “I shall take a early opportunity ofmentioning it to the board, Mrs. Mann.” (He drew it towards him.) “You feel asa mother, Mrs. Mann.” (He stirred the gin-and-water.) “I—I drink your healthwith cheerfulness, Mrs. Mann”; and he swallowed half of it.
“And now about business,” said the beadle, taking out a leathern pocket-book.“The child that was half-baptized Oliver Twist, is nine year old today.”
“Bless him!” interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye with the corner ofher apron.
“And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was afterwardsincreased to twenty pound. Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I maysay, supernat’ral exertions on the part of this parish,” said Bumble, “we havenever been able to discover who is his father, or what was his mother’ssettlement, name, or condition.”
Mrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after a moment’sreflection, “How comes he to have any name at all, then?”
The beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, “I inwented it.”
“You, Mr. Bumble!”
“I, Mrs. Mann. We name our fondlings in alphabetical order. The last was aS,—Swubble, I named him. This was a T,—Twist, I named him. The next onecomes will be Unwin, and the next Vilkins. I have got names ready made to theend of the alphabet, and all the way through it again, when we come to Z.”
“Why, you’re quite a literary character, sir!” said Mrs. Mann.
“Well, well,” said the beadle, evidently gratified with the compliment;“perhaps I may be. Perhaps I may be, Mrs. Mann.” He finished the gin-and-water,and added, “Oliver being now too old to remain here, the board have determinedto have him back into the house. I have come out myself to take him there. Solet me see him at once.”
“I’ll fetch him directly,” said Mrs. Mann, leaving the room for that purpose.Oliver, having had by this time as much of the outer coat of dirt whichencrusted his face and hands, removed, as could be scrubbed off in one washing,was led into the room by his benevolent protectress.
“Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver,” said Mrs. Mann.
Oliver made a bow, which was divided between the beadle on the chair, and thecocked hat on the table.
“Will you go along with me, Oliver?” said Mr. Bumble, in a majestic voice.
Oliver was about to say that he would go along with anybody with greatreadiness, when, glancing upward, he caught sight of Mrs. Mann, who had gotbehind the beadle’s chair, and was shaking her fist at him with a furiouscountenance. He took the hint at once, for the fist had been too oftenimpressed upon his body not to be deeply impressed upon his recollection.
“Will she go with me?” inquired poor Oliver.
“No, she can’t,” replied Mr. Bumble. “But she’ll come and see you sometimes.”
This was no very great consolation to the child. Young as he was, however, hehad sense enough to make a feint of feeling great regret at going away. It wasno very difficult matter for the boy to call tears into his eyes. Hunger andrecent ill-usage are great assistants if you want to cry; and Oliver cried verynaturally indeed. Mrs. Mann gave him a thousand embraces, and what Oliverwanted a great deal more, a piece of bread and butter, lest he should seem toohungry when he got to the workhouse. With the slice of bread in his hand, andthe little brown-cloth parish cap on his head, Oliver was then led away by Mr.Bumble from the wretched home where one kind word or look had never lighted thegloom of his infant years. And yet he burst into an agony of childish grief, asthe cottage-gate closed after him. Wretched as were the little companions inmisery he was leaving behind, they were the only friends he had ever known; anda sense of his loneliness in the great wide world, sank into the child’s heartfor the first time.
Mr. Bumble walked on with long strides; little Oliver, firmly grasping hisgold-laced cuff, trotted beside him, inquiring at the end of every quarter of amile whether they were “nearly there.” To these interrogations Mr. Bumblereturned very brief and snappish replies; for the temporary blandness whichgin-and-water awakens in some bosoms had by this time evaporated; and he wasonce again a beadle.
Oliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse a quarter of an hour, andhad scarcely completed the demolition of a second slice of bread, when Mr.Bumble, who had handed him over to the care of an old woman, returned; and,telling him it was a board night, informed him that the board had said he wasto appear before it forthwith.
Not having a very clearly defined notion of what a live board was, Oliver wasrather astounded by this intelligence, and was not quite certain whether heought to laugh or cry. He had no time to think about the matter, however; forMr. Bumble gave him a tap on the head, with his cane, to wake him up: andanother on the back to make him lively: and bidding him to follow, conductedhim into a large whitewashed room, where eight or ten fat gentlemen weresitting round a table. At the top of the table, seated in an arm-chair ratherhigher than the rest, was a particularly fat gentleman with a very round, redface.
“Bow to the board,” said Bumble. Oliver brushed away two or three tears thatwere lingering in his eyes; and seeing no board but the table, fortunatelybowed to that.
“What’s your name, boy?” said the gentleman in the high chair.
Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which made himtremble: and the beadle gave him another tap behind, which made him cry. Thesetwo causes made him answer in a very low and hesitating voice; whereupon agentleman in a white waistcoat said he was a fool. Which was a capital way ofraising his spirits, and putting him quite at his ease.
“Boy,” said the gentleman in the high chair, “listen to me. You know you’re anorphan, I suppose?”
“What’s that, sir?” inquired poor Oliver.
“The boy is a fool—I thought he was,” said the gentleman in the whitewaistcoat.
“Hush!” said the gentleman who had spoken first. “You know you’ve got no fatheror mother, and that you were brought up by the parish, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.
“What are you crying for?” inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Andto be sure it was very extraordinary. What could the boy be crying for?
“I hope you say your prayers every night,” said another gentleman in a gruffvoice; “and pray for the people who feed you, and take care of you—like aChristian.”
“Yes, sir,” stammered the boy. The gentleman who spoke last was unconsciouslyright. It would have been very like a Christian, and a marvellously goodChristian too, if Oliver had prayed for the people who fed and took care ofhim. But he hadn’t, because nobody had taught him.
“Well! You have come here to be educated, and taught a useful trade,” said thered-faced gentleman in the high chair.
“So you’ll begin to pick oakum tomorrow morning at six o’clock,” added thesurly one in the white waistcoat.
For the combination of both these blessings in the one simple process ofpicking oakum, Oliver bowed low by the direction of the beadle, and was thenhurried away to a large ward; where, on a rough, hard bed, he sobbed himself tosleep. What a novel illustration of the tender laws of England! They let thepaupers go to sleep!
Poor Oliver! He little thought, as he lay sleeping in happy unconsciousness ofall around him, that the board had that very day arrived at a decision whichwould exercise the most material influence over all his future fortunes. Butthey had. And this was it:
The members of this board were very sage, deep, philosophical men; and whenthey came to turn their attention to the workhouse, they found out at once,what ordinary folks would never have discovered—the poor people liked it! Itwas a regular place of public entertainment for the poorer classes; a tavernwhere there was nothing to pay; a public breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper allthe year round; a brick and mortar elysium, where it was all play and no work.“Oho!” said the board, looking very knowing; “we are the fellows to set this torights; we’ll stop it all, in no time.” So, they established the rule, that allpoor people should have the alternative (for they would compel nobody, notthey), of being starved by a gradual process in the house, or by a quick oneout of it. With this view, they contracted with the water-works to lay on anunlimited supply of water; and with a corn-factory to supply periodically smallquantities of oatmeal; and issued three meals of thin gruel a day, with anonion twice a week, and half a roll of Sundays. They made a great many otherwise and humane regulations, having reference to the ladies, which it is notnecessary to repeat; kindly undertook to divorce poor married people, inconsequence of the great expense of a suit in Doctors’ Commons; and, instead ofcompelling a man to support his family, as they had theretofore done, took hisfamily away from him, and made him a bachelor! There is no saying how manyapplicants for relief, under these last two heads, might have started up in allclasses of society, if it had not been coupled with the workhouse; but theboard were long-headed men, and had provided for this difficulty. The reliefwas inseparable from the workhouse and the gruel; and that frightened people.
For the first six months after Oliver Twist was removed, the system was in fulloperation. It was rather expensive at first, in consequence of the increase inthe undertaker’s bill, and the necessity of taking in the clothes of all thepaupers, which fluttered loosely on their wasted, shrunken forms, after a weekor two’s gruel. But the number of workhouse inmates got thin as well as thepaupers; and the board were in ecstasies.
The room in which the boys were fed, was a large stone hall, with a copper atone end: out of which the master, dressed in an apron for the purpose, andassisted by one or two women, ladled the gruel at mealtimes. Of this festivecomposition each boy had one porringer, and no more—except on occasions ofgreat public rejoicing, when he had two ounces and a quarter of bread besides.The bowls never wanted washing. The boys polished them with their spoons tillthey shone again; and when they had performed this operation (which never tookvery long, the spoons being nearly as large as the bowls), they would sitstaring at the copper, with such eager eyes, as if they could have devoured thevery bricks of which it was composed; employing themselves, meanwhile, insucking their fingers most assiduously, with the view of catching up any straysplashes of gruel that might have been cast thereon. Boys have generallyexcellent appetites. Oliver Twist and his companions suffered the tortures ofslow starvation for three months: at last they got so voracious and wild withhunger, that one boy, who was tall for his age, and hadn’t been used to thatsort of thing (for his father had kept a small cook-shop), hinted darkly to hiscompanions, that unless he had another basin of gruel per diem, he wasafraid he might some night happen to eat the boy who slept next him, whohappened to be a weakly youth of tender age. He had a wild, hungry eye; andthey implicitly believed him. A council was held; lots were cast who shouldwalk up to the master after supper that evening, and ask for more; and it fellto Oliver Twist.
The evening arrived; the boys took their places. The master, in his cook’suniform, stationed himself at the copper; his pauper assistants rangedthemselves behind him; the gruel was served out; and a long grace was said overthe short commons. The gruel disappeared; the boys whispered each other, andwinked at Oliver; while his next neighbours nudged him. Child as he was, he wasdesperate with hunger, and reckless with misery. He rose from the table; andadvancing to the master, basin and spoon in hand, said: somewhat alarmed at hisown temerity:
“Please, sir, I want some more.”
The master was a fat, healthy man; but he turned very pale. He gazed instupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then clung forsupport to the copper. The assistants were paralysed with wonder; the boys withfear.
“What!” said the master at length, in a faint voice.
“Please, sir,” replied Oliver, “I want some more.”
The master aimed a blow at Oliver’s head with the ladle; pinioned him in hisarm; and shrieked aloud for the beadle.
The board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble rushed into the roomin great excitement, and addressing the gentleman in the high chair, said,
“Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for more!”
There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.
“For more!” said Mr. Limbkins. “Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer medistinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had eaten thesupper allotted by the dietary?”
“He did, sir,” replied Bumble.
“That boy will be hung,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. “I knowthat boy will be hung.”
Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman’s opinion. An animated discussiontook place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and a bill was nextmorning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a reward of five pounds toanybody who would take Oliver Twist off the hands of the parish. In otherwords, five pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wantedan apprentice to any trade, business, or calling.
“I never was more convinced of anything in my life,” said the gentleman in thewhite waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and read the bill next morning: “Inever was more convinced of anything in my life, than I am that that boy willcome to be hung.”
As I purpose to show in the sequel whether the white waistcoated gentleman wasright or not, I should perhaps mar the interest of this narrative (supposing itto possess any at all), if I ventured to hint just yet, whether the life ofOliver Twist had this violent termination or no.
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CHAPTER III. RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A SINECURE
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For a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of askingfor more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and solitary room towhich he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of the board. It appears,at first sight not unreasonable to suppose, that, if he had entertained abecoming feeling of respect for the prediction of the gentleman in the whitewaistcoat, he would have established that sage individual’s propheticcharacter, once and for ever, by tying one end of his pocket-handkerchief to ahook in the wall, and attaching himself to the other. To the performance ofthis feat, however, there was one obstacle: namely, that pocket-handkerchiefsbeing decided articles of luxury, had been, for all future times and ages,removed from the noses of paupers by the express order of the board, in councilassembled: solemnly given and pronounced under their hands and seals. There wasa still greater obstacle in Oliver’s youth and childishness. He only criedbitterly all day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his littlehands before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner,tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and drawinghimself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold hard surfacewere a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him.
Let it not be supposed by the enemies of “the system,” that, during the periodof his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, thepleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As forexercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablutionsevery morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble,who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade hisframe, by repeated applications of the cane. As for society, he was carriedevery other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably floggedas a public warning and example. And so far from being denied the advantages ofreligious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening atprayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, ageneral supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein insertedby authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous,contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of OliverTwist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusivepatronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article directfrom the manufactory of the very Devil himself.
It chanced one morning, while Oliver’s affairs were in this auspicious andcomfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the HighStreet, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certainarrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr.Gamfield’s most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them withinfull five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmeticaldesperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, whenpassing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.
“Wo—o!” said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey.
The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whetherhe was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposedof the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, withoutnoticing the word of command, he jogged onward.
Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but moreparticularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head,which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey’s. Then, catchinghold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminderthat he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He thengave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again.Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read thebill.
The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his handsbehind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in theboard-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and thedonkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for hesaw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twistwanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five poundswas just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it wasencumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, wellknew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves.So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touchinghis fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the whitewaistcoat.
“This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to ’prentis,” said Mr. Gamfield.
“Ay, my man,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescendingsmile. “What of him?”
“If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good’spectable chimbley-sweepin’ bisness,” said Mr. Gamfield, “I wants a ’prentis,and I am ready to take him.”
“Walk in,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield havinglingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and anotherwrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed thegentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seenhim.
“It’s a nasty trade,” said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated hiswish.
“Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,” said anothergentleman.
“That’s acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make’em come down again,” said Gamfield; “that’s all smoke, and no blaze; vereassmoke ain’t o’ no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds himto sleep, and that’s wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy,Gen’l’men, and there’s nothink like a good hot blaze to make ’em come down vitha run. It’s humane too, gen’l’men, acause, even if they’ve stuck in thechimbley, roasting their feet makes ’em struggle to hextricate theirselves.”
The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by thisexplanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins.The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but inso low a tone, that the words “saving of expenditure,” “looked well in theaccounts,” “have a printed report published,” were alone audible. These onlychanced to be heard, indeed, on account of their being very frequently repeatedwith great emphasis.
At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumedtheir seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:
“We have considered your proposition, and we don’t approve of it.”
“Not at all,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
“Decidedly not,” added the other members.
As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of havingbruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the boardhad, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that thisextraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was veryunlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he hadno particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, andwalked slowly from the table.
“So you won’t let me have him, gen’l’men?” said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near thedoor.
“No,” replied Mr. Limbkins; “at least, as it’s a nasty business, we think youought to take something less than the premium we offered.”
Mr. Gamfield’s countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned tothe table, and said,
“What’ll you give, gen’l’men? Come! Don’t be too hard on a poor man. What’llyou give?”
“I should say, three pound ten was plenty,” said Mr. Limbkins.
“Ten shillings too much,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
“Come!” said Gamfield; “say four pound, gen’l’men. Say four pound, and you’vegot rid of him for good and all. There!”
“Three pound ten,” repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.
“Come! I’ll split the diff’erence, gen’l’men,” urged Gamfield. “Three poundfifteen.”
“Not a farthing more,” was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.
“You’re desperate hard upon me, gen’l’men,” said Gamfield, wavering.
“Pooh! pooh! nonsense!” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. “He’d becheap with nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He’s justthe boy for you. He wants the stick, now and then: it’ll do him good; and hisboard needn’t come very expensive, for he hasn’t been overfed since he wasborn. Ha! ha! ha!”
Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and, observing asmile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain wasmade. Mr. Bumble, was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentureswere to be conveyed before the magistrate, for signature and approval, thatvery afternoon.
In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessiveastonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself into aclean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance,when Mr. Bumble brought him, with his own hands, a basin of gruel, and theholiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread. At this tremendoussight, Oliver began to cry very piteously: thinking, not unnaturally, that theboard must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they neverwould have begun to fatten him up in that way.
“Don’t make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful,” said Mr.Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. “You’re a going to be made a’prentice of, Oliver.”
“A prentice, sir!” said the child, trembling.
“Yes, Oliver,” said Mr. Bumble. “The kind and blessed gentleman which is somany parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to“prentice” you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although theexpense to the parish is three pound ten!—three pound ten, Oliver!—seventyshillins—one hundred and forty sixpences!—and all for a naughty orphan whichnobody can’t love.”
As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an awfulvoice, the tears rolled down the poor child’s face, and he sobbed bitterly.
“Come,” said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying to hisfeelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; “Come, Oliver! Wipeyour eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don’t cry into your gruel; that’sa very foolish action, Oliver.” It certainly was, for there was quite enoughwater in it already.
On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver that all he wouldhave to do, would be to look very happy, and say, when the gentleman asked himif he wanted to be apprenticed, that he should like it very much indeed; bothof which injunctions Oliver promised to obey: the rather as Mr. Bumble threw ina gentle hint, that if he failed in either particular, there was no tellingwhat would be done to him. When they arrived at the office, he was shut up in alittle room by himself, and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until hecame back to fetch him.
There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an hour. At theexpiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned with thecocked hat, and said aloud:
“Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman.” As Mr. Bumble said this, he puton a grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice, “Mind what I toldyou, you young rascal!”
Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble’s face at this somewhat contradictorystyle of address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remarkthereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining room: the door of which wasopen. It was a large room, with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two oldgentleman with powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while theother was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, asmall piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing infront of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face,on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were loungingabout.
The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bitof parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed byMr. Bumble in front of the desk.
“This is the boy, your worship,” said Mr. Bumble.
The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment,and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentionedold gentleman woke up.
“Oh, is this the boy?” said the old gentleman.
“This is him, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble. “Bow to the magistrate, my dear.”
Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, withhis eyes fixed on the magistrates’ powder, whether all boards were born withthat white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on thataccount.
“Well,” said the old gentleman, “I suppose he’s fond of chimney-sweeping?”
“He doats on it, your worship,” replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, tointimate that he had better not say he didn’t.
“And he will be a sweep, will he?” inquired the old gentleman.
“If we was to bind him to any other trade tomorrow, he’d run awaysimultaneous, your worship,” replied Bumble.
“And this man that’s to be his master—you, sir—you’ll treat him well, and feedhim, and do all that sort of thing, will you?” said the old gentleman.
“When I says I will, I means I will,” replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly.
“You’re a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man,”said the old gentleman: turning his spectacles in the direction of thecandidate for Oliver’s premium, whose villainous countenance was a regularstamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half blind and halfchildish, so he couldn’t reasonably be expected to discern what other peopledid.
“I hope I am, sir,” said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer.
“I have no doubt you are, my friend,” replied the old gentleman: fixing hisspectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the inkstand.
It was the critical moment of Oliver’s fate. If the inkstand had been where theold gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen into it, and signedthe indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway hurried off. But, as itchanced to be immediately under his nose, it followed, as a matter of course,that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and happening inthe course of his search to look straight before him, his gaze encountered thepale and terrified face of Oliver Twist: who, despite all the admonitory looksand pinches of Bumble, was regarding the repulsive countenance of his futuremaster, with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too palpable to bemistaken, even by a half-blind magistrate.
The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from Oliver to Mr.Limbkins; who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspect.
“My boy!” said the old gentleman, “you look pale and alarmed. What is thematter?”
“Stand a little away from him, Beadle,” said the other magistrate: laying asidethe paper, and leaning forward with an expression of interest. “Now, boy, tellus what’s the matter: don’t be afraid.”
Oliver fell on his knees, and clasping his hands together, prayed that theywould order him back to the dark room—that they would starve him—beat him—killhim if they pleased—rather than send him away with that dreadful man.
“Well!” said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressivesolemnity. “Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see,Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest.”
“Hold your tongue, Beadle,” said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble hadgiven vent to this compound adjective.
“I beg your worship’s pardon,” said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having heardaright. “Did your worship speak to me?”
“Yes. Hold your tongue.”
Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold histongue! A moral revolution!
The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion, henodded significantly.
“We refuse to sanction these indentures,” said the old gentleman: tossing asidethe piece of parchment as he spoke.
“I hope,” stammered Mr. Limbkins: “I hope the magistrates will not form theopinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on theunsupported testimony of a child.”
“The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter,”said the second old gentleman sharply. “Take the boy back to the workhouse, andtreat him kindly. He seems to want it.”
That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively anddecidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would bedrawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomymystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfieldreplied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed withthe beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally oppositedescription.
The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again tolet, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession ofhim.
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CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE
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In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either inpossession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who isgrowing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, inimitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on theexpediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound toa good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that couldpossibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would floghim to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock hisbrains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known,very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The morethe case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the moremanifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusionthat the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to seawithout delay.
Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with theview of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without anyfriends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of hismission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry,the parochial undertaker.
Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit ofthreadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes toanswer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, buthe was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic,and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, andshook him cordially by the hand.
“I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble,”said the undertaker.
“You’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,” said the beadle, as he thrust histhumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which wasan ingenious little model of a patent coffin. “I say you’ll make your fortune,Mr. Sowerberry,” repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder,in a friendly manner, with his cane.
“Think so?” said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputedthe probability of the event. “The prices allowed by the board are very small,Mr. Bumble.”
“So are the coffins,” replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach toa laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.
Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; andlaughed a long time without cessation. “Well, well, Mr. Bumble,” he said atlength, “there’s no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in,the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; butwe must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensivearticle, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Bumble, “every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profitis, of course, allowable.”
“Of course, of course,” replied the undertaker; “and if I don’t get a profitupon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, yousee—he! he! he!”
“Just so,” said Mr. Bumble.
“Though I must say,” continued the undertaker, resuming the current ofobservations which the beadle had interrupted: “though I must say, Mr. Bumble,that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that allthe stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, andhave paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into thehouse; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one’scalculation makes a great hole in one’s profits: especially when one has afamily to provide for, sir.”
As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man;and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on thehonour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change thesubject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme.
“By the bye,” said Mr. Bumble, “you don’t know anybody who wants a boy, do you?A porochial ’prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I maysay, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?”As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave threedistinct raps upon the words “five pounds”: which were printed thereon in Romancapitals of gigantic size.
“Gadso!” said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of hisofficial coat; “that’s just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. Youknow—dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticedit before.”
“Yes, I think it rather pretty,” said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards atthe large brass buttons which embellished his coat. “The die is the same as theporochial seal—the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The boardpresented it to me on Newyear’s morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, Iremember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman,who died in a doorway at midnight.”
“I recollect,” said the undertaker. “The jury brought it in, ‘Died fromexposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,’ didn’tthey?”
Mr. Bumble nodded.
“And they made it a special verdict, I think,” said the undertaker, “by addingsome words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had—”
“Tush! Foolery!” interposed the beadle. “If the board attended to all thenonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they’d have enough to do.”
“Very true,” said the undertaker; “they would indeed.”
“Juries,” said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont whenworking into a passion: “juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches.”
“So they are,” said the undertaker.
“They haven’t no more philosophy nor political economy about ’em than that,”said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.
“No more they have,” acquiesced the undertaker.
“I despise ’em,” said the beadle, growing very red in the face.
“So do I,” rejoined the undertaker.
“And I only wish we’d a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a weekor two,” said the beadle; “the rules and regulations of the board would soonbring their spirit down for ’em.”
“Let ’em alone for that,” replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled,approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer.
Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of thecrown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered;fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmervoice:
“Well; what about the boy?”
“Oh!” replied the undertaker; “why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good dealtowards the poor’s rates.”
“Hem!” said Mr. Bumble. “Well?”
“Well,” replied the undertaker, “I was thinking that if I pay so much towards’em, I’ve a right to get as much out of ’em as I can, Mr. Bumble; and so—Ithink I’ll take the boy myself.”
Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the building.Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes; and it wasarranged that Oliver should go to him that evening “upon liking”—a phrase whichmeans, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon ashort trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too muchfood into him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do what he likes with.
When little Oliver was taken before “the gentlemen” that evening; and informedthat he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a coffin-maker’s; andthat if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again,he would be sent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked on the head, as thecase might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common consentpronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove himforthwith.
Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world,should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at thesmallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were ratherout, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead ofpossessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and was in a fair wayof being reduced, for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness bythe ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfectsilence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand—which was not verydifficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of abrown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep—he pulled hiscap over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble’s coat cuff,was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering.
For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark; for thebeadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should: and, it being awindy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr.Bumble’s coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flappedwaistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their destination,however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down, and see that the boy wasin good order for inspection by his new master: which he accordingly did, witha fit and becoming air of gracious patronage.
“Oliver!” said Mr. Bumble.
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.
“Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir.”
Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of hisunoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he lookedup at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down hischeek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort,but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble’s hecovered his face with both; and wept until the tears sprung out from betweenhis chin and bony fingers.
“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little chargea look of intense malignity. “Well! Of all the ungratefullest, andworst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the—”
“No, no, sir,” sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-knowncane; “no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am avery little boy, sir; and it is so—so—”
“So what?” inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.
“So lonely, sir! So very lonely!” cried the child. “Everybody hates me. Oh!sir, don’t, don’t pray be cross to me!” The child beat his hand upon his heart;and looked in his companion’s face, with tears of real agony.
Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver’s piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment,for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and aftermuttering something about “that troublesome cough,” bade Oliver dry his eyesand be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him insilence.
The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making someentries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, whenMr. Bumble entered.
“Aha!” said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middleof a word; “is that you, Bumble?”
“No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,” replied the beadle. “Here! I’ve brought theboy.” Oliver made a bow.
“Oh! that’s the boy, is it?” said the undertaker: raising the candle above hishead, to get a better view of Oliver. “Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have thegoodness to come here a moment, my dear?”
Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented theform of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance.
“My dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, “this is the boy from theworkhouse that I told you of.” Oliver bowed again.
“Dear me!” said the undertaker’s wife, “he’s very small.”
“Why, he is rather small,” replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as ifit were his fault that he was no bigger; “he is small. There’s no denying it.But he’ll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry—he’ll grow.”
“Ah! I dare say he will,” replied the lady pettishly, “on our victuals and ourdrink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more tokeep, than they’re worth. However, men always think they know best. There! Getdownstairs, little bag o’ bones.” With this, the undertaker’s wife opened aside door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell,damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated“kitchen”; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blueworsted stockings very much out of repair.
“Here, Charlotte,” said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, “givethis boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn’t come homesince the morning, so he may go without ’em. I dare say the boy isn’t toodainty to eat ’em—are you, boy?”
Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was tremblingwith eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarsebroken victuals was set before him.
I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him;whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutchingat the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessedthe horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all theferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should like better; and thatwould be to see the Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with thesame relish.
“Well,” said the undertaker’s wife, when Oliver had finished his supper: whichshe had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his futureappetite: “have you done?”
There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in theaffirmative.
“Then come with me,” said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty lamp, andleading the way upstairs; “your bed’s under the counter. You don’t mindsleeping among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn’t much matter whether youdo or don’t, for you can’t sleep anywhere else. Come; don’t keep me here allnight!”
Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress.
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CHAPTER V. OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER’S BUSINESS
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Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker’s shop, set the lamp down on aworkman’s bench, and gazed timidly about him with a feeling of awe and dread,which many people a good deal older than he will be at no loss to understand.An unfinished coffin on black tressels, which stood in the middle of the shop,looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble came over him, every timehis eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal object: from which he almostexpected to see some frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad withterror. Against the wall were ranged, in regular array, a long row of elmboards cut in the same shape: looking in the dim light, like high-shoulderedghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets. Coffin-plates, elm-chips,bright-headed nails, and shreds of black cloth, lay scattered on the floor; andthe wall behind the counter was ornamented with a lively representation of twomutes in very stiff neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearsedrawn by four black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close andhot. The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The recessbeneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust, looked like agrave.
Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was alone ina strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the best of us willsometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no friends to care for, or tocare for him. The regret of no recent separation was fresh in his mind; theabsence of no loved and well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart.
But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as he crept into hisnarrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could be lain in a calm andlasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the tall grass waving gently abovehis head, and the sound of the old deep bell to soothe him in his sleep.
Oliver was awakened in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of theshop-door: which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was repeated, in anangry and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times. When he began to undo thechain, the legs desisted, and a voice began.
“Open the door, will yer?” cried the voice which belonged to the legs which hadkicked at the door.
“I will, directly, sir,” replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning thekey.
“I suppose yer the new boy, ain’t yer?” said the voice through the key-hole.
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver.
“How old are yer?” inquired the voice.
“Ten, sir,” replied Oliver.
“Then I’ll whop yer when I get in,” said the voice; “you just see if I don’t,that’s all, my work’us brat!” and having made this obliging promise, the voicebegan to whistle.
Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very expressivemonosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the smallest doubtthat the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would redeem his pledge, mosthonourably. He drew back the bolts with a trembling hand, and opened the door.
For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the street, andover the way: impressed with the belief that the unknown, who had addressed himthrough the key-hole, had walked a few paces off, to warm himself; for nobodydid he see but a big charity-boy, sitting on a post in front of the house,eating a slice of bread and butter: which he cut into wedges, the size of hismouth, with a clasp-knife, and then consumed with great dexterity.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Oliver at length: seeing that no other visitormade his appearance; “did you knock?”
“I kicked,” replied the charity-boy.
“Did you want a coffin, sir?” inquired Oliver, innocently.
At this, the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce; and said that Oliver wouldwant one before long, if he cut jokes with his superiors in that way.
“Yer don’t know who I am, I suppose, Work’us?” said the charity-boy, incontinuation: descending from the top of the post, meanwhile, with edifyinggravity.
“No, sir,” rejoined Oliver.
“I’m Mister Noah Claypole,” said the charity-boy, “and you’re under me. Takedown the shutters, yer idle young ruffian!” With this, Mr. Claypoleadministered a kick to Oliver, and entered the shop with a dignified air, whichdid him great credit. It is difficult for a large-headed, small-eyed youth, oflumbering make and heavy countenance, to look dignified under anycircumstances; but it is more especially so, when superadded to these personalattractions are a red nose and yellow smalls.
Oliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in hiseffort to stagger away beneath the weight of the first one to a small court atthe side of the house in which they were kept during the day, was graciouslyassisted by Noah: who having consoled him with the assurance that “he’d catchit,” condescended to help him. Mr. Sowerberry came down soon after. Shortlyafterwards, Mrs. Sowerberry appeared. Oliver having “caught it,” in fulfilmentof Noah’s prediction, followed that young gentleman down the stairs tobreakfast.
“Come near the fire, Noah,” said Charlotte. “I saved a nice little bit of baconfor you from master’s breakfast. Oliver, shut that door at Mister Noah’s back,and take them bits that I’ve put out on the cover of the bread-pan. There’syour tea; take it away to that box, and drink it there, and make haste, forthey’ll want you to mind the shop. D’ye hear?”
“D’ye hear, Work’us?” said Noah Claypole.
“Lor, Noah!” said Charlotte, “what a rum creature you are! Why don’t you letthe boy alone?”
“Let him alone!” said Noah. “Why everybody lets him alone enough, for thematter of that. Neither his father nor his mother will ever interfere with him.All his relations let him have his own way pretty well. Eh, Charlotte? He! he!he!”
“Oh, you queer soul!” said Charlotte, bursting into a hearty laugh, in whichshe was joined by Noah; after which they both looked scornfully at poor OliverTwist, as he sat shivering on the box in the coldest corner of the room, andate the stale pieces which had been specially reserved for him.
Noah was a charity-boy, but not a workhouse orphan. No chance-child was he, forhe could trace his genealogy all the way back to his parents, who lived hardby; his mother being a washerwoman, and his father a drunken soldier,discharged with a wooden leg, and a diurnal pension of twopence-halfpenny andan unstateable fraction. The shop-boys in the neighbourhood had long been inthe habit of branding Noah in the public streets, with the ignominious epithetsof “leathers,” “charity,” and the like; and Noah had borne them without reply.But, now that fortune had cast in his way a nameless orphan, at whom even themeanest could point the finger of scorn, he retorted on him with interest. Thisaffords charming food for contemplation. It shows us what a beautiful thinghuman nature may be made to be; and how impartially the same amiable qualitiesare developed in the finest lord and the dirtiest charity-boy.
Oliver had been sojourning at the undertaker’s some three weeks or a month. Mr.and Mrs. Sowerberry—the shop being shut up—were taking their supper in thelittle back-parlour, when Mr. Sowerberry, after several deferential glances athis wife, said,
“My dear—” He was going to say more; but, Mrs. Sowerberry looking up, with apeculiarly unpropitious aspect, he stopped short.
“Well,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, sharply.
“Nothing, my dear, nothing,” said Mr. Sowerberry.
“Ugh, you brute!” said Mrs. Sowerberry.
“Not at all, my dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry humbly. “I thought you didn’t wantto hear, my dear. I was only going to say—”
“Oh, don’t tell me what you were going to say,” interposed Mrs. Sowerberry. “Iam nobody; don’t consult me, pray. I don’t want to intrude upon yoursecrets.” As Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave an hysterical laugh, whichthreatened violent consequences.
“But, my dear,” said Sowerberry, “I want to ask your advice.”
“No, no, don’t ask mine,” replied Mrs. Sowerberry, in an affecting manner: “asksomebody else’s.” Here, there was another hysterical laugh, which frightenedMr. Sowerberry very much. This is a very common and much-approved matrimonialcourse of treatment, which is often very effective. It at once reduced Mr.Sowerberry to begging, as a special favour, to be allowed to say what Mrs.Sowerberry was most curious to hear. After a short duration, the permission wasmost graciously conceded.
“It’s only about young Twist, my dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry. “A verygood-looking boy, that, my dear.”
“He need be, for he eats enough,” observed the lady.
“There’s an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear,” resumed Mr.Sowerberry, “which is very interesting. He would make a delightful mute, mylove.”
Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable wonderment. Mr.Sowerberry remarked it and, without allowing time for any observation on thegood lady’s part, proceeded.
“I don’t mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but only forchildren’s practice. It would be very new to have a mute in proportion, mydear. You may depend upon it, it would have a superb effect.”
Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good deal of taste in the undertaking way, was muchstruck by the novelty of this idea; but, as it would have been compromising herdignity to have said so, under existing circumstances, she merely inquired,with much sharpness, why such an obvious suggestion had not presented itself toher husband’s mind before? Mr. Sowerberry rightly construed this, as anacquiescence in his proposition; it was speedily determined, therefore, thatOliver should be at once initiated into the mysteries of the trade; and, withthis view, that he should accompany his master on the very next occasion of hisservices being required.
The occasion was not long in coming. Half an hour after breakfast next morning,Mr. Bumble entered the shop; and supporting his cane against the counter, drewforth his large leathern pocket-book: from which he selected a small scrap ofpaper, which he handed over to Sowerberry.
“Aha!” said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance; “anorder for a coffin, eh?”
“For a coffin first, and a porochial funeral afterwards,” replied Mr. Bumble,fastening the strap of the leathern pocket-book: which, like himself, was verycorpulent.
“Bayton,” said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of paper to Mr. Bumble.“I never heard the name before.”
Bumble shook his head, as he replied, “Obstinate people, Mr. Sowerberry; veryobstinate. Proud, too, I’m afraid, sir.”
“Proud, eh?” exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry with a sneer. “Come, that’s too much.”
“Oh, it’s sickening,” replied the beadle. “Antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry!”
“So it is,” acquiesced the undertaker.
“We only heard of the family the night before last,” said the beadle; “and weshouldn’t have known anything about them, then, only a woman who lodges in thesame house made an application to the porochial committee for them to send theporochial surgeon to see a woman as was very bad. He had gone out to dinner;but his ’prentice (which is a very clever lad) sent ’em some medicine in ablacking-bottle, offhand.”
“Ah, there’s promptness,” said the undertaker.
“Promptness, indeed!” replied the beadle. “But what’s the consequence; what’sthe ungrateful behaviour of these rebels, sir? Why, the husband sends back wordthat the medicine won’t suit his wife’s complaint, and so she shan’t takeit—says she shan’t take it, sir! Good, strong, wholesome medicine, as was givenwith great success to two Irish labourers and a coal-heaver, only a weekbefore—sent ’em for nothing, with a blackin’-bottle in,—and he sends back wordthat she shan’t take it, sir!”
As the atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble’s mind in full force, he struckthe counter sharply with his cane, and became flushed with indignation.
“Well,” said the undertaker, “I ne—ver—did—”
“Never did, sir!” ejaculated the beadle. “No, nor nobody never did; but nowshe’s dead, we’ve got to bury her; and that’s the direction; and the soonerit’s done, the better.”
Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked hat wrong side first, in a fever ofparochial excitement; and flounced out of the shop.
“Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after you!” said Mr.Sowerberry, looking after the beadle as he strode down the street.
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of sight, duringthe interview; and who was shaking from head to foot at the mere recollectionof the sound of Mr. Bumble’s voice. He needn’t have taken the trouble to shrinkfrom Mr. Bumble’s glance, however; for that functionary, on whom the predictionof the gentleman in the white waistcoat had made a very strong impression,thought that now the undertaker had got Oliver upon trial the subject wasbetter avoided, until such time as he should be firmly bound for seven years,and all danger of his being returned upon the hands of the parish should bethus effectually and legally overcome.
“Well,” said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat, “the sooner this job is done,the better. Noah, look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap, and come withme.” Oliver obeyed, and followed his master on his professional mission.
They walked on, for some time, through the most crowded and densely inhabitedpart of the town; and then, striking down a narrow street more dirty andmiserable than any they had yet passed through, paused to look for the housewhich was the object of their search. The houses on either side were high andlarge, but very old, and tenanted by people of the poorest class: as theirneglected appearance would have sufficiently denoted, without the concurrenttestimony afforded by the squalid looks of the few men and women who, withfolded arms and bodies half doubled, occasionally skulked along. A great manyof the tenements had shop-fronts; but these were fast closed, and moulderingaway; only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had becomeinsecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street, byhuge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly planted in the road;but even these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts ofsome houseless wretches, for many of the rough boards which supplied the placeof door and window, were wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperturewide enough for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant andfilthy. The very rats, which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness,were hideous with famine.
There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and hismaster stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, andbidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid, the undertaker mounted tothe top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing,he rapped at it with his knuckles.
It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at oncesaw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to which hehad been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him.
There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over theempty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, andwas sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; andin a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, somethingcovered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward theplace, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was coveredup, the boy felt that it was a corpse.
The man’s face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; hiseyes were bloodshot. The old woman’s face was wrinkled; her two remaining teethprotruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver wasafraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he hadseen outside.
“Nobody shall go near her,” said the man, starting fiercely up, as theundertaker approached the recess. “Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you’ve alife to lose!”
“Nonsense, my good man,” said the undertaker, who was pretty well used tomisery in all its shapes. “Nonsense!”
“I tell you,” said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on thefloor,—“I tell you I won’t have her put into the ground. She couldn’t restthere. The worms would worry her—not eat her—she is so worn away.”
The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from hispocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body.
“Ah!” said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feetof the dead woman; “kneel down, kneel down—kneel round her, every one of you,and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad shewas, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones were starting through theskin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark—in the dark! Shecouldn’t even see her children’s faces, though we heard her gasping out theirnames. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I cameback, she was dying; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for theystarved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it! They starved her!”He twined his hands in his hair; and, with a loud scream, rolled grovellingupon the floor: his eyes fixed, and the foam covering his lips.
The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had hithertoremained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menacedthem into silence. Having unloosened the cravat of the man who still remainedextended on the ground, she tottered towards the undertaker.
“She was my daughter,” said the old woman, nodding her head in the direction ofthe corpse; and speaking with an idiotic leer, more ghastly than even thepresence of death in such a place. “Lord, Lord! Well, it is strange thatI who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry now,and she lying there: so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord!—to think of it; it’s asgood as a play—as good as a play!”
As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, theundertaker turned to go away.
“Stop, stop!” said the old woman in a loud whisper. “Will she be buriedtomorrow, or next day, or tonight? I laid her out; and I must walk, you know.Send me a large cloak: a good warm one: for it is bitter cold. We should havecake and wine, too, before we go! Never mind; send some bread—only a loaf ofbread and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear?” she said eagerly:catching at the undertaker’s coat, as he once more moved towards the door.
“Yes, yes,” said the undertaker, “of course. Anything you like!” He disengagedhimself from the old woman’s grasp; and, drawing Oliver after him, hurriedaway.
The next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quarternloaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself,) Oliver andhis master returned to the miserable abode; where Mr. Bumble had alreadyarrived, accompanied by four men from the workhouse, who were to act asbearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman andthe man; and the bare coffin having been screwed down, was hoisted on theshoulders of the bearers, and carried into the street.
“Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!” whispered Sowerberry inthe old woman’s ear; “we are rather late; and it won’t do, to keep theclergyman waiting. Move on, my men,—as quick as you like!”
Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the twomourners kept as near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked ata good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as hismaster’s, ran by the side.
There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry hadanticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of thechurchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were made,the clergyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who was sitting by thevestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might be anhour or so, before he came. So, they put the bier on the brink of the grave;and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold raindrizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the spectacle had attracted into thechurchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or variedtheir amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr.Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the firewith him, and read the paper.
At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, andSowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediatelyafterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice as he came along.Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverendgentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could be compressedinto four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away again.
“Now, Bill!” said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. “Fill up!”
It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermostcoffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in theearth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walkedoff, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun beingover so soon.
“Come, my good fellow!” said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. “They want toshut up the yard.”
The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the graveside, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him,walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old womanwas too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertakerhad taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold waterover him; and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked thegate, and departed on their different ways.
“Well, Oliver,” said Sowerberry, as they walked home, “how do you like it?”
“Pretty well, thank you, sir” replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation.“Not very much, sir.”
“Ah, you’ll get used to it in time, Oliver,” said Sowerberry. “Nothing when youare used to it, my boy.”
Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to getMr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question;and walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had seen and heard.
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CHAPTER VI. OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM
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The month’s trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sicklyseason just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking up; and,in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. Thesuccess of Mr. Sowerberry’s ingenious speculation, exceeded even his mostsanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period at which measleshad been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many were themournful processions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-band reaching down tohis knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the mothers inthe town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult expeditionstoo, in order that he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and fullcommand of nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had manyopportunities of observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with whichsome strong-minded people bear their trials and losses.
For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old ladyor gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and nieces, whohad been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, and whose griefhad been wholly irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would beas happy among themselves as need be—quite cheerful and contented—conversingtogether with as much freedom and gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happenedto disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the mostheroic calmness. Wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so farfrom grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render itas becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies andgentlemen who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of interment,recovered almost as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed beforethe tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving to see; andOliver beheld it with great admiration.
That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people,I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree ofconfidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many months he continuedmeekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who usedhim far worse than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the newboy promoted to the black stick and hat-band, while he, the old one, remainedstationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, becauseNoah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry wasdisposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut offunerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungrypig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery.
And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver’s history; for I have torecord an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but whichindirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects andproceedings.
One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usualdinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton—a pound and a half of theworst end of the neck; when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensueda brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious,considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravatingand tantalising young Oliver Twist.
Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; andpulled Oliver’s hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that hewas a “sneak”; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see himhanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered uponvarious topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditionedcharity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be morefacetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day,when they want to be funny. He got rather personal.
“Work’us,” said Noah, “how’s your mother?”
“She’s dead,” replied Oliver; “don’t you say anything about her to me!”
Oliver’s colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was acurious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must bethe immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression hereturned to the charge.
“What did she die of, Work’us?” said Noah.
“Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,” replied Oliver: more as ifhe were talking to himself, than answering Noah. “I think I know what it mustbe to die of that!”
“Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work’us,” said Noah, as a tear rolleddown Oliver’s cheek. “What’s set you a snivelling now?”
“Not you,” replied Oliver, sharply. “There; that’s enough. Don’t sayanything more to me about her; you’d better not!”
“Better not!” exclaimed Noah. “Well! Better not! Work’us, don’t be impudent.Your mother, too! She was a nice ’un, she was. Oh, Lor!” And here, Noahnodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of his small red nose asmuscular action could collect together, for the occasion.
“Yer know, Work’us,” continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver’s silence, andspeaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones the most annoying:“Yer know, Work’us, it can’t be helped now; and of course yer couldn’t help itthen; and I am very sorry for it; and I’m sure we all are, and pity yer verymuch. But yer must know, Work’us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad ’un.”
“What did you say?” inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.
“A regular right-down bad ’un, Work’us,” replied Noah, coolly. “And it’s agreat deal better, Work’us, that she died when she did, or else she’d have beenhard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung; which is more likely thaneither, isn’t it?”
Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table; seizedNoah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of his rage, till his teethchattered in his head; and collecting his whole force into one heavy blow,felled him to the ground.
A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild, dejected creature thatharsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the cruelinsult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved; hisattitude was erect; his eye bright and vivid; his whole person changed, as hestood glaring over the cowardly tormentor who now lay crouching at his feet;and defied him with an energy he had never known before.
“He’ll murder me!” blubbered Noah. “Charlotte! missis! Here’s the new boy amurdering of me! Help! help! Oliver’s gone mad! Char—lotte!”
Noah’s shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a louderfrom Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen by aside-door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was quite certainthat it was consistent with the preservation of human life, to come furtherdown.
“Oh, you little wretch!” screamed Charlotte: seizing Oliver with her utmostforce, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man in particularlygood training. “Oh, you little un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!” Andbetween every syllable, Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might:accompanying it with a scream, for the benefit of society.
Charlotte’s fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not beeffectual in calming Oliver’s wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into the kitchen,and assisted to hold him with one hand, while she scratched his face with theother. In this favourable position of affairs, Noah rose from the ground, andpommelled him behind.
This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they were all weariedout, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver, struggling andshouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up.This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair, and burst into tears.
“Bless her, she’s going off!” said Charlotte. “A glass of water, Noah, dear.Make haste!”
“Oh! Charlotte,” said Mrs. Sowerberry: speaking as well as she could, through adeficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold water, which Noah had pouredover her head and shoulders. “Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all beenmurdered in our beds!”
“Ah! mercy indeed, ma’am,” was the reply. “I only hope this’ll teach master notto have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born to be murderers androbbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! He was all but killed, ma’am, when Icame in.”
“Poor fellow!” said Mrs. Sowerberry, looking piteously on the charity-boy.
Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a level with thecrown of Oliver’s head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists whilethis commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed some affecting tearsand sniffs.
“What’s to be done!” exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. “Your master’s not at home;there’s not a man in the house, and he’ll kick that door down in ten minutes.”Oliver’s vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in question, rendered thisoccurance highly probable.
“Dear, dear! I don’t know, ma’am,” said Charlotte, “unless we send for thepolice-officers.”
“Or the millingtary,” suggested Mr. Claypole.
“No, no,” said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking herself of Oliver’s old friend. “Runto Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose aminute; never mind your cap! Make haste! You can hold a knife to that blackeye, as you run along. It’ll keep the swelling down.”
Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and verymuch it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-boytearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and aclasp-knife at his eye.
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CHAPTER VII. OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY
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Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not oncefor breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested here, for aminute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears andterror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and presented such a rueful face tothe aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful facesabout him at the best of times, started back in astonishment.
“Why, what’s the matter with the boy!” said the old pauper.
“Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!” cried Noah, with well-affected dismay, and in tonesso loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself,who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into theyard without his cocked hat,—which is a very curious and remarkablecircumstance, as showing that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden and powerfulimpulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss ofself-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity.
“Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!” said Noah: “Oliver, sir,—Oliver has—”
“What? What?” interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his metalliceyes. “Not run away; he hasn’t run away, has he, Noah?”
“No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he’s turned wicious,” replied Noah. “Hetried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and thenmissis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!” And here, Noahwrithed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions;thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinaryonset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, fromwhich he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture.
When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr.Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadfulwounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in awhite waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations thanever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rousethe indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid.
The gentleman’s notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked threepaces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur washowling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which wouldrender the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntaryprocess?
“It’s a poor boy from the free-school, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble, “who has beennearly murdered—all but murdered, sir,—by young Twist.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short. “Iknew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audaciousyoung savage would come to be hung!”
“He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,” said Mr.Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.
“And his missis,” interposed Mr. Claypole.
“And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?” added Mr. Bumble.
“No! he’s out, or he would have murdered him,” replied Noah. “He said he wantedto.”
“Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?” inquired the gentleman in the whitewaistcoat.
“Yes, sir,” replied Noah. “And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr.Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him—’cause master’sout.”
“Certainly, my boy; certainly,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat:smiling benignly, and patting Noah’s head, which was about three inches higherthan his own. “You’re a good boy—a very good boy. Here’s a penny for you.Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry’s with your cane, and see what’s best to bedone. Don’t spare him, Bumble.”
“No, I will not, sir,” replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane havingbeen, by this time, adjusted to their owner’s satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and NoahClaypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker’s shop.
Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not yetreturned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at thecellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs. Sowerberry andCharlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent toparley, before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outside,by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in adeep and impressive tone:
“Oliver!”
“Come; you let me out!” replied Oliver, from the inside.
“Do you know this here voice, Oliver?” said Mr. Bumble.
“Yes,” replied Oliver.
“Ain’t you afraid of it, sir? Ain’t you a-trembling while I speak, sir?” saidMr. Bumble.
“No!” replied Oliver, boldly.
An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in thehabit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back from thekeyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and looked from one to another ofthe three by-standers, in mute astonishment.
“Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,” said Mrs. Sowerberry.
“No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you.”
“It’s not madness, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of deepmeditation. “It’s meat.”
“What?” exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.
“Meat, ma’am, meat,” replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. “You’ve overfed him,ma’am. You’ve raised a artificial soul and spirit in him, ma’am unbecoming aperson of his condition: as the board, Mrs. Sowerberry, who are practicalphilosophers, will tell you. What have paupers to do with soul or spirit? It’squite enough that we let ’em have live bodies. If you had kept the boy ongruel, ma’am, this would never have happened.”
“Dear, dear!” ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to thekitchen ceiling: “this comes of being liberal!”
The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profusebestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat;so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her voluntarilyremaining under Mr. Bumble’s heavy accusation, of which, to do her justice, shewas wholly innocent, in thought, word, or deed.
“Ah!” said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again; “theonly thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him in the cellarfor a day or so, till he’s a little starved down; and then to take him out, andkeep him on gruel all through the apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family.Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said, that thatmother of his made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would havekilled any well-disposed woman, weeks before.”
At this point of Mr. Bumble’s discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to knowthat some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking, with aviolence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at thisjuncture. Oliver’s offence having been explained to him, with suchexaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, heunlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprenticeout, by the collar.
Oliver’s clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face wasbruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angryflush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison,he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed.
“Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain’t you?” said Sowerberry; giving Oliver ashake, and a box on the ear.
“He called my mother names,” replied Oliver.
“Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?” said Mrs. Sowerberry.“She deserved what he said, and worse.”
“She didn’t,” said Oliver.
“She did,” said Mrs. Sowerberry.
“It’s a lie!” said Oliver.
Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.
This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated forone instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to everyexperienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents indisputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insultingcreature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters toonumerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, hewas, as far as his power went—it was not very extensive—kindly disposed towardsthe boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because hiswife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he atonce gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, andrendered Mr. Bumble’s subsequent application of the parochial cane, ratherunnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen, incompany with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, aftermaking various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to thememory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointingsof Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed.
It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomyworkshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings which theday’s treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He hadlistened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash withouta cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept downa shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when therewere none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hidinghis face in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of ournature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him!
For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle wasburning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiouslyround him, and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door,and looked abroad.
It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy’s eyes, farther fromthe earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and the sombreshadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-like,from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of theexpiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles ofwearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning.
With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in theshutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around—onemoment’s pause of hesitation—he had closed it behind him, and was in the openstreet.
He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly.
He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the hill.He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the fields, which heknew, after some distance, led out again into the road; struck into it, andwalked quickly on.
Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside Mr.Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way laydirectly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethoughthimself of this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long waythough, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was soearly that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on.
He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at thatearly hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding oneof the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed thefeatures of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him, beforehe went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend andplaymate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many andmany a time.
“Hush, Dick!” said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his thin armbetween the rails to greet him. “Is any one up?”
“Nobody but me,” replied the child.
“You musn’t say you saw me, Dick,” said Oliver. “I am running away. They beatand ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some long way off. Idon’t know where. How pale you are!”
“I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,” replied the child with a faintsmile. “I am very glad to see you, dear; but don’t stop, don’t stop!”
“Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b’ye to you,” replied Oliver. “I shall see youagain, Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and happy!”
“I hope so,” replied the child. “After I am dead, but not before. I know thedoctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of Heaven, and Angels,and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. Kiss me,” said the child,climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little arms round Oliver’s neck.“Good-b’ye, dear! God bless you!”
The blessing was from a young child’s lips, but it was the first that Oliverhad ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles and sufferings,and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never once forgot it.
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CHAPTER VIII. OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN
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Oliver reached the stile at which the by-path terminated; and once more gainedthe high-road. It was eight o’clock now. Though he was nearly five miles awayfrom the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by turns, till noon, fearingthat he might be pursued and overtaken. Then he sat down to rest by the side ofthe milestone, and began to think, for the first time, where he had better goand try to live.
The stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an intimation thatit was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The name awakened a newtrain of ideas in the boy’s mind.
London!—that great place!—nobody—not even Mr. Bumble—could ever find him there!He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too, say that no lad of spiritneed want in London; and that there were ways of living in that vast city,which those who had been bred up in country parts had no idea of. It was thevery place for a homeless boy, who must die in the streets unless some onehelped him. As these things passed through his thoughts, he jumped upon hisfeet, and again walked forward.
He had diminished the distance between himself and London by full four milesmore, before he recollected how much he must undergo ere he could hope to reachhis place of destination. As this consideration forced itself upon him, heslackened his pace a little, and meditated upon his means of getting there. Hehad a crust of bread, a coarse shirt, and two pairs of stockings, in hisbundle. He had a penny too—a gift of Sowerberry’s after some funeral in whichhe had acquitted himself more than ordinarily well—in his pocket. “A cleanshirt,” thought Oliver, “is a very comfortable thing; and so are two pairs ofdarned stockings; and so is a penny; but they are small helps to a sixty-fivemiles’ walk in winter time.” But Oliver’s thoughts, like those of most otherpeople, although they were extremely ready and active to point out hisdifficulties, were wholly at a loss to suggest any feasible mode of surmountingthem; so, after a good deal of thinking to no particular purpose, he changedhis little bundle over to the other shoulder, and trudged on.
Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time tasted nothing but thecrust of dry bread, and a few draughts of water, which he begged at thecottage-doors by the road-side. When the night came, he turned into a meadow;and, creeping close under a hay-rick, determined to lie there, till morning. Hefelt frightened at first, for the wind moaned dismally over the empty fields,and he was cold and hungry, and more alone than he had ever felt before. Beingvery tired with his walk, however, he soon fell asleep and forgot his troubles.
He felt cold and stiff, when he got up next morning, and so hungry that he wasobliged to exchange the penny for a small loaf, in the very first villagethrough which he passed. He had walked no more than twelve miles, when nightclosed in again. His feet were sore, and his legs so weak that they trembledbeneath him. Another night passed in the bleak damp air, made him worse; whenhe set forward on his journey next morning he could hardly crawl along.
He waited at the bottom of a steep hill till a stage-coach came up, and thenbegged of the outside passengers; but there were very few who took any noticeof him: and even those told him to wait till they got to the top of the hill,and then let them see how far he could run for a halfpenny. Poor Oliver triedto keep up with the coach a little way, but was unable to do it, by reason ofhis fatigue and sore feet. When the outsides saw this, they put their halfpenceback into their pockets again, declaring that he was an idle young dog, anddidn’t deserve anything; and the coach rattled away and left only a cloud ofdust behind.
In some villages, large painted boards were fixed up: warning all persons whobegged within the district, that they would be sent to jail. This frightenedOliver very much, and made him glad to get out of those villages with allpossible expedition. In others, he would stand about the inn-yards, and lookmournfully at every one who passed: a proceeding which generally terminated inthe landlady’s ordering one of the post-boys who were lounging about, to drivethat strange boy out of the place, for she was sure he had come to stealsomething. If he begged at a farmer’s house, ten to one but they threatened toset the dog on him; and when he showed his nose in a shop, they talked aboutthe beadle—which brought Oliver’s heart into his mouth,—very often the onlything he had there, for many hours together.
In fact, if it had not been for a good-hearted turnpike-man, and a benevolentold lady, Oliver’s troubles would have been shortened by the very same processwhich had put an end to his mother’s; in other words, he would most assuredlyhave fallen dead upon the king’s highway. But the turnpike-man gave him a mealof bread and cheese; and the old lady, who had a shipwrecked grandson wanderingbarefoot in some distant part of the earth, took pity upon the poor orphan, andgave him what little she could afford—and more—with such kind and gentle words,and such tears of sympathy and compassion, that they sank deeper into Oliver’ssoul, than all the sufferings he had ever undergone.
Early on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver limpedslowly into the little town of Barnet. The window-shutters were closed; thestreet was empty; not a soul had awakened to the business of the day. The sunwas rising in all its splendid beauty; but the light only served to show theboy his own lonesomeness and desolation, as he sat, with bleeding feet andcovered with dust, upon a door-step.
By degrees, the shutters were opened; the window-blinds were drawn up; andpeople began passing to and fro. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliver for amoment or two, or turned round to stare at him as they hurried by; but nonerelieved him, or troubled themselves to inquire how he came there. He had noheart to beg. And there he sat.
He had been crouching on the step for some time: wondering at the great numberof public-houses (every other house in Barnet was a tavern, large or small),gazing listlessly at the coaches as they passed through, and thinking howstrange it seemed that they could do, with ease, in a few hours, what it hadtaken him a whole week of courage and determination beyond his years toaccomplish: when he was roused by observing that a boy, who had passed himcarelessly some minutes before, had returned, and was now surveying him mostearnestly from the opposite side of the way. He took little heed of this atfirst; but the boy remained in the same attitude of close observation so long,that Oliver raised his head, and returned his steady look. Upon this, the boycrossed over; and walking close up to Oliver, said,
“Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?”
The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was about his ownage: but one of the queerest looking boys that Oliver had even seen. He was asnub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a juvenile asone would wish to see; but he had about him all the airs and manners of a man.He was short of his age: with rather bow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes.His hat was stuck on the top of his head so lightly, that it threatened to falloff every moment—and would have done so, very often, if the wearer had not hada knack of every now and then giving his head a sudden twitch, which brought itback to its old place again. He wore a man’s coat, which reached nearly to hisheels. He had turned the cuffs back, half-way up his arm, to get his hands outof the sleeves: apparently with the ultimate view of thrusting them into thepockets of his corduroy trousers; for there he kept them. He was, altogether,as roystering and swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six, orsomething less, in the bluchers.
“Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?” said this strange young gentleman to Oliver.
“I am very hungry and tired,” replied Oliver: the tears standing in his eyes ashe spoke. “I have walked a long way. I have been walking these seven days.”
“Walking for sivin days!” said the young gentleman. “Oh, I see. Beak’s order,eh? But,” he added, noticing Oliver’s look of surprise, “I suppose you don’tknow what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on.”
Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird’s mouth described by theterm in question.
“My eyes, how green!” exclaimed the young gentleman. “Why, a beak’s amadgst’rate; and when you walk by a beak’s order, it’s not straight forerd, butalways agoing up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you never on the mill?”
“What mill?” inquired Oliver.
“What mill! Why, the mill—the mill as takes up so little room that it’llwork inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind’s low withpeople, than when it’s high; acos then they can’t get workmen. But come,” saidthe young gentleman; “you want grub, and you shall have it. I’m atlow-water-mark myself—only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I’llfork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then! Morrice!”
Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacentchandler’s shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and ahalf-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, “a fourpenny bran!” the hambeing kept clean and preserved from dust, by the ingenious expedient of makinga hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing ittherein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentleman turned into a smallpublic-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here,a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver,falling to, at his new friend’s bidding, made a long and hearty meal, duringthe progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with greatattention.
“Going to London?” said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.
“Yes.”
“Got any lodgings?”
“No.”
“Money?”
“No.”
The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the bigcoat-sleeves would let them go.
“Do you live in London?” inquired Oliver.
“Yes. I do, when I’m at home,” replied the boy. “I suppose you want some placeto sleep in tonight, don’t you?”
“I do, indeed,” answered Oliver. “I have not slept under a roof since I leftthe country.”
“Don’t fret your eyelids on that score,” said the young gentleman. “I’ve got tobe in London tonight; and I know a ’spectable old gentleman as lives there,wot’ll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change—that is, ifany gentleman he knows interduces you. And don’t he know me? Oh, no! Not in theleast! By no means. Certainly not!”
The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments ofdiscourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did so.
This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted; especially asit was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the old gentlemanreferred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place, withoutloss of time. This led to a more friendly and confidential dialogue; from whichOliver discovered that his friend’s name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was apeculiar pet and protégé of the elderly gentleman before mentioned.
Mr. Dawkins’s appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the comfortswhich his patron’s interest obtained for those whom he took under hisprotection; but, as he had a rather flightly and dissolute mode of conversing,and furthermore avowed that among his intimate friends he was better known bythe sobriquet of “The Artful Dodger,” Oliver concluded that, being of adissipated and careless turn, the moral precepts of his benefactor had hithertobeen thrown away upon him. Under this impression, he secretly resolved tocultivate the good opinion of the old gentleman as quickly as possible; and, ifhe found the Dodger incorrigible, as he more than half suspected he should, todecline the honour of his farther acquaintance.
As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it wasnearly eleven o’clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington. They crossedfrom the Angel into St. John’s Road; struck down the small street whichterminates at Sadler’s Wells Theatre; through Exmouth Street and Coppice Row;down the little court by the side of the workhouse; across the classic groundwhich once bore the name of Hockley-in-the-Hole; thence into Little SaffronHill; and so into Saffron Hill the Great: along which the Dodger scudded at arapid pace, directing Oliver to follow close at his heels.
Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of hisleader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either side of theway, as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place he had never seen.The street was very narrow and muddy, and the air was impregnated with filthyodours.
There were a good many small shops; but the only stock in trade appeared to beheaps of children, who, even at that time of night, were crawling in and out atthe doors, or screaming from the inside. The sole places that seemed to prosperamid the general blight of the place, were the public-houses; and in them, thelowest orders of Irish were wrangling with might and main. Covered ways andyards, which here and there diverged from the main street, disclosed littleknots of houses, where drunken men and women were positively wallowing infilth; and from several of the door-ways, great ill-looking fellows werecautiously emerging, bound, to all appearance, on no very well-disposed orharmless errands.
Oliver was just considering whether he hadn’t better run away, when theyreached the bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching him by the arm, pushedopen the door of a house near Field Lane; and drawing him into the passage,closed it behind them.
“Now, then!” cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the Dodger.
“Plummy and slam!” was the reply.
This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the light ofa feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the passage; and aman’s face peeped out, from where a balustrade of the old kitchen staircase hadbeen broken away.
“There’s two on you,” said the man, thrusting the candle farther out, andshielding his eyes with his hand. “Who’s the t’other one?”
“A new pal,” replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.
“Where did he come from?”
“Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?”
“Yes, he’s a sortin’ the wipes. Up with you!” The candle was drawn back, andthe face disappeared.
Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the other firmly grasped byhis companion, ascended with much difficulty the dark and broken stairs: whichhis conductor mounted with an ease and expedition that showed he was wellacquainted with them.
He threw open the door of a back-room, and drew Oliver in after him.
The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and dirt. Therewas a deal table before the fire: upon which were a candle, stuck in aginger-beer bottle, two or three pewter pots, a loaf and butter, and a plate.In a frying-pan, which was on the fire, and which was secured to themantelshelf by a string, some sausages were cooking; and standing over them,with a toasting-fork in his hand, was a very old shrivelled Jew, whosevillainous-looking and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of matted redhair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown, with his throat bare; and seemedto be dividing his attention between the frying-pan and the clothes-horse, overwhich a great number of silk handkerchiefs were hanging. Several rough bedsmade of old sacks, were huddled side by side on the floor. Seated round thetable were four or five boys, none older than the Dodger, smoking long claypipes, and drinking spirits with the air of middle-aged men. These all crowdedabout their associate as he whispered a few words to the Jew; and then turnedround and grinned at Oliver. So did the Jew himself, toasting-fork in hand.
“This is him, Fagin,” said Jack Dawkins; “my friend Oliver Twist.”
The Jew grinned; and, making a low obeisance to Oliver, took him by the hand,and hoped he should have the honour of his intimate acquaintance. Upon this,the young gentleman with the pipes came round him, and shook both his handsvery hard—especially the one in which he held his little bundle. One younggentleman was very anxious to hang up his cap for him; and another was soobliging as to put his hands in his pockets, in order that, as he was verytired, he might not have the trouble of emptying them, himself, when he went tobed. These civilities would probably be extended much farther, but for aliberal exercise of the Jew’s toasting-fork on the heads and shoulders of theaffectionate youths who offered them.
“We are very glad to see you, Oliver, very,” said the Jew. “Dodger, take offthe sausages; and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver. Ah, you’re a-staring atthe pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, my dear? There are a good many of ’em, ain’tthere? We’ve just looked ’em out, ready for the wash; that’s all, Oliver;that’s all. Ha! ha! ha!”
The latter part of this speech, was hailed by a boisterous shout from all thehopeful pupils of the merry old gentleman. In the midst of which they went tosupper.
Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot gin and water,telling him he must drink it off directly, because another gentleman wanted thetumbler. Oliver did as he was desired. Immediately afterwards he felt himselfgently lifted on to one of the sacks; and then he sunk into a deep sleep.
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CHAPTER IX. CONTAINING FURTHER PARTICULARS CONCERNING THE PLEASANT OLD GENTLEMAN, AND HIS HOPEFUL PUPILS
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It was late next morning when Oliver awoke, from a sound, long sleep. There wasno other person in the room but the old Jew, who was boiling some coffee in asaucepan for breakfast, and whistling softly to himself as he stirred it roundand round, with an iron spoon. He would stop every now and then to listen whenthere was the least noise below: and when he had satisfied himself, he would goon whistling and stirring again, as before.
Although Oliver had roused himself from sleep, he was not thoroughly awake.There is a drowsy state, between sleeping and waking, when you dream more infive minutes with your eyes half open, and yourself half conscious ofeverything that is passing around you, than you would in five nights with youreyes fast closed, and your senses wrapt in perfect unconsciousness. At suchtime, a mortal knows just enough of what his mind is doing, to form someglimmering conception of its mighty powers, its bounding from earth andspurning time and space, when freed from the restraint of its corporealassociate.
Oliver was precisely in this condition. He saw the Jew with his half-closedeyes; heard his low whistling; and recognised the sound of the spoon gratingagainst the saucepan’s sides: and yet the self-same senses were mentallyengaged, at the same time, in busy action with almost everybody he had everknown.
When the coffee was done, the Jew drew the saucepan to the hob. Standing, thenin an irresolute attitude for a few minutes, as if he did not well know how toemploy himself, he turned round and looked at Oliver, and called him by hisname. He did not answer, and was to all appearances asleep.
After satisfying himself upon this head, the Jew stepped gently to the door:which he fastened. He then drew forth: as it seemed to Oliver, from some trapin the floor: a small box, which he placed carefully on the table. His eyesglistened as he raised the lid, and looked in. Dragging an old chair to thetable, he sat down; and took from it a magnificent gold watch, sparkling withjewels.
“Aha!” said the Jew, shrugging up his shoulders, and distorting every featurewith a hideous grin. “Clever dogs! Clever dogs! Staunch to the last! Never toldthe old parson where they were. Never poached upon old Fagin! And why shouldthey? It wouldn’t have loosened the knot, or kept the drop up, a minute longer.No, no, no! Fine fellows! Fine fellows!”
With these, and other muttered reflections of the like nature, the Jew oncemore deposited the watch in its place of safety. At least half a dozen morewere severally drawn forth from the same box, and surveyed with equal pleasure;besides rings, brooches, bracelets, and other articles of jewellery, of suchmagnificent materials, and costly workmanship, that Oliver had no idea, even oftheir names.
Having replaced these trinkets, the Jew took out another: so small that it layin the palm of his hand. There seemed to be some very minute inscription on it;for the Jew laid it flat upon the table, and shading it with his hand, poredover it, long and earnestly. At length he put it down, as if despairing ofsuccess; and, leaning back in his chair, muttered:
“What a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men never repent; dead men neverbring awkward stories to light. Ah, it’s a fine thing for the trade! Five of’em strung up in a row, and none left to play booty, or turn white-livered!”
As the Jew uttered these words, his bright dark eyes, which had been staringvacantly before him, fell on Oliver’s face; the boy’s eyes were fixed on his inmute curiousity; and although the recognition was only for an instant—for thebriefest space of time that can possibly be conceived—it was enough to show theold man that he had been observed.
He closed the lid of the box with a loud crash; and, laying his hand on a breadknife which was on the table, started furiously up. He trembled very muchthough; for, even in his terror, Oliver could see that the knife quivered inthe air.
“What’s that?” said the Jew. “What do you watch me for? Why are you awake? Whathave you seen? Speak out, boy! Quick—quick! for your life.”
“I wasn’t able to sleep any longer, sir,” replied Oliver, meekly. “I am verysorry if I have disturbed you, sir.”
“You were not awake an hour ago?” said the Jew, scowling fiercely on the boy.
“No! No, indeed!” replied Oliver.
“Are you sure?” cried the Jew: with a still fiercer look than before: and athreatening attitude.
“Upon my word I was not, sir,” replied Oliver, earnestly. “I was not, indeed,sir.”
“Tush, tush, my dear!” said the Jew, abruptly resuming his old manner, andplaying with the knife a little, before he laid it down; as if to induce thebelief that he had caught it up, in mere sport. “Of course I know that, mydear. I only tried to frighten you. You’re a brave boy. Ha! ha! you’re a braveboy, Oliver.” The Jew rubbed his hands with a chuckle, but glanced uneasily atthe box, notwithstanding.
“Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?” said the Jew, laying hishand upon it after a short pause.
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver.
“Ah!” said the Jew, turning rather pale. “They—they’re mine, Oliver; my littleproperty. All I have to live upon, in my old age. The folks call me a miser, mydear. Only a miser; that’s all.”
Oliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to live in such adirty place, with so many watches; but, thinking that perhaps his fondness forthe Dodger and the other boys, cost him a good deal of money, he only cast adeferential look at the Jew, and asked if he might get up.
“Certainly, my dear, certainly,” replied the old gentleman. “Stay. There’s apitcher of water in the corner by the door. Bring it here; and I’ll give you abasin to wash in, my dear.”
Oliver got up; walked across the room; and stooped for an instant to raise thepitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone.
He had scarcely washed himself, and made everything tidy, by emptying the basinout of the window, agreeably to the Jew’s directions, when the Dodger returned:accompanied by a very sprightly young friend, whom Oliver had seen smoking onthe previous night, and who was now formally introduced to him as CharleyBates. The four sat down, to breakfast, on the coffee, and some hot rolls andham which the Dodger had brought home in the crown of his hat.
“Well,” said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself to theDodger, “I hope you’ve been at work this morning, my dears?”
“Hard,” replied the Dodger.
“As nails,” added Charley Bates.
“Good boys, good boys!” said the Jew. “What have you got, Dodger?”
“A couple of pocket-books,” replied that young gentleman.
“Lined?” inquired the Jew, with eagerness.
“Pretty well,” replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books; one green, andthe other red.
“Not so heavy as they might be,” said the Jew, after looking at the insidescarefully; “but very neat and nicely made. Ingenious workman, ain’t he,Oliver?”
“Very indeed, sir,” said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates laugheduproariously; very much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to laughat, in anything that had passed.
“And what have you got, my dear?” said Fagin to Charley Bates.
“Wipes,” replied Master Bates; at the same time producing fourpocket-handkerchiefs.
“Well,” said the Jew, inspecting them closely; “they’re very good ones, very.You haven’t marked them well, though, Charley; so the marks shall be picked outwith a needle, and we’ll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall us, Oliver, eh? Ha!ha! ha!”
“If you please, sir,” said Oliver.
“You’d like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley Bates,wouldn’t you, my dear?” said the Jew.
“Very much, indeed, if you’ll teach me, sir,” replied Oliver.
Master Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this reply, that heburst into another laugh; which laugh, meeting the coffee he was drinking, andcarrying it down some wrong channel, very nearly terminated in his prematuresuffocation.
“He is so jolly green!” said Charley when he recovered, as an apology to thecompany for his unpolite behaviour.
The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver’s hair over his eyes, and saidhe’d know better, by and by; upon which the old gentleman, observing Oliver’scolour mounting, changed the subject by asking whether there had been much of acrowd at the execution that morning? This made him wonder more and more; for itwas plain from the replies of the two boys that they had both been there; andOliver naturally wondered how they could possibly have found time to be so veryindustrious.
When the breakfast was cleared away; the merry old gentleman and the two boysplayed at a very curious and uncommon game, which was performed in this way.The merry old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in one pocket of his trousers, anote-case in the other, and a watch in his waistcoat pocket, with a guard-chainround his neck, and sticking a mock diamond pin in his shirt: buttoned his coattight round him, and putting his spectacle-case and handkerchief in hispockets, trotted up and down the room with a stick, in imitation of the mannerin which old gentlemen walk about the streets any hour in the day. Sometimes hestopped at the fire-place, and sometimes at the door, making believe that hewas staring with all his might into shop-windows. At such times, he would lookconstantly round him, for fear of thieves, and would keep slapping all hispockets in turn, to see that he hadn’t lost anything, in such a very funny andnatural manner, that Oliver laughed till the tears ran down his face. All thistime, the two boys followed him closely about: getting out of his sight, sonimbly, every time he turned round, that it was impossible to follow theirmotions. At last, the Dodger trod upon his toes, or ran upon his bootaccidently, while Charley Bates stumbled up against him behind; and in that onemoment they took from him, with the most extraordinary rapidity, snuff-box,note-case, watch-guard, chain, shirt-pin, pocket-handkerchief, even thespectacle-case. If the old gentleman felt a hand in any one of his pockets, hecried out where it was; and then the game began all over again.
When this game had been played a great many times, a couple of young ladiescalled to see the young gentleman; one of whom was named Bet, and the otherNancy. They wore a good deal of hair, not very neatly turned up behind, andwere rather untidy about the shoes and stockings. They were not exactly pretty,perhaps; but they had a great deal of colour in their faces, and looked quitestout and hearty. Being remarkably free and agreeable in their manners, Oliverthought them very nice girls indeed, as there is no doubt they were.
The visitors stopped a long time. Spirits were produced, in consequence of oneof the young ladies complaining of a coldness in her inside; and theconversation took a very convivial and improving turn. At length, Charley Batesexpressed his opinion that it was time to pad the hoof. This, it occurred toOliver, must be French for going out; for directly afterwards, the Dodger, andCharley, and the two young ladies, went away together, having been kindlyfurnished by the amiable old Jew with money to spend.
“There, my dear,” said Fagin. “That’s a pleasant life, isn’t it? They have goneout for the day.”
“Have they done work, sir?” inquired Oliver.
“Yes,” said the Jew; “that is, unless they should unexpectedly come across any,when they are out; and they won’t neglect it, if they do, my dear, depend uponit. Make ’em your models, my dear. Make ’em your models,” tapping thefire-shovel on the hearth to add force to his words; “do everything they bidyou, and take their advice in all matters—especially the Dodger’s, my dear.He’ll be a great man himself, and will make you one too, if you take pattern byhim.—Is my handkerchief hanging out of my pocket, my dear?” said the Jew,stopping short.
“Yes, sir,” said Oliver.
“See if you can take it out, without my feeling it; as you saw them do, when wewere at play this morning.”
Oliver held up the bottom of the pocket with one hand, as he had seen theDodger hold it, and drew the handkerchief lightly out of it with the other.
“Is it gone?” cried the Jew.
“Here it is, sir,” said Oliver, showing it in his hand.
“You’re a clever boy, my dear,” said the playful old gentleman, patting Oliveron the head approvingly. “I never saw a sharper lad. Here’s a shilling for you.If you go on, in this way, you’ll be the greatest man of the time. And now comehere, and I’ll show you how to take the marks out of the handkerchiefs.”
Oliver wondered what picking the old gentleman’s pocket in play, had to do withhis chances of being a great man. But, thinking that the Jew, being so much hissenior, must know best, he followed him quietly to the table, and was soondeeply involved in his new study.
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CHAPTER X. OLIVER BECOMES BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH THE CHARACTERS OF HIS NEW ASSOCIATES; AND PURCHASES EXPERIENCE AT A HIGH PRICE. BEING A SHORT, BUT VERY IMPORTANT CHAPTER, IN THIS HISTORY
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For many days, Oliver remained in the Jew’s room, picking the marks out of thepocket-handkerchief, (of which a great number were brought home,) and sometimestaking part in the game already described: which the two boys and the Jewplayed, regularly, every morning. At length, he began to languish for freshair, and took many occasions of earnestly entreating the old gentleman to allowhim to go out to work with his two companions.
Oliver was rendered the more anxious to be actively employed, by what he hadseen of the stern morality of the old gentleman’s character. Whenever theDodger or Charley Bates came home at night, empty-handed, he would expatiatewith great vehemence on the misery of idle and lazy habits; and would enforceupon them the necessity of an active life, by sending them supperless to bed.On one occasion, indeed, he even went so far as to knock them both down aflight of stairs; but this was carrying out his virtuous precepts to an unusualextent.
At length, one morning, Oliver obtained the permission he had so eagerlysought. There had been no handkerchiefs to work upon, for two or three days,and the dinners had been rather meagre. Perhaps these were reasons for the oldgentleman’s giving his assent; but, whether they were or no, he told Oliver hemight go, and placed him under the joint guardianship of Charley Bates, and hisfriend the Dodger.
The three boys sallied out; the Dodger with his coat-sleeves tucked up, and hishat cocked, as usual; Master Bates sauntering along with his hands in hispockets; and Oliver between them, wondering where they were going, and whatbranch of manufacture he would be instructed in first.
The pace at which they went, was such a very lazy, ill-looking saunter, thatOliver soon began to think his companions were going to deceive the oldgentleman, by not going to work at all. The Dodger had a vicious propensity,too, of pulling the caps from the heads of small boys and tossing them downareas; while Charley Bates exhibited some very loose notions concerning therights of property, by pilfering divers apples and onions from the stalls atthe kennel sides, and thrusting them into pockets which were so surprisinglycapacious, that they seemed to undermine his whole suit of clothes in everydirection. These things looked so bad, that Oliver was on the point ofdeclaring his intention of seeking his way back, in the best way he could; whenhis thoughts were suddenly directed into another channel, by a very mysteriouschange of behaviour on the part of the Dodger.
They were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open square inClerkenwell, which is yet called, by some strange perversion of terms, “TheGreen”: when the Dodger made a sudden stop; and, laying his finger on his lip,drew his companions back again, with the greatest caution and circumspection.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Oliver.
“Hush!” replied the Dodger. “Do you see that old cove at the book-stall?”
“The old gentleman over the way?” said Oliver. “Yes, I see him.”
“He’ll do,” said the Dodger.
“A prime plant,” observed Master Charley Bates.
Oliver looked from one to the other, with the greatest surprise; but he was notpermitted to make any inquiries; for the two boys walked stealthily across theroad, and slunk close behind the old gentleman towards whom his attention hadbeen directed. Oliver walked a few paces after them; and, not knowing whetherto advance or retire, stood looking on in silent amazement.
The old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a powderedhead and gold spectacles. He was dressed in a bottle-green coat with a blackvelvet collar; wore white trousers; and carried a smart bamboo cane under hisarm. He had taken up a book from the stall, and there he stood, reading away,as hard as if he were in his elbow-chair, in his own study. It is very possiblethat he fancied himself there, indeed; for it was plain, from his abstraction,that he saw not the book-stall, nor the street, nor the boys, nor, in short,anything but the book itself: which he was reading straight through: turningover the leaf when he got to the bottom of a page, beginning at the top line ofthe next one, and going regularly on, with the greatest interest and eagerness.
What was Oliver’s horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, looking on withhis eyelids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see the Dodger plungehis hand into the old gentleman’s pocket, and draw from thence a handkerchief!To see him hand the same to Charley Bates; and finally to behold them, bothrunning away round the corner at full speed!
In an instant the whole mystery of the hankerchiefs, and the watches, and thejewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy’s mind.
He stood, for a moment, with the blood so tingling through all his veins fromterror, that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then, confused andfrightened, he took to his heels; and, not knowing what he did, made off asfast as he could lay his feet to the ground.
This was all done in a minute’s space. In the very instant when Oliver began torun, the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket, and missing hishandkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding away at such a rapidpace, he very naturally concluded him to be the depredator; and shouting “Stopthief!” with all his might, made off after him, book in hand.
But the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the hue-and-cry. TheDodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract public attention by running downthe open street, had merely retired into the very first doorway round thecorner. They no sooner heard the cry, and saw Oliver running, than, guessingexactly how the matter stood, they issued forth with great promptitude; and,shouting “Stop thief!” too, joined in the pursuit like good citizens.
Although Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he was not theoreticallyacquainted with the beautiful axiom that self-preservation is the first law ofnature. If he had been, perhaps he would have been prepared for this. Not beingprepared, however, it alarmed him the more; so away he went like the wind, withthe old gentleman and the two boys roaring and shouting behind him.
“Stop thief! Stop thief!” There is a magic in the sound. The tradesman leaveshis counter, and the car-man his waggon; the butcher throws down his tray; thebaker his basket; the milkman his pail; the errand-boy his parcels; theschool-boy his marbles; the paviour his pickaxe; the child his battledore. Awaythey run, pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash: tearing, yelling, screaming,knocking down the passengers as they turn the corners, rousing up the dogs, andastonishing the fowls: and streets, squares, and courts, re-echo with thesound.
“Stop thief! Stop thief!” The cry is taken up by a hundred voices, and thecrowd accumulate at every turning. Away they fly, splashing through the mud,and rattling along the pavements: up go the windows, out run the people, onwardbear the mob, a whole audience desert Punch in the very thickest of the plot,and, joining the rushing throng, swell the shout, and lend fresh vigour to thecry, “Stop thief! Stop thief!”
“Stop thief! Stop thief!” There is a passion for hunting somethingdeeply implanted in the human breast. One wretched breathless child, pantingwith exhaustion; terror in his looks; agony in his eyes; large drops ofperspiration streaming down his face; strains every nerve to make head upon hispursuers; and as they follow on his track, and gain upon him every instant,they hail his decreasing strength with joy. “Stop thief!” Ay, stop him forGod’s sake, were it only in mercy!
Stopped at last! A clever blow. He is down upon the pavement; and the crowdeagerly gather round him: each new comer, jostling and struggling with theothers to catch a glimpse. “Stand aside!” “Give him a little air!” “Nonsense!he don’t deserve it.” “Where’s the gentleman?” “Here he is, coming down thestreet.” “Make room there for the gentleman!” “Is this the boy, sir!” “Yes.”
Oliver lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth, lookingwildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when the old gentlemanwas officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by the foremost of thepursuers.
“Yes,” said the gentleman, “I am afraid it is the boy.”
“Afraid!” murmured the crowd. “That’s a good ’un!”
“Poor fellow!” said the gentleman, “he has hurt himself.”
“I did that, sir,” said a great lubberly fellow, stepping forward; “andpreciously I cut my knuckle agin’ his mouth. I stopped him, sir.”
The fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his pains; but,the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of dislike, look anxiouslyround, as if he contemplated running away himself: which it is very possible hemight have attempted to do, and thus have afforded another chase, had not apolice officer (who is generally the last person to arrive in such cases) atthat moment made his way through the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar.
“Come, get up,” said the man, roughly.
“It wasn’t me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys,” said Oliver,clasping his hands passionately, and looking round. “They are here somewhere.”
“Oh no, they ain’t,” said the officer. He meant this to be ironical, but it wastrue besides; for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off down the firstconvenient court they came to.
“Come, get up!”
“Don’t hurt him,” said the old gentleman, compassionately.
“Oh no, I won’t hurt him,” replied the officer, tearing his jacket half off hisback, in proof thereof. “Come, I know you; it won’t do. Will you stand uponyour legs, you young devil?”
Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself on his feet, andwas at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar, at a rapid pace. Thegentleman walked on with them by the officer’s side; and as many of the crowdas could achieve the feat, got a little ahead, and stared back at Oliver fromtime to time. The boys shouted in triumph; and on they went.
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CHAPTER XI. TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE
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The offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the immediateneighbourhood of, a very notorious metropolitan police office. The crowd hadonly the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or three streets, anddown a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led beneath a low archway, and upa dirty court, into this dispensary of summary justice, by the back way. It wasa small paved yard into which they turned; and here they encountered a stoutman with a bunch of whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand.
“What’s the matter now?” said the man carelessly.
“A young fogle-hunter,” replied the man who had Oliver in charge.
“Are you the party that’s been robbed, sir?” inquired the man with the keys.
“Yes, I am,” replied the old gentleman; “but I am not sure that this boyactually took the handkerchief. I—I would rather not press the case.”
“Must go before the magistrate now, sir,” replied the man. “His worship will bedisengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!”
This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked ashe spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched; and nothingbeing found upon him, locked up.
This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not solight. It was most intolerably dirty; for it was Monday morning; and it hadbeen tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up, elsewhere, sinceSaturday night. But this is little. In our station-houses, men and women areevery night confined on the most trivial charges—the word is worth noting—indungeons, compared with which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrociousfelons, tried, found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let anyone who doubts this, compare the two.
The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated in thelock. He turned with a sigh to the book, which had been the innocent cause ofall this disturbance.
“There is something in that boy’s face,” said the old gentleman to himself ashe walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of the book, in athoughtful manner; “something that touches and interests me. Can he beinnocent? He looked like— Bye the bye,” exclaimed the old gentleman, haltingvery abruptly, and staring up into the sky, “Bless my soul!—where have I seensomething like that look before?”
After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the samemeditative face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard; and there,retiring into a corner, called up before his mind’s eye a vast amphitheatre offaces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many years. “No,” said the oldgentleman, shaking his head; “it must be imagination.”
He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was not easyto replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There were the faces offriends, and foes, and of many that had been almost strangers peeringintrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of young and blooming girlsthat were now old women; there were faces that the grave had changed and closedupon, but which the mind, superior to its power, still dressed in their oldfreshness and beauty, calling back the lustre of the eyes, the brightness ofthe smile, the beaming of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering ofbeauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth onlyto be set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path toHeaven.
But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver’sfeatures bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he awakened;and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried them again inthe pages of the musty book.
He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with thekeys to follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily; and was at onceushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang.
The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang sat behind abar, at the upper end; and on one side of the door was a sort of wooden pen inwhich poor little Oliver was already deposited; trembling very much at theawfulness of the scene.
Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no greatquantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head.His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit ofdrinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have broughtaction against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages.
The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate’s desk,said, suiting the action to the word, “That is my name and address, sir.” Hethen withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanlyinclination of the head, waited to be questioned.
Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading articlein a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, andcommending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special andparticular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was outof temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl.
“Who are you?” said Mr. Fang.
The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.
“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with thenewspaper. “Who is this fellow?”
“My name, sir,” said the old gentleman, speaking like a gentleman, “myname, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate whooffers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under theprotection of the bench.” Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office asif in search of some person who would afford him the required information.
“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, “what’s this fellowcharged with?”
“He’s not charged at all, your worship,” replied the officer. “He appearsagainst this boy, your worship.”
His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safeone.
“Appears against the boy, does he?” said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlowcontemptuously from head to foot. “Swear him!”
“Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word,” said Mr. Brownlow; “and thatis, that I really never, without actual experience, could have believed—”
“Hold your tongue, sir!” said Mr. Fang, peremptorily.
“I will not, sir!” replied the old gentleman.
“Hold your tongue this instant, or I’ll have you turned out of the office!”said Mr. Fang. “You’re an insolent impertinent fellow. How dare you bully amagistrate!”
“What!” exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.
“Swear this person!” said Fang to the clerk. “I’ll not hear another word. Swearhim.”
Mr. Brownlow’s indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps, that hemight only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings andsubmitted to be sworn at once.
“Now,” said Fang, “what’s the charge against this boy? What have you got tosay, sir?”
“I was standing at a bookstall—” Mr. Brownlow began.
“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mr. Fang. “Policeman! Where’s the policeman?Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?”
The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the charge; howhe had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person; and how that was allhe knew about it.
“Are there any witnesses?” inquired Mr. Fang.
“None, your worship,” replied the policeman.
Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to theprosecutor, said in a towering passion.
“Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or do younot? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give evidence,I’ll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by—”
By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailor coughed very loud,just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy book upon the floor,thus preventing the word from being heard—accidently, of course.
With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived to statehis case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he had run after theboy because he had seen him running away; and expressing his hope that, if themagistrate should believe him, although not actually the thief, to be connectedwith the thieves, he would deal as leniently with him as justice would allow.
“He has been hurt already,” said the old gentleman in conclusion. “And I fear,”he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, “I really fear that he isill.”
“Oh! yes, I dare say!” said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. “Come, none of your trickshere, you young vagabond; they won’t do. What’s your name?”
Oliver tried to reply but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale; and thewhole place seemed turning round and round.
“What’s your name, you hardened scoundrel?” demanded Mr. Fang. “Officer, what’shis name?”
This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat, who wasstanding by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry; but findinghim really incapable of understanding the question; and knowing that his notreplying would only infuriate the magistrate the more, and add to the severityof his sentence; he hazarded a guess.
“He says his name’s Tom White, your worship,” said the kind-heartedthief-taker.
“Oh, he won’t speak out, won’t he?” said Fang. “Very well, very well. Wheredoes he live?”
“Where he can, your worship,” replied the officer; again pretending to receiveOliver’s answer.
“Has he any parents?” inquired Mr. Fang.
“He says they died in his infancy, your worship,” replied the officer:hazarding the usual reply.
At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and, looking round withimploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water.
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Mr. Fang: “don’t try to make a fool of me.”
“I think he really is ill, your worship,” remonstrated the officer.
“I know better,” said Mr. Fang.
“Take care of him, officer,” said the old gentleman, raising his handsinstinctively; “he’ll fall down.”
“Stand away, officer,” cried Fang; “let him, if he likes.”
Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the floor in afainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one dared tostir.
“I knew he was shamming,” said Fang, as if this were incontestable proof of thefact. “Let him lie there; he’ll soon be tired of that.”
“How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?” inquired the clerk in a lowvoice.
“Summarily,” replied Mr. Fang. “He stands committed for three months—hardlabour of course. Clear the office.”
The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were preparing tocarry the insensible boy to his cell; when an elderly man of decent but poorappearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed hastily into the office, andadvanced towards the bench.
“Stop, stop! don’t take him away! For Heaven’s sake stop a moment!” cried thenew comer, breathless with haste.
Although the presiding Genii in such an office as this, exercise a summary andarbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the character, almost thelives, of Her Majesty’s subjects, especially of the poorer class; and although,within such walls, enough fantastic tricks are daily played to make the angelsblind with weeping; they are closed to the public, save through the medium ofthe daily press. Mr. Fang was consequently not a little indignant to see anunbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder.
“What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office!” cried Mr.Fang.
“I will speak,” cried the man; “I will not be turned out. I saw it all.I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put down. Mr. Fang,you must hear me. You must not refuse, sir.”
The man was right. His manner was determined; and the matter was growing rathertoo serious to be hushed up.
“Swear the man,” growled Mr. Fang, with a very ill grace. “Now, man, what haveyou got to say?”
“This,” said the man: “I saw three boys: two others and the prisoner here:loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman was reading. Therobbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done; and I saw that this boywas perfectly amazed and stupified by it.” Having by this time recovered alittle breath, the worthy book-stall keeper proceeded to relate, in a morecoherent manner the exact circumstances of the robbery.
“Why didn’t you come here before?” said Fang, after a pause.
“I hadn’t a soul to mind the shop,” replied the man. “Everybody who could havehelped me, had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till five minutes ago;and I’ve run here all the way.”
“The prosecutor was reading, was he?” inquired Fang, after another pause.
“Yes,” replied the man. “The very book he has in his hand.”
“Oh, that book, eh?” said Fang. “Is it paid for?”
“No, it is not,” replied the man, with a smile.
“Dear me, I forgot all about it!” exclaimed the absent old gentleman,innocently.
“A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!” said Fang, with acomical effort to look humane. “I consider, sir, that you have obtainedpossession of that book, under very suspicious and disreputable circumstances;and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner of the propertydeclines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law willovertake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!”
“D—n me!” cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had kept downso long, “d—n me! I’ll—”
“Clear the office!” said the magistrate. “Officers, do you hear? Clear theoffice!”
The mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed out, withthe book in one hand, and the bamboo cane in the other: in a perfect phrenzy ofrage and defiance. He reached the yard; and his passion vanished in a moment.Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned,and his temples bathed with water; his face a deadly white; and a cold trembleconvulsing his whole frame.
“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. “Call a coach,somebody, pray. Directly!”
A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid on the seat, theold gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.
“May I accompany you?” said the book-stall keeper, looking in.
“Bless me, yes, my dear sir,” said Mr. Brownlow quickly. “I forgot you. Dear,dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jump in. Poor fellow! There’s no time tolose.”
The book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove.
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CHAPTER XII. IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. AND IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL FRIENDS.
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The coach rattled away, over nearly the same ground as that which Oliver hadtraversed when he first entered London in company with the Dodger; and, turninga different way when it reached the Angel at Islington, stopped at lengthbefore a neat house, in a quiet shady street near Pentonville. Here, a bed wasprepared, without loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young chargecarefully and comfortably deposited; and here, he was tended with a kindnessand solicitude that knew no bounds.
But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of his newfriends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and many times afterthat; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneaththe dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm does not work more surely on thedead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame.
Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have been along and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with his headresting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously around.
“What room is this? Where have I been brought to?” said Oliver. “This is notthe place I went to sleep in.”
He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak; but theywere overheard at once. The curtain at the bed’s head was hastily drawn back,and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely dressed, rose as she undrewit, from an arm-chair close by, in which she had been sitting at needle-work.
“Hush, my dear,” said the old lady softly. “You must be very quiet, or you willbe ill again; and you have been very bad,—as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh.Lie down again; there’s a dear!” With those words, the old lady very gentlyplaced Oliver’s head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from hisforehead, looked so kindly and loving in his face, that he could not helpplacing his little withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck.
“Save us!” said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. “What a grateful littledear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him asI have, and could see him now!”
“Perhaps she does see me,” whispered Oliver, folding his hands together;“perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had.”
“That was the fever, my dear,” said the old lady mildly.
“I suppose it was,” replied Oliver, “because heaven is a long way off; and theyare too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knewI was ill, she must have pitied me, even there; for she was very ill herselfbefore she died. She can’t know anything about me though,” added Oliver after amoment’s silence. “If she had seen me hurt, it would have made her sorrowful;and her face has always looked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of her.”
The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and herspectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part andparcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink; andthen, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very quiet, or he would beill again.
So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to obey the kind oldlady in all things; and partly, to tell the truth, because he was completelyexhausted with what he had already said. He soon fell into a gentle doze, fromwhich he was awakened by the light of a candle: which, being brought near thebed, showed him a gentleman with a very large and loud-ticking gold watch inhis hand, who felt his pulse, and said he was a great deal better.
“You are a great deal better, are you not, my dear?” said the gentleman.
“Yes, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.
“Yes, I know you are,” said the gentleman: “You’re hungry too, an’t you?”
“No, sir,” answered Oliver.
“Hem!” said the gentleman. “No, I know you’re not. He is not hungry, Mrs.Bedwin,” said the gentleman: looking very wise.
The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed to saythat she thought the doctor was a very clever man. The doctor appeared much ofthe same opinion himself.
“You feel sleepy, don’t you, my dear?” said the doctor.
“No, sir,” replied Oliver.
“No,” said the doctor, with a very shrewd and satisfied look. “You’re notsleepy. Nor thirsty. Are you?”
“Yes, sir, rather thirsty,” answered Oliver.
“Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,” said the doctor. “It’s very natural that heshould be thirsty. You may give him a little tea, ma’am, and some dry toastwithout any butter. Don’t keep him too warm, ma’am; but be careful that youdon’t let him be too cold; will you have the goodness?”
The old lady dropped a curtsey. The doctor, after tasting the cool stuff, andexpressing a qualified approval of it, hurried away: his boots creaking in avery important and wealthy manner as he went downstairs.
Oliver dozed off again, soon after this; when he awoke, it was nearly twelveo’clock. The old lady tenderly bade him good-night shortly afterwards, and lefthim in charge of a fat old woman who had just come: bringing with her, in alittle bundle, a small Prayer Book and a large nightcap. Putting the latter onher head and the former on the table, the old woman, after telling Oliver thatshe had come to sit up with him, drew her chair close to the fire and went offinto a series of short naps, chequered at frequent intervals with sundrytumblings forward, and divers moans and chokings. These, however, had no worseeffect than causing her to rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep again.
And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some time, countingthe little circles of light which the reflection of the rushlight-shade threwupon the ceiling; or tracing with his languid eyes the intricate pattern of thepaper on the wall. The darkness and the deep stillness of the room were verysolemn; as they brought into the boy’s mind the thought that death had beenhovering there, for many days and nights, and might yet fill it with the gloomand dread of his awful presence, he turned his face upon the pillow, andfervently prayed to Heaven.
Gradually, he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which ease from recentsuffering alone imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which it is pain to wakefrom. Who, if this were death, would be roused again to all the struggles andturmoils of life; to all its cares for the present; its anxieties for thefuture; more than all, its weary recollections of the past!
It had been bright day, for hours, when Oliver opened his eyes; he feltcheerful and happy. The crisis of the disease was safely past. He belonged tothe world again.
In three days’ time he was able to sit in an easy-chair, well propped up withpillows; and, as he was still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin had him carrieddownstairs into the little housekeeper’s room, which belonged to her. Havinghim set, here, by the fire-side, the good old lady sat herself down too; and,being in a state of considerable delight at seeing him so much better,forthwith began to cry most violently.
“Never mind me, my dear,” said the old lady; “I’m only having a regular goodcry. There; it’s all over now; and I’m quite comfortable.”
“You’re very, very kind to me, ma’am,” said Oliver.
“Well, never you mind that, my dear,” said the old lady; “that’s got nothing todo with your broth; and it’s full time you had it; for the doctor says Mr.Brownlow may come in to see you this morning; and we must get up our bestlooks, because the better we look, the more he’ll be pleased.” And with this,the old lady applied herself to warming up, in a little saucepan, a basin fullof broth: strong enough, Oliver thought, to furnish an ample dinner, whenreduced to the regulation strength, for three hundred and fifty paupers, at thelowest computation.
“Are you fond of pictures, dear?” inquired the old lady, seeing that Oliver hadfixed his eyes, most intently, on a portrait which hung against the wall; justopposite his chair.
“I don’t quite know, ma’am,” said Oliver, without taking his eyes from thecanvas; “I have seen so few that I hardly know. What a beautiful, mild facethat lady’s is!”
“Ah!” said the old lady, “painters always make ladies out prettier than theyare, or they wouldn’t get any custom, child. The man that invented the machinefor taking likenesses might have known that would never succeed; it’s adeal too honest. A deal,” said the old lady, laughing very heartily at her ownacuteness.
“Is—is that a likeness, ma’am?” said Oliver.
“Yes,” said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth; “that’s aportrait.”
“Whose, ma’am?” asked Oliver.
“Why, really, my dear, I don’t know,” answered the old lady in a good-humouredmanner. “It’s not a likeness of anybody that you or I know, I expect. It seemsto strike your fancy, dear.”
“It is so pretty,” replied Oliver.
“Why, sure you’re not afraid of it?” said the old lady: observing in greatsurprise, the look of awe with which the child regarded the painting.
“Oh no, no,” returned Oliver quickly; “but the eyes look so sorrowful; andwhere I sit, they seem fixed upon me. It makes my heart beat,” added Oliver ina low voice, “as if it was alive, and wanted to speak to me, but couldn’t.”
“Lord save us!” exclaimed the old lady, starting; “don’t talk in that way,child. You’re weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel your chairround to the other side; and then you won’t see it. There!” said the old lady,suiting the action to the word; “you don’t see it now, at all events.”
Oliver did see it in his mind’s eye as distinctly as if he had notaltered his position; but he thought it better not to worry the kind old lady;so he smiled gently when she looked at him; and Mrs. Bedwin, satisfied that hefelt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of toasted bread into the broth,with all the bustle befitting so solemn a preparation. Oliver got through itwith extraordinary expedition. He had scarcely swallowed the last spoonful,when there came a soft rap at the door. “Come in,” said the old lady; and inwalked Mr. Brownlow.
Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but, he had no soonerraised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands behind the skirtsof his dressing-gown to take a good long look at Oliver, than his countenanceunderwent a very great variety of odd contortions. Oliver looked very worn andshadowy from sickness, and made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out ofrespect to his benefactor, which terminated in his sinking back into the chairagain; and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow’s heart,being large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane disposition,forced a supply of tears into his eyes, by some hydraulic process which we arenot sufficiently philosophical to be in a condition to explain.
“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. “I’m ratherhoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I’m afraid I have caught cold.”
“I hope not, sir,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Everything you have had, has been wellaired, sir.”
“I don’t know, Bedwin. I don’t know,” said Mr. Brownlow; “I rather think I hada damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but never mind that. How do you feel,my dear?”
“Very happy, sir,” replied Oliver. “And very grateful indeed, sir, for yourgoodness to me.”
“Good boy,” said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. “Have you given him any nourishment,Bedwin? Any slops, eh?”
“He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir,” replied Mrs. Bedwin,drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong emphasis on the last word, tointimate that between slops, and broth well compounded, there existed noaffinity or connection whatsoever.
“Ugh!” said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; “a couple of glasses of portwine would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn’t they, Tom White, eh?”
“My name is Oliver, sir,” replied the little invalid with a look of greatastonishment.
“Oliver,” said Mr. Brownlow; “Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?”
“No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist.”
“Queer name!” said the old gentleman. “What made you tell the magistrate yourname was White?”
“I never told him so, sir,” returned Oliver in amazement.
This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked somewhatsternly in Oliver’s face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was truth inevery one of its thin and sharpened lineaments.
“Some mistake,” said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for lookingsteadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance betweenhis features and some familiar face came upon him so strongly, that he couldnot withdraw his gaze.
“I hope you are not angry with me, sir?” said Oliver, raising his eyesbeseechingly.
“No, no,” replied the old gentleman. “Why! what’s this? Bedwin, look there!”
As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver’s head, and then tothe boy’s face. There was its living copy. The eyes, the head, the mouth; everyfeature was the same. The expression was, for the instant, so precisely alike,that the minutest line seemed copied with startling accuracy!
Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not being strongenough to bear the start it gave him, he fainted away. A weakness on his part,which affords the narrative an opportunity of relieving the reader fromsuspense, in behalf of the two young pupils of the Merry Old Gentleman; and ofrecording—
That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates, joined in thehue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver’s heels, in consequence of theirexecuting an illegal conveyance of Mr. Brownlow’s personal property, as hasbeen already described, they were actuated by a very laudable and becomingregard for themselves; and forasmuch as the freedom of the subject and theliberty of the individual are among the first and proudest boasts of atrue-hearted Englishman, so, I need hardly beg the reader to observe, that thisaction should tend to exalt them in the opinion of all public and patrioticmen, in almost as great a degree as this strong proof of their anxiety fortheir own preservation and safety goes to corroborate and confirm the littlecode of laws which certain profound and sound-judging philosophers have laiddown as the main-springs of all Nature’s deeds and actions: the saidphilosophers very wisely reducing the good lady’s proceedings to matters ofmaxim and theory: and, by a very neat and pretty compliment to her exaltedwisdom and understanding, putting entirely out of sight any considerations ofheart, or generous impulse and feeling. For, these are matters totally beneatha female who is acknowledged by universal admission to be far above thenumerous little foibles and weaknesses of her sex.
If I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical nature of theconduct of these young gentlemen in their very delicate predicament, I shouldat once find it in the fact (also recorded in a foregoing part of thisnarrative), of their quitting the pursuit, when the general attention was fixedupon Oliver; and making immediately for their home by the shortest possiblecut. Although I do not mean to assert that it is usually the practice ofrenowned and learned sages, to shorten the road to any great conclusion (theircourse indeed being rather to lengthen the distance, by various circumlocutionsand discursive staggerings, like unto those in which drunken men under thepressure of a too mighty flow of ideas, are prone to indulge); still, I do meanto say, and do say distinctly, that it is the invariable practice of manymighty philosophers, in carrying out their theories, to evince great wisdom andforesight in providing against every possible contingency which can be supposedat all likely to affect themselves. Thus, to do a great right, you may do alittle wrong; and you may take any means which the end to be attained, willjustify; the amount of the right, or the amount of the wrong, or indeed thedistinction between the two, being left entirely to the philosopher concerned,to be settled and determined by his clear, comprehensive, and impartial view ofhis own particular case.
It was not until the two boys had scoured, with great rapidity, through a mostintricate maze of narrow streets and courts, that they ventured to halt beneatha low and dark archway. Having remained silent here, just long enough torecover breath to speak, Master Bates uttered an exclamation of amusement anddelight; and, bursting into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, flung himselfupon a doorstep, and rolled thereon in a transport of mirth.
“What’s the matter?” inquired the Dodger.
“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Charley Bates.
“Hold your noise,” remonstrated the Dodger, looking cautiously round. “Do youwant to be grabbed, stupid?”
“I can’t help it,” said Charley, “I can’t help it! To see him splitting away atthat pace, and cutting round the corners, and knocking up again’ the posts, andstarting on again as if he was made of iron as well as them, and me with thewipe in my pocket, singing out arter him—oh, my eye!” The vivid imagination ofMaster Bates presented the scene before him in too strong colours. As hearrived at this apostrophe, he again rolled upon the door-step, and laughedlouder than before.
“What’ll Fagin say?” inquired the Dodger; taking advantage of the next intervalof breathlessness on the part of his friend to propound the question.
“What?” repeated Charley Bates.
“Ah, what?” said the Dodger.
“Why, what should he say?” inquired Charley: stopping rather suddenly in hismerriment; for the Dodger’s manner was impressive. “What should he say?”
Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then, taking off his hat,scratched his head, and nodded thrice.
“What do you mean?” said Charley.
“Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage, the frog he wouldn’t, and highcockolorum,” said the Dodger: with a slight sneer on his intellectualcountenance.
This was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Master Bates felt it so; and againsaid, “What do you mean?”
The Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on again, and gathering theskirts of his long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust his tongue into his cheek,slapped the bridge of his nose some half-dozen times in a familiar butexpressive manner, and turning on his heel, slunk down the court. Master Batesfollowed, with a thoughtful countenance.
The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after theoccurrence of this conversation, roused the merry old gentleman as he sat overthe fire with a saveloy and a small loaf in his hand; a pocket-knife in hisright; and a pewter pot on the trivet. There was a rascally smile on his whiteface as he turned round, and looking sharply out from under his thick redeyebrows, bent his ear towards the door, and listened.
“Why, how’s this?” muttered the Jew: changing countenance; “only two of ’em?Where’s the third? They can’t have got into trouble. Hark!”
The footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing. The door was slowlyopened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closing it behind them.
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CHAPTER XIII. SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT READER, CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED, APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY
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“Where’s Oliver?” said the Jew, rising with a menacing look. “Where’s the boy?”
The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his violence;and looked uneasily at each other. But they made no reply.
“What’s become of the boy?” said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by thecollar, and threatening him with horrid imprecations. “Speak out, or I’llthrottle you!”
Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who deemed itprudent in all cases to be on the safe side, and who conceived it by no meansimprobable that it might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped upon hisknees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, and continuous roar—something betweena mad bull and a speaking trumpet.
“Will you speak?” thundered the Jew: shaking the Dodger so much that hiskeeping in the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous.
“Why, the traps have got him, and that’s all about it,” said the Dodger,sullenly. “Come, let go o’ me, will you!” And, swinging himself, at one jerk,clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew’s hands, the Dodgersnatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old gentleman’swaistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a little moremerriment out than could have been easily replaced.
The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have beenanticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot,prepared to hurl it at his assailant’s head. But Charley Bates, at this moment,calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered itsdestination, and flung it full at that young gentleman.
“Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!” growled a deep voice. “Who pitchedthat ’ere at me? It’s well it’s the beer, and not the pot, as hit me, or I’dhave settled somebody. I might have know’d, as nobody but an infernal, rich,plundering, thundering old Jew could afford to throw away any drink butwater—and not that, unless he done the River Company every quarter. Wot’s itall about, Fagin? D—me, if my neck-handkercher an’t lined with beer! Come in,you sneaking warmint; wot are you stopping outside for, as if you was ashamedof your master! Come in!”
The man who growled out these words, was a stoutly-built fellow of aboutfive-and-thirty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches, lace-uphalf boots, and grey cotton stockings which inclosed a bulky pair of legs, withlarge swelling calves;—the kind of legs, which in such costume, always look inan unfinished and incomplete state without a set of fetters to garnish them. Hehad a brown hat on his head, and a dirty belcher handkerchief round his neck:with the long frayed ends of which he smeared the beer from his face as hespoke. He disclosed, when he had done so, a broad heavy countenance with abeard of three days’ growth, and two scowling eyes; one of which displayedvarious parti-coloured symptoms of having been recently damaged by a blow.
“Come in, d’ye hear?” growled this engaging ruffian.
A white shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty differentplaces, skulked into the room.
“Why didn’t you come in afore?” said the man. “You’re getting too proud to ownme afore company, are you? Lie down!”
This command was accompanied with a kick, which sent the animal to the otherend of the room. He appeared well used to it, however; for he coiled himself upin a corner very quietly, without uttering a sound, and winking his veryill-looking eyes twenty times in a minute, appeared to occupy himself in takinga survey of the apartment.
“What are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious,in-sa-ti-a-ble old fence?” said the man, seating himself deliberately. “Iwonder they don’t murder you! I would if I was them. If I’d been your’prentice, I’d have done it long ago, and—no, I couldn’t have sold youafterwards, for you’re fit for nothing but keeping as a curiousity of uglinessin a glass bottle, and I suppose they don’t blow glass bottles large enough.”
“Hush! hush! Mr. Sikes,” said the Jew, trembling; “don’t speak so loud!”
“None of your mistering,” replied the ruffian; “you always mean mischief whenyou come that. You know my name: out with it! I shan’t disgrace it when thetime comes.”
“Well, well, then—Bill Sikes,” said the Jew, with abject humility. “You seemout of humour, Bill.”
“Perhaps I am,” replied Sikes; “I should think you was rather out of sorts too,unless you mean as little harm when you throw pewter pots about, as you do whenyou blab and—”
“Are you mad?” said the Jew, catching the man by the sleeve, and pointingtowards the boys.
Mr. Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary knot under his left ear,and jerking his head over on the right shoulder; a piece of dumb show which theJew appeared to understand perfectly. He then, in cant terms, with which hiswhole conversation was plentifully besprinkled, but which would be quiteunintelligible if they were recorded here, demanded a glass of liquor.
“And mind you don’t poison it,” said Mr. Sikes, laying his hat upon the table.
This was said in jest; but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer withwhich the Jew bit his pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard, he mighthave thought the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish (at all events) toimprove upon the distiller’s ingenuity not very far from the old gentleman’smerry heart.
After swallowing two of three glasses of spirits, Mr. Sikes condescended totake some notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious act led to aconversation, in which the cause and manner of Oliver’s capture werecircumstantially detailed, with such alterations and improvements on the truth,as to the Dodger appeared most advisable under the circumstances.
“I’m afraid,” said the Jew, “that he may say something which will get us intotrouble.”
“That’s very likely,” returned Sikes with a malicious grin. “You’re blowedupon, Fagin.”
“And I’m afraid, you see,” added the Jew, speaking as if he had not noticed theinterruption; and regarding the other closely as he did so,—“I’m afraid that,if the game was up with us, it might be up with a good many more, and that itwould come out rather worse for you than it would for me, my dear.”
The man started, and turned round upon the Jew. But the old gentleman’sshoulders were shrugged up to his ears; and his eyes were vacantly staring onthe opposite wall.
There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie appearedplunged in his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by a certainmalicious licking of his lips seemed to be meditating an attack upon the legsof the first gentleman or lady he might encounter in the streets when he wentout.
“Somebody must find out wot’s been done at the office,” said Mr. Sikes in amuch lower tone than he had taken since he came in.
The Jew nodded assent.
“If he hasn’t peached, and is committed, there’s no fear till he comes outagain,” said Mr. Sikes, “and then he must be taken care on. You must get holdof him somehow.”
Again the Jew nodded.
The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but, unfortunately,there was one very strong objection to its being adopted. This was, that theDodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and Mr. William Sikes, happened, one andall, to entertain a violent and deeply-rooted antipathy to going near apolice-office on any ground or pretext whatever.
How long they might have sat and looked at each other, in a state ofuncertainty not the most pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to guess. It isnot necessary to make any guesses on the subject, however; for the suddenentrance of the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen on a former occasion,caused the conversation to flow afresh.
“The very thing!” said the Jew. “Bet will go; won’t you, my dear?”
“Wheres?” inquired the young lady.
“Only just up to the office, my dear,” said the Jew coaxingly.
It is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm that shewould not, but that she merely expressed an emphatic and earnest desire to be“blessed” if she would; a polite and delicate evasion of the request, whichshows the young lady to have been possessed of that natural good breeding whichcannot bear to inflict upon a fellow-creature, the pain of a direct and pointedrefusal.
The Jew’s countenance fell. He turned from this young lady, who was gaily, notto say gorgeously attired, in a red gown, green boots, and yellow curl-papers,to the other female.
“Nancy, my dear,” said the Jew in a soothing manner, “what do you say?”
“That it won’t do; so it’s no use a-trying it on, Fagin,” replied Nancy.
“What do you mean by that?” said Mr. Sikes, looking up in a surly manner.
“What I say, Bill,” replied the lady collectedly.
“Why, you’re just the very person for it,” reasoned Mr. Sikes: “nobody abouthere knows anything of you.”
“And as I don’t want ’em to, neither,” replied Nancy in the same composedmanner, “it’s rather more no than yes with me, Bill.”
“She’ll go, Fagin,” said Sikes.
“No, she won’t, Fagin,” said Nancy.
“Yes, she will, Fagin,” said Sikes.
And Mr. Sikes was right. By dint of alternate threats, promises, and bribes,the lady in question was ultimately prevailed upon to undertake the commission.She was not, indeed, withheld by the same considerations as her agreeablefriend; for, having recently removed into the neighbourhood of Field Lane fromthe remote but genteel suburb of Ratcliffe, she was not under the sameapprehension of being recognised by any of her numerous acquaintances.
Accordingly, with a clean white apron tied over her gown, and her curl-paperstucked up under a straw bonnet,—both articles of dress being provided from theJew’s inexhaustible stock,—Miss Nancy prepared to issue forth on her errand.
“Stop a minute, my dear,” said the Jew, producing, a little covered basket.“Carry that in one hand. It looks more respectable, my dear.”
“Give her a door-key to carry in her t’other one, Fagin,” said Sikes; “it looksreal and genivine like.”
“Yes, yes, my dear, so it does,” said the Jew, hanging a large street-door keyon the forefinger of the young lady’s right hand. “There; very good! Very goodindeed, my dear!” said the Jew, rubbing his hands.
“Oh, my brother! My poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!” exclaimedNancy, bursting into tears, and wringing the little basket and the street-doorkey in an agony of distress. “What has become of him! Where have they taken himto! Oh, do have pity, and tell me what’s been done with the dear boy,gentlemen; do, gentlemen, if you please, gentlemen!”
Having uttered those words in a most lamentable and heart-broken tone: to theimmeasurable delight of her hearers: Miss Nancy paused, winked to the company,nodded smilingly round, and disappeared.
“Ah, she’s a clever girl, my dears,” said the Jew, turning round to his youngfriends, and shaking his head gravely, as if in mute admonition to them tofollow the bright example they had just beheld.
“She’s a honour to her sex,” said Mr. Sikes, filling his glass, and smiting thetable with his enormous fist. “Here’s her health, and wishing they was all likeher!”
While these, and many other encomiums, were being passed on the accomplishedNancy, that young lady made the best of her way to the police-office; whither,notwithstanding a little natural timidity consequent upon walking through thestreets alone and unprotected, she arrived in perfect safety shortlyafterwards.
Entering by the back way, she tapped softly with the key at one of thecell-doors, and listened. There was no sound within: so she coughed andlistened again. Still there was no reply: so she spoke.
“Nolly, dear?” murmured Nancy in a gentle voice; “Nolly?”
There was nobody inside but a miserable shoeless criminal, who had been takenup for playing the flute, and who, the offence against society having beenclearly proved, had been very properly committed by Mr. Fang to the House ofCorrection for one month; with the appropriate and amusing remark that since hehad so much breath to spare, it would be more wholesomely expended on thetreadmill than in a musical instrument. He made no answer: being occupiedmentally bewailing the loss of the flute, which had been confiscated for theuse of the county: so Nancy passed on to the next cell, and knocked there.
“Well!” cried a faint and feeble voice.
“Is there a little boy here?” inquired Nancy, with a preliminary sob.
“No,” replied the voice; “God forbid.”
This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for notplaying the flute; or, in other words, for begging in the streets, and doingnothing for his livelihood. In the next cell was another man, who was going tothe same prison for hawking tin saucepans without license; thereby doingsomething for his living, in defiance of the Stamp-office.
But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or knewanything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the stripedwaistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations, rendered morepiteous by a prompt and efficient use of the street-door key and the littlebasket, demanded her own dear brother.
“I haven’t got him, my dear,” said the old man.
“Where is he?” screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner.
“Why, the gentleman’s got him,” replied the officer.
“What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?” exclaimed Nancy.
In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeplyaffected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and discharged inconsequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have been committed byanother boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had carried him away, inan insensible condition, to his own residence: of and concerning which, all theinformant knew was, that it was somewhere in Pentonville, he having heard thatword mentioned in the directions to the coachman.
In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young womanstaggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run,returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think of, to thedomicile of the Jew.
Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than hevery hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiouslydeparted: without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the companygood-morning.
“We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,” said the Jew greatlyexcited. “Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news ofhim! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear,—to you andthe Artful for everything! Stay, stay,” added the Jew, unlocking a drawer witha shaking hand; “there’s money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop tonight.You’ll know where to find me! Don’t stop here a minute. Not an instant, mydears!”
With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-lockingand barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the boxwhich he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded todispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing.
A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. “Who’s there?” he cried in ashrill tone.
“Me!” replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole.
“What now?” cried the Jew impatiently.
“Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?” inquired the Dodger.
“Yes,” replied the Jew, “wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find himout, that’s all. I shall know what to do next; never fear.”
The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after hiscompanions.
“He has not peached so far,” said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. “If hemeans to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet.”
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CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER’S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW’S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND
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Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow’s abruptexclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided,both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued:which indeed bore no reference to Oliver’s history or prospects, but wasconfined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still tooweak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper’s roomnext day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope ofagain looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations weredisappointed, however, for the picture had been removed.
“Ah!” said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver’s eyes. “It isgone, you see.”
“I see it is ma’am,” replied Oliver. “Why have they taken it away?”
“It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed toworry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know,” rejoined theold lady.
“Oh, no, indeed. It didn’t worry me, ma’am,” said Oliver. “I liked to see it. Iquite loved it.”
“Well, well!” said the old lady, good-humouredly; “you get well as fast as everyou can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now,let us talk about something else.”
This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at thattime. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured tothink no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a greatmany stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, whowas married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and abouta son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, sucha good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a year, thatit brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady hadexpatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits ofher kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! justsix-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teachOliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at whichgame they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for theinvalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and thento go cosily to bed.
They were happy days, those of Oliver’s recovery. Everything was so quiet, andneat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise andturbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heavenitself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, thanMr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair ofshoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what heliked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind tohim, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. Thisshe very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and sawthe Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to thinkthat they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger of hisever being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; andOliver had never had a new suit before.
One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was sittingtalking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr. Brownlow, that ifOliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see him in his study, and talkto him a little while.
“Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your hair nicely foryou, child,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Dear heart alive! If we had known he would haveasked for you, we would have put you a clean collar on, and made you as smartas sixpence!”
Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented grievously,meanwhile, that there was not even time to crimp the little frill that borderedhis shirt-collar; he looked so delicate and handsome, despite that importantpersonal advantage, that she went so far as to say: looking at him with greatcomplacency from head to foot, that she really didn’t think it would have beenpossible, on the longest notice, to have made much difference in him for thebetter.
Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr. Brownlow calling tohim to come in, he found himself in a little back room, quite full of books,with a window, looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was a tabledrawn up before the window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When hesaw Oliver, he pushed the book away from him, and told him to come near thetable, and sit down. Oliver complied; marvelling where the people could befound to read such a great number of books as seemed to be written to make theworld wiser. Which is still a marvel to more experienced people than OliverTwist, every day of their lives.
“There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?” said Mr. Brownlow,observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the shelves that reachedfrom the floor to the ceiling.
“A great number, sir,” replied Oliver. “I never saw so many.”
“You shall read them, if you behave well,” said the old gentleman kindly; “andyou will like that, better than looking at the outsides,—that is, some cases;because there are books of which the backs and covers are by far the bestparts.”
“I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,” said Oliver, pointing to some largequartos, with a good deal of gilding about the binding.
“Not always those,” said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, andsmiling as he did so; “there are other equally heavy ones, though of a muchsmaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write books,eh?”
“I think I would rather read them, sir,” replied Oliver.
“What! wouldn’t you like to be a book-writer?” said the old gentleman.
Oliver considered a little while; and at last said, he should think it would bea much better thing to be a book-seller; upon which the old gentleman laughedheartily, and declared he had said a very good thing. Which Oliver felt glad tohave done, though he by no means knew what it was.
“Well, well,” said the old gentleman, composing his features. “Don’t be afraid!We won’t make an author of you, while there’s an honest trade to be learnt, orbrick-making to turn to.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Oliver. At the earnest manner of his reply, the oldgentleman laughed again; and said something about a curious instinct, whichOliver, not understanding, paid no very great attention to.
“Now,” said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but at the sametime in a much more serious manner, than Oliver had ever known him assume yet,“I want you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am going to say. I shalltalk to you without any reserve; because I am sure you are well able tounderstand me, as many older persons would be.”
“Oh, don’t tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!” exclaimed Oliver,alarmed at the serious tone of the old gentleman’s commencement! “Don’t turn meout of doors to wander in the streets again. Let me stay here, and be aservant. Don’t send me back to the wretched place I came from. Have mercy upona poor boy, sir!”
“My dear child,” said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of Oliver’s suddenappeal; “you need not be afraid of my deserting you, unless you give me cause.”
“I never, never will, sir,” interposed Oliver.
“I hope not,” rejoined the old gentleman. “I do not think you ever will. I havebeen deceived, before, in the objects whom I have endeavoured to benefit; but Ifeel strongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and I am more interested inyour behalf than I can well account for, even to myself. The persons on whom Ihave bestowed my dearest love, lie deep in their graves; but, although thehappiness and delight of my life lie buried there too, I have not made a coffinof my heart, and sealed it up, forever, on my best affections. Deep afflictionhas but strengthened and refined them.”
As the old gentleman said this in a low voice: more to himself than to hiscompanion: and as he remained silent for a short time afterwards: Oliver satquite still.
“Well, well!” said the old gentleman at length, in a more cheerful tone, “Ionly say this, because you have a young heart; and knowing that I have sufferedgreat pain and sorrow, you will be more careful, perhaps, not to wound meagain. You say you are an orphan, without a friend in the world; all theinquiries I have been able to make, confirm the statement. Let me hear yourstory; where you come from; who brought you up; and how you got into thecompany in which I found you. Speak the truth, and you shall not be friendlesswhile I live.”
Oliver’s sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he was on the pointof beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the farm, and carried tothe workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly impatient little double-knock washeard at the street-door: and the servant, running upstairs, announced Mr.Grimwig.
“Is he coming up?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.
“Yes, sir,” replied the servant. “He asked if there were any muffins in thehouse; and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea.”
Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr. Grimwig was an oldfriend of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in his manners;for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to know.
“Shall I go downstairs, sir?” inquired Oliver.
“No,” replied Mr. Brownlow, “I would rather you remained here.”
At this moment, there walked into the room: supporting himself by a thickstick: a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was dressed in a bluecoat, striped waistcoat, nankeen breeches and gaiters, and a broad-brimmedwhite hat, with the sides turned up with green. A very small-plaited shirtfrill stuck out from his waistcoat; and a very long steel watch-chain, withnothing but a key at the end, dangled loosely below it. The ends of his whiteneckerchief were twisted into a ball about the size of an orange; the varietyof shapes into which his countenance was twisted, defy description. He had amanner of screwing his head on one side when he spoke; and of looking out ofthe corners of his eyes at the same time: which irresistibly reminded thebeholder of a parrot. In this attitude, he fixed himself, the moment he madehis appearance; and, holding out a small piece of orange-peel at arm’s length,exclaimed, in a growling, discontented voice,
“Look here! do you see this! Isn’t it a most wonderful and extraordinary thingthat I can’t call at a man’s house but I find a piece of this poor surgeon’sfriend on the staircase? I’ve been lamed with orange-peel once, and I knoworange-peel will be my death, or I’ll be content to eat my own head, sir!”
This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed nearlyevery assertion he made; and it was the more singular in his case, because,even admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of scientificimprovements being brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eathis own head in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig’s head was sucha particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardlyentertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting—to put entirelyout of the question, a very thick coating of powder.
“I’ll eat my head, sir,” repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon theground. “Hallo! what’s that!” looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two.
“This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about,” said Mr. Brownlow.
Oliver bowed.
“You don’t mean to say that’s the boy who had the fever, I hope?” said Mr.Grimwig, recoiling a little more. “Wait a minute! Don’t speak! Stop—” continuedMr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at thediscovery; “that’s the boy who had the orange! If that’s not the boy, sir, whohad the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I’ll eat myhead, and his too.”
“No, no, he has not had one,” said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. “Come! Put down yourhat; and speak to my young friend.”
“I feel strongly on this subject, sir,” said the irritable old gentleman,drawing off his gloves. “There’s always more or less orange-peel on thepavement in our street; and I know it’s put there by the surgeon’s boyat the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell againstmy garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal redlamp with the pantomime-light. ‘Don’t go to him,’ I called out of the window,‘he’s an assassin! A man-trap!’ So he is. If he is not—” Here the irascible oldgentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was alwaysunderstood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was notexpressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down;and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad blackriband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object ofinspection, coloured, and bowed again.
“That’s the boy, is it?” said Mr. Grimwig, at length.
“That’s the boy,” replied Mr. Brownlow.
“How are you, boy?” said Mr. Grimwig.
“A great deal better, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.
Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to saysomething disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwinthey were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the visitor’s manner,he was very happy to do.
“He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.
“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly.
“Don’t know?”
“No. I don’t know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two sort ofboys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.”
“And which is Oliver?”
“Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call him;with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with a bodyand limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes; withthe voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!”
“Come,” said Mr. Brownlow, “these are not the characteristics of young OliverTwist; so he needn’t excite your wrath.”
“They are not,” replied Mr. Grimwig. “He may have worse.”
Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwigthe most exquisite delight.
“He may have worse, I say,” repeated Mr. Grimwig. “Where does he come from! Whois he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of that? Fevers are not peculiar togood people; are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes; haven’t they, eh? Iknew a man who was hung in Jamaica for murdering his master. He had had a feversix times; he wasn’t recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!”
Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr. Grimwigwas strongly disposed to admit that Oliver’s appearance and manner wereunusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for contradiction,sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the orange-peel; and, inwardlydetermining that no man should dictate to him whether a boy was well-looking ornot, he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlowadmitted that on no one point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactoryanswer; and that he had postponed any investigation into Oliver’s previoushistory until he thought the boy was strong enough to hear it; Mr. Grimwigchuckled maliciously. And he demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeperwas in the habit of counting the plate at night; because if she didn’t find atable-spoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be contentto—and so forth.
All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous gentleman:knowing his friend’s peculiarities, bore with great good humour; as Mr.Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to express his entire approval of themuffins, matters went on very smoothly; and Oliver, who made one of the party,began to feel more at his ease than he had yet done in the fierce oldgentleman’s presence.
“And when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular account of thelife and adventures of Oliver Twist?” asked Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at theconclusion of the meal; looking sideways at Oliver, as he resumed his subject.
“Tomorrow morning,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “I would rather he was alone with meat the time. Come up to me tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, my dear.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, because he wasconfused by Mr. Grimwig’s looking so hard at him.
“I’ll tell you what,” whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow; “he won’t comeup to you tomorrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is deceiving you, my goodfriend.”
“I’ll swear he is not,” replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly.
“If he is not,” said Mr. Grimwig, “I’ll—” and down went the stick.
“I’ll answer for that boy’s truth with my life!” said Mr. Brownlow, knockingthe table.
“And I for his falsehood with my head!” rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking thetable also.
“We shall see,” said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger.
“We will,” replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; “we will.”
As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in, at this moment, a smallparcel of books, which Mr. Brownlow had that morning purchased of the identicalbookstall-keeper, who has already figured in this history; having laid them onthe table, she prepared to leave the room.
“Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!” said Mr. Brownlow; “there is something to goback.”
“He has gone, sir,” replied Mrs. Bedwin.
“Call after him,” said Mr. Brownlow; “it’s particular. He is a poor man, andthey are not paid for. There are some books to be taken back, too.”
The street-door was opened. Oliver ran one way; and the girl ran another; andMrs. Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the boy; but there was no boy insight. Oliver and the girl returned, in a breathless state, to report thatthere were no tidings of him.
“Dear me, I am very sorry for that,” exclaimed Mr. Brownlow; “I particularlywished those books to be returned tonight.”
“Send Oliver with them,” said Mr. Grimwig, with an ironical smile; “he will besure to deliver them safely, you know.”
“Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,” said Oliver. “I’ll run all theway, sir.”
The old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not go out on anyaccount; when a most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig determined him that heshould; and that, by his prompt discharge of the commission, he should prove tohim the injustice of his suspicions: on this head at least: at once.
“You shall go, my dear,” said the old gentleman. “The books are on achair by my table. Fetch them down.”
Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his arm in a greatbustle; and waited, cap in hand, to hear what message he was to take.
“You are to say,” said Mr. Brownlow, glancing steadily at Grimwig; “you are tosay that you have brought those books back; and that you have come to pay thefour pound ten I owe him. This is a five-pound note, so you will have to bringme back, ten shillings change.”
“I won’t be ten minutes, sir,” said Oliver, eagerly. Having buttoned up thebank-note in his jacket pocket, and placed the books carefully under his arm,he made a respectful bow, and left the room. Mrs. Bedwin followed him to thestreet-door, giving him many directions about the nearest way, and the name ofthe bookseller, and the name of the street: all of which Oliver said he clearlyunderstood. Having superadded many injunctions to be sure and not take cold,the old lady at length permitted him to depart.
“Bless his sweet face!” said the old lady, looking after him. “I can’t bear,somehow, to let him go out of my sight.”
At this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned thecorner. The old lady smilingly returned his salutation, and, closing the door,went back to her own room.
“Let me see; he’ll be back in twenty minutes, at the longest,” said Mr.Brownlow, pulling out his watch, and placing it on the table. “It will be darkby that time.”
“Oh! you really expect him to come back, do you?” inquired Mr. Grimwig.
“Don’t you?” asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.
The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig’s breast, at the moment;and it was rendered stronger by his friend’s confident smile.
“No,” he said, smiting the table with his fist, “I do not. The boy has a newsuit of clothes on his back, a set of valuable books under his arm, and afive-pound note in his pocket. He’ll join his old friends the thieves, andlaugh at you. If ever that boy returns to this house, sir, I’ll eat my head.”
With these words he drew his chair closer to the table; and there the twofriends sat, in silent expectation, with the watch between them.
It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach to our ownjudgments, and the pride with which we put forth our most rash and hastyconclusions, that, although Mr. Grimwig was not by any means a bad-hearted man,and though he would have been unfeignedly sorry to see his respected friendduped and deceived, he really did most earnestly and strongly hope at thatmoment, that Oliver Twist might not come back.
It grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate were scarcely discernible;but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit, in silence, with the watchbetween them.
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CHAPTER XV. SHOWING HOW VERY FOND OF OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD JEW AND MISS NANCY WERE
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In the obscure parlour of a low public-house, in the filthiest part of LittleSaffron Hill; a dark and gloomy den, where a flaring gas-light burnt all day inthe winter-time; and where no ray of sun ever shone in the summer: there sat,brooding over a little pewter measure and a small glass, strongly impregnatedwith the smell of liquor, a man in a velveteen coat, drab shorts, half-bootsand stockings, whom even by that dim light no experienced agent of the policewould have hesitated to recognise as Mr. William Sikes. At his feet, sat awhite-coated, red-eyed dog; who occupied himself, alternately, in winking athis master with both eyes at the same time; and in licking a large, fresh cuton one side of his mouth, which appeared to be the result of some recentconflict.
“Keep quiet, you warmint! Keep quiet!” said Mr. Sikes, suddenly breakingsilence. Whether his meditations were so intense as to be disturbed by thedog’s winking, or whether his feelings were so wrought upon by his reflectionsthat they required all the relief derivable from kicking an unoffending animalto allay them, is matter for argument and consideration. Whatever was thecause, the effect was a kick and a curse, bestowed upon the dog simultaneously.
Dogs are not generally apt to revenge injuries inflicted upon them by theirmasters; but Mr. Sikes’s dog, having faults of temper in common with his owner,and labouring, perhaps, at this moment, under a powerful sense of injury, madeno more ado but at once fixed his teeth in one of the half-boots. Having givenin a hearty shake, he retired, growling, under a form; just escaping the pewtermeasure which Mr. Sikes levelled at his head.
“You would, would you?” said Sikes, seizing the poker in one hand, anddeliberately opening with the other a large clasp-knife, which he drew from hispocket. “Come here, you born devil! Come here! D’ye hear?”
The dog no doubt heard; because Mr. Sikes spoke in the very harshest key of avery harsh voice; but, appearing to entertain some unaccountable objection tohaving his throat cut, he remained where he was, and growled more fiercely thanbefore: at the same time grasping the end of the poker between his teeth, andbiting at it like a wild beast.
This resistance only infuriated Mr. Sikes the more; who, dropping on his knees,began to assail the animal most furiously. The dog jumped from right to left,and from left to right; snapping, growling, and barking; the man thrust andswore, and struck and blasphemed; and the struggle was reaching a most criticalpoint for one or other; when, the door suddenly opening, the dog darted out:leaving Bill Sikes with the poker and the clasp-knife in his hands.
There must always be two parties to a quarrel, says the old adage. Mr. Sikes,being disappointed of the dog’s participation, at once transferred his share inthe quarrel to the new comer.
“What the devil do you come in between me and my dog for?” said Sikes, with afierce gesture.
“I didn’t know, my dear, I didn’t know,” replied Fagin, humbly; for the Jew wasthe new comer.
“Didn’t know, you white-livered thief!” growled Sikes. “Couldn’t you hear thenoise?”
“Not a sound of it, as I’m a living man, Bill,” replied the Jew.
“Oh no! You hear nothing, you don’t,” retorted Sikes with a fierce sneer.“Sneaking in and out, so as nobody hears how you come or go! I wish you hadbeen the dog, Fagin, half a minute ago.”
“Why?” inquired the Jew with a forced smile.
“’Cause the government, as cares for the lives of such men as you, as haven’thalf the pluck of curs, lets a man kill a dog how he likes,” replied Sikes,shutting up the knife with a very expressive look; “that’s why.”
The Jew rubbed his hands; and, sitting down at the table, affected to laugh atthe pleasantry of his friend. He was obviously very ill at ease, however.
“Grin away,” said Sikes, replacing the poker, and surveying him with savagecontempt; “grin away. You’ll never have the laugh at me, though, unless it’sbehind a nightcap. I’ve got the upper hand over you, Fagin; and, d—me, I’llkeep it. There! If I go, you go; so take care of me.”
“Well, well, my dear,” said the Jew, “I know all that; we—we—have a mutualinterest, Bill,—a mutual interest.”
“Humph,” said Sikes, as if he thought the interest lay rather more on the Jew’sside than on his. “Well, what have you got to say to me?”
“It’s all passed safe through the melting-pot,” replied Fagin, “and this isyour share. It’s rather more than it ought to be, my dear; but as I know you’lldo me a good turn another time, and—”
“Stow that gammon,” interposed the robber, impatiently. “Where is it? Handover!”
“Yes, yes, Bill; give me time, give me time,” replied the Jew, soothingly.“Here it is! All safe!” As he spoke, he drew forth an old cotton handkerchieffrom his breast; and untying a large knot in one corner, produced a smallbrown-paper packet. Sikes, snatching it from him, hastily opened it; andproceeded to count the sovereigns it contained.
“This is all, is it?” inquired Sikes.
“All,” replied the Jew.
“You haven’t opened the parcel and swallowed one or two as you come along, haveyou?” inquired Sikes, suspiciously. “Don’t put on an injured look at thequestion; you’ve done it many a time. Jerk the tinkler.”
These words, in plain English, conveyed an injunction to ring the bell. It wasanswered by another Jew: younger than Fagin, but nearly as vile and repulsivein appearance.
Bill Sikes merely pointed to the empty measure. The Jew, perfectlyunderstanding the hint, retired to fill it: previously exchanging a remarkablelook with Fagin, who raised his eyes for an instant, as if in expectation ofit, and shook his head in reply; so slightly that the action would have beenalmost imperceptible to an observant third person. It was lost upon Sikes, whowas stooping at the moment to tie the boot-lace which the dog had torn.Possibly, if he had observed the brief interchange of signals, he might havethought that it boded no good to him.
“Is anybody here, Barney?” inquired Fagin; speaking, now that Sikes was lookingon, without raising his eyes from the ground.
“Dot a shoul,” replied Barney; whose words: whether they came from the heart ornot: made their way through the nose.
“Nobody?” inquired Fagin, in a tone of surprise: which perhaps might mean thatBarney was at liberty to tell the truth.
“Dobody but Biss Dadsy,” replied Barney.
“Nancy!” exclaimed Sikes. “Where? Strike me blind, if I don’t honour that ’eregirl, for her native talents.”
“She’s bid havid a plate of boiled beef id the bar,” replied Barney.
“Send her here,” said Sikes, pouring out a glass of liquor. “Send her here.”
Barney looked timidly at Fagin, as if for permission; the Jew remaining silent,and not lifting his eyes from the ground, he retired; and presently returned,ushering in Nancy; who was decorated with the bonnet, apron, basket, andstreet-door key, complete.
“You are on the scent, are you, Nancy?” inquired Sikes, proffering the glass.
“Yes, I am, Bill,” replied the young lady, disposing of its contents; “andtired enough of it I am, too. The young brat’s been ill and confined to thecrib; and—”
“Ah, Nancy, dear!” said Fagin, looking up.
Now, whether a peculiar contraction of the Jew’s red eye-brows, and a halfclosing of his deeply-set eyes, warned Miss Nancy that she was disposed to betoo communicative, is not a matter of much importance. The fact is all we needcare for here; and the fact is, that she suddenly checked herself, and withseveral gracious smiles upon Mr. Sikes, turned the conversation to othermatters. In about ten minutes’ time, Mr. Fagin was seized with a fit ofcoughing; upon which Nancy pulled her shawl over her shoulders, and declared itwas time to go. Mr. Sikes, finding that he was walking a short part of her wayhimself, expressed his intention of accompanying her; they went away together,followed, at a little distant, by the dog, who slunk out of a back-yard as soonas his master was out of sight.
The Jew thrust his head out of the room door when Sikes had left it; lookedafter him as he walked up the dark passage; shook his clenched fist; muttered adeep curse; and then, with a horrible grin, reseated himself at the table;where he was soon deeply absorbed in the interesting pages of the Hue-and-Cry.
Meanwhile, Oliver Twist, little dreaming that he was within so very short adistance of the merry old gentleman, was on his way to the book-stall. When hegot into Clerkenwell, he accidently turned down a by-street which was notexactly in his way; but not discovering his mistake until he had got half-waydown it, and knowing it must lead in the right direction, he did not think itworth while to turn back; and so marched on, as quickly as he could, with thebooks under his arm.
He was walking along, thinking how happy and contented he ought to feel; andhow much he would give for only one look at poor little Dick, who, starved andbeaten, might be weeping bitterly at that very moment; when he was startled bya young woman screaming out very loud. “Oh, my dear brother!” And he had hardlylooked up, to see what the matter was, when he was stopped by having a pair ofarms thrown tight round his neck.
“Don’t,” cried Oliver, struggling. “Let go of me. Who is it? What are youstopping me for?”
The only reply to this, was a great number of loud lamentations from the youngwoman who had embraced him; and who had a little basket and a street-door keyin her hand.
“Oh my gracious!” said the young woman, “I have found him! Oh! Oliver! Oliver!Oh you naughty boy, to make me suffer such distress on your account! Come home,dear, come. Oh, I’ve found him. Thank gracious goodness heavins, I’ve foundhim!” With these incoherent exclamations, the young woman burst into anotherfit of crying, and got so dreadfully hysterical, that a couple of women whocame up at the moment asked a butcher’s boy with a shiny head of hair anointedwith suet, who was also looking on, whether he didn’t think he had better runfor the doctor. To which, the butcher’s boy: who appeared of a lounging, not tosay indolent disposition: replied, that he thought not.
“Oh, no, no, never mind,” said the young woman, grasping Oliver’s hand; “I’mbetter now. Come home directly, you cruel boy! Come!”
“Oh, ma’am,” replied the young woman, “he ran away, near a month ago, from hisparents, who are hard-working and respectable people; and went and joined a setof thieves and bad characters; and almost broke his mother’s heart.”
“Young wretch!” said one woman.
“Go home, do, you little brute,” said the other.
“I am not,” replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. “I don’t know her. I haven’t anysister, or father and mother either. I’m an orphan; I live at Pentonville.”
“Only hear him, how he braves it out!” cried the young woman.
“Why, it’s Nancy!” exclaimed Oliver; who now saw her face for the first time;and started back, in irrepressible astonishment.
“You see he knows me!” cried Nancy, appealing to the bystanders. “He can’t helphimself. Make him come home, there’s good people, or he’ll kill his dear motherand father, and break my heart!”
“What the devil’s this?” said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a whitedog at his heels; “young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother, you young dog!Come home directly.”
“I don’t belong to them. I don’t know them. Help! help!” cried Oliver,struggling in the man’s powerful grasp.
“Help!” repeated the man. “Yes; I’ll help you, you young rascal! What books arethese? You’ve been a stealing ’em, have you? Give ’em here.” With these words,the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck him on the head.
“That’s right!” cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. “That’s the only wayof bringing him to his senses!”
“To be sure!” cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look at thegarret-window.
“It’ll do him good!” said the two women.
“And he shall have it, too!” rejoined the man, administering another blow, andseizing Oliver by the collar. “Come on, you young villain! Here, Bull’s-eye,mind him, boy! Mind him!”
Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of theattack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the brutality of theman; overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders that he really was thehardened little wretch he was described to be; what could one poor child do!Darkness had set in; it was a low neighbourhood; no help was near; resistancewas useless. In another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrowcourts, and was forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries hedared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed,whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them,had they been ever so plain.
The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door;the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any tracesof Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the darkparlour, with the watch between them.
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CHAPTER XVI. RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY
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The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space;scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of acattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girlbeing quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they hadhitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold ofNancy’s hand.
“Do you hear?” growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round.
They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers.
Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held outhis hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers.
“Give me the other,” said Sikes, seizing Oliver’s unoccupied hand. “Here,Bull’s-Eye!”
The dog looked up, and growled.
“See here, boy!” said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver’s throat; “if hespeaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D’ye mind!”
The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxiousto attach himself to his windpipe without delay.
“He’s as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn’t!” said Sikes,regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. “Now, you knowwhat you’ve got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dogwill soon stop that game. Get on, young ’un!”
Bull’s-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing formof speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit ofOliver, led the way onward.
It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have beenGrosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was darkand foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavymist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses ingloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver’s eyes; and makinghis uncertainty the more dismal and depressing.
They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour. Withits first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads in thedirection whence the sound proceeded.
“Eight o’clock, Bill,” said Nancy, when the bell ceased.
“What’s the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can’t I?” replied Sikes.
“I wonder whether they can hear it,” said Nancy.
“Of course they can,” replied Sikes. “It was Bartlemy time when I was shopped;and there warn’t a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn’t hear the squeakingon. Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din outside made thethundering old jail so silent, that I could almost have beat my brains outagainst the iron plates of the door.”
“Poor fellow!” said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the quarter inwhich the bell had sounded. “Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps as them!”
“Yes; that’s all you women think of,” answered Sikes. “Fine young chaps! Well,they’re as good as dead, so it don’t much matter.”
With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared to repress a rising tendency tojealousy, and, clasping Oliver’s wrist more firmly, told him to step out again.
“Wait a minute!” said the girl: “I wouldn’t hurry by, if it was you that wascoming out to be hung, the next time eight o’clock struck, Bill. I’d walk roundand round the place till I dropped, if the snow was on the ground, and I hadn’ta shawl to cover me.”
“And what good would that do?” inquired the unsentimental Mr. Sikes. “Unlessyou could pitch over a file and twenty yards of good stout rope, you might aswell be walking fifty mile off, or not walking at all, for all the good itwould do me. Come on, and don’t stand preaching there.”
The girl burst into a laugh; drew her shawl more closely round her; and theywalked away. But Oliver felt her hand tremble, and, looking up in her face asthey passed a gas-lamp, saw that it had turned a deadly white.
They walked on, by little-frequented and dirty ways, for a full half-hour:meeting very few people, and those appearing from their looks to hold much thesame position in society as Mr. Sikes himself. At length they turned into avery filthy narrow street, nearly full of old-clothes shops; the dog runningforward, as if conscious that there was no further occasion for his keeping onguard, stopped before the door of a shop that was closed and apparentlyuntenanted; the house was in a ruinous condition, and on the door was nailed aboard, intimating that it was to let: which looked as if it had hung there formany years.
“All right,” cried Sikes, glancing cautiously about.
Nancy stooped below the shutters, and Oliver heard the sound of a bell. Theycrossed to the opposite side of the street, and stood for a few moments under alamp. A noise, as if a sash window were gently raised, was heard; and soonafterwards the door softly opened. Mr. Sikes then seized the terrified boy bythe collar with very little ceremony; and all three were quickly inside thehouse.
The passage was perfectly dark. They waited, while the person who had let themin, chained and barred the door.
“Anybody here?” inquired Sikes.
“No,” replied a voice, which Oliver thought he had heard before.
“Is the old ’un here?” asked the robber.
“Yes,” replied the voice, “and precious down in the mouth he has been. Won’t hebe glad to see you? Oh, no!”
The style of this reply, as well as the voice which delivered it, seemedfamiliar to Oliver’s ears: but it was impossible to distinguish even the formof the speaker in the darkness.
“Let’s have a glim,” said Sikes, “or we shall go breaking our necks, ortreading on the dog. Look after your legs if you do!”
“Stand still a moment, and I’ll get you one,” replied the voice. The recedingfootsteps of the speaker were heard; and, in another minute, the form of Mr.John Dawkins, otherwise the Artful Dodger, appeared. He bore in his right handa tallow candle stuck in the end of a cleft stick.
The young gentleman did not stop to bestow any other mark of recognition uponOliver than a humourous grin; but, turning away, beckoned the visitors tofollow him down a flight of stairs. They crossed an empty kitchen; and, openingthe door of a low earthy-smelling room, which seemed to have been built in asmall back-yard, were received with a shout of laughter.
“Oh, my wig, my wig!” cried Master Charles Bates, from whose lungs the laughterhad proceeded: “here he is! oh, cry, here he is! Oh, Fagin, look at him! Fagin,do look at him! I can’t bear it; it is such a jolly game, I can’t bear it. Holdme, somebody, while I laugh it out.”
With this irrepressible ebullition of mirth, Master Bates laid himself flat onthe floor: and kicked convulsively for five minutes, in an ectasy of facetiousjoy. Then jumping to his feet, he snatched the cleft stick from the Dodger;and, advancing to Oliver, viewed him round and round; while the Jew, taking offhis nightcap, made a great number of low bows to the bewildered boy. TheArtful, meantime, who was of a rather saturnine disposition, and seldom gaveway to merriment when it interfered with business, rifled Oliver’s pockets withsteady assiduity.
“Look at his togs, Fagin!” said Charley, putting the light so close to his newjacket as nearly to set him on fire. “Look at his togs! Superfine cloth, andthe heavy swell cut! Oh, my eye, what a game! And his books, too! Nothing but agentleman, Fagin!”
“Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear,” said the Jew, bowing with mockhumility. “The Artful shall give you another suit, my dear, for fear you shouldspoil that Sunday one. Why didn’t you write, my dear, and say you were coming?We’d have got something warm for supper.”
At his, Master Bates roared again: so loud, that Fagin himself relaxed, andeven the Dodger smiled; but as the Artful drew forth the five-pound note atthat instant, it is doubtful whether the sally of the discovery awakened hismerriment.
“Hallo, what’s that?” inquired Sikes, stepping forward as the Jew seized thenote. “That’s mine, Fagin.”
“No, no, my dear,” said the Jew. “Mine, Bill, mine. You shall have the books.”
“If that ain’t mine!” said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat with a determinedair; “mine and Nancy’s that is; I’ll take the boy back again.”
The Jew started. Oliver started too, though from a very different cause; for hehoped that the dispute might really end in his being taken back.
“Come! Hand over, will you?” said Sikes.
“This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?” inquired the Jew.
“Fair, or not fair,” retorted Sikes, “hand over, I tell you! Do you think Nancyand me has got nothing else to do with our precious time but to spend it inscouting arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as gets grabbed through you?Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton, give it here!”
With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the note from between theJew’s finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face, folded itup small, and tied it in his neckerchief.
“That’s for our share of the trouble,” said Sikes; “and not half enough,neither. You may keep the books, if you’re fond of reading. If you ain’t, sell’em.”
“They’re very pretty,” said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had beenaffecting to read one of the volumes in question; “beautiful writing, isn’t is,Oliver?” At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded histormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous,fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first.
“They belong to the old gentleman,” said Oliver, wringing his hands; “to thegood, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when Iwas near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the booksand money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He’llthink I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: willthink I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!”
With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief,Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew’s feet; and beat his hands together, inperfect desperation.
“The boy’s right,” remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting hisshaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. “You’re right, Oliver, you’re right; theywill think you have stolen ’em. Ha! ha!” chuckled the Jew, rubbing hishands, “it couldn’t have happened better, if we had chosen our time!”
“Of course it couldn’t,” replied Sikes; “I know’d that, directly I see himcoming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It’s all rightenough. They’re soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn’t have taken him inat all; and they’ll ask no questions after him, fear they should be obliged toprosecute, and so get him lagged. He’s safe enough.”
Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken,as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but whenBill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from theroom: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to theroof.
“Keep back the dog, Bill!” cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closingit, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. “Keep back the dog;he’ll tear the boy to pieces.”
“Serve him right!” cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl’sgrasp. “Stand off from me, or I’ll split your head against the wall.”
“I don’t care for that, Bill, I don’t care for that,” screamed the girl,struggling violently with the man, “the child shan’t be torn down by the dog,unless you kill me first.”
“Shan’t he!” said Sikes, setting his teeth. “I’ll soon do that, if you don’tkeep off.”
The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, justas the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them.
“What’s the matter here!” said Fagin, looking round.
“The girl’s gone mad, I think,” replied Sikes, savagely.
“No, she hasn’t,” said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle; “no, shehasn’t, Fagin; don’t think it.”
“Then keep quiet, will you?” said the Jew, with a threatening look.
“No, I won’t do that, neither,” replied Nancy, speaking very loud. “Come! Whatdo you think of that?”
Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs of thatparticular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel tolerablycertain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any conversation with her, atpresent. With the view of diverting the attention of the company, he turned toOliver.
“So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?” said the Jew, taking up a jaggedand knotted club which lay in a corner of the fireplace; “eh?”
Oliver made no reply. But he watched the Jew’s motions, and breathed quickly.
“Wanted to get assistance; called for the police; did you?” sneered the Jew,catching the boy by the arm. “We’ll cure you of that, my young master.”
The Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver’s shoulders with the club; and wasraising it for a second, when the girl, rushing forward, wrested it from hishand. She flung it into the fire, with a force that brought some of the glowingcoals whirling out into the room.
“I won’t stand by and see it done, Fagin,” cried the girl. “You’ve got the boy,and what more would you have?—Let him be—let him be—or I shall put that mark onsome of you, that will bring me to the gallows before my time.”
The girl stamped her foot violently on the floor as she vented this threat; andwith her lips compressed, and her hands clenched, looked alternately at the Jewand the other robber: her face quite colourless from the passion of rage intowhich she had gradually worked herself.
“Why, Nancy!” said the Jew, in a soothing tone; after a pause, during which heand Mr. Sikes had stared at one another in a disconcerted manner; “you,—you’remore clever than ever tonight. Ha! ha! my dear, you are acting beautifully.”
“Am I?” said the girl. “Take care I don’t overdo it. You will be the worse forit, Fagin, if I do; and so I tell you in good time to keep clear of me.”
There is something about a roused woman: especially if she add to all her otherstrong passions, the fierce impulses of recklessness and despair; which few menlike to provoke. The Jew saw that it would be hopeless to affect any furthermistake regarding the reality of Miss Nancy’s rage; and, shrinkinginvoluntarily back a few paces, cast a glance, half imploring and halfcowardly, at Sikes: as if to hint that he was the fittest person to pursue thedialogue.
Mr. Sikes, thus mutely appealed to; and possibly feeling his personal pride andinfluence interested in the immediate reduction of Miss Nancy to reason; gaveutterance to about a couple of score of curses and threats, the rapidproduction of which reflected great credit on the fertility of his invention.As they produced no visible effect on the object against whom they weredischarged, however, he resorted to more tangible arguments.
“What do you mean by this?” said Sikes; backing the inquiry with a very commonimprecation concerning the most beautiful of human features: which, if it wereheard above, only once out of every fifty thousand times that it is utteredbelow, would render blindness as common a disorder as measles: “what do youmean by it? Burn my body! Do you know who you are, and what you are?”
“Oh, yes, I know all about it,” replied the girl, laughing hysterically; andshaking her head from side to side, with a poor assumption of indifference.
“Well, then, keep quiet,” rejoined Sikes, with a growl like that he wasaccustomed to use when addressing his dog, “or I’ll quiet you for a good longtime to come.”
The girl laughed again: even less composedly than before; and, darting a hastylook at Sikes, turned her face aside, and bit her lip till the blood came.
“You’re a nice one,” added Sikes, as he surveyed her with a contemptuous air,“to take up the humane and gen—teel side! A pretty subject for the child, asyou call him, to make a friend of!”
“God Almighty help me, I am!” cried the girl passionately; “and I wish I hadbeen struck dead in the street, or had changed places with them we passed sonear tonight, before I had lent a hand in bringing him here. He’s a thief, aliar, a devil, all that’s bad, from this night forth. Isn’t that enough for theold wretch, without blows?”
“Come, come, Sikes,” said the Jew appealing to him in a remonstratory tone, andmotioning towards the boys, who were eagerly attentive to all that passed; “wemust have civil words; civil words, Bill.”
“Civil words!” cried the girl, whose passion was frightful to see. “Civilwords, you villain! Yes, you deserve ’em from me. I thieved for you when I wasa child not half as old as this!” pointing to Oliver. “I have been in the sametrade, and in the same service, for twelve years since. Don’t you know it?Speak out! Don’t you know it?”
“Well, well,” replied the Jew, with an attempt at pacification; “and, if youhave, it’s your living!”
“Aye, it is!” returned the girl; not speaking, but pouring out the words in onecontinuous and vehement scream. “It is my living; and the cold, wet, dirtystreets are my home; and you’re the wretch that drove me to them long ago, andthat’ll keep me there, day and night, day and night, till I die!”
“I shall do you a mischief!” interposed the Jew, goaded by these reproaches; “amischief worse than that, if you say much more!”
The girl said nothing more; but, tearing her hair and dress in a transport ofpassion, made such a rush at the Jew as would probably have left signal marksof her revenge upon him, had not her wrists been seized by Sikes at the rightmoment; upon which, she made a few ineffectual struggles, and fainted.
“She’s all right now,” said Sikes, laying her down in a corner. “She’s uncommonstrong in the arms, when she’s up in this way.”
The Jew wiped his forehead: and smiled, as if it were a relief to have thedisturbance over; but neither he, nor Sikes, nor the dog, nor the boys, seemedto consider it in any other light than a common occurance incidental tobusiness.
“It’s the worst of having to do with women,” said the Jew, replacing his club;“but they’re clever, and we can’t get on, in our line, without ’em. Charley,show Oliver to bed.”
“I suppose he’d better not wear his best clothes tomorrow, Fagin, had he?”inquired Charley Bates.
“Certainly not,” replied the Jew, reciprocating the grin with which Charley putthe question.
Master Bates, apparently much delighted with his commission, took the cleftstick: and led Oliver into an adjacent kitchen, where there were two or threeof the beds on which he had slept before; and here, with many uncontrollablebursts of laughter, he produced the identical old suit of clothes which Oliverhad so much congratulated himself upon leaving off at Mr. Brownlow’s; and theaccidental display of which, to Fagin, by the Jew who purchased them, had beenthe very first clue received, of his whereabout.
“Put off the smart ones,” said Charley, “and I’ll give ’em to Fagin to takecare of. What fun it is!”
Poor Oliver unwillingly complied. Master Bates rolling up the new clothes underhis arm, departed from the room, leaving Oliver in the dark, and locking thedoor behind him.
The noise of Charley’s laughter, and the voice of Miss Betsy, who opportunelyarrived to throw water over her friend, and perform other feminine offices forthe promotion of her recovery, might have kept many people awake under morehappy circumstances than those in which Oliver was placed. But he was sick andweary; and he soon fell sound asleep.
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CHAPTER XVII. OLIVER’S DESTINY CONTINUING UNPROPITIOUS, BRINGS A GREAT MAN TO LONDON TO INJURE HIS REPUTATION
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It is the custom on the stage, in all good murderous melodramas, to present thetragic and the comic scenes, in as regular alternation, as the layers of redand white in a side of streaky bacon. The hero sinks upon his straw bed,weighed down by fetters and misfortunes; in the next scene, his faithful butunconscious squire regales the audience with a comic song. We behold, withthrobbing bosoms, the heroine in the grasp of a proud and ruthless baron: hervirtue and her life alike in danger, drawing forth her dagger to preserve theone at the cost of the other; and just as our expectations are wrought up tothe highest pitch, a whistle is heard, and we are straightway transported tothe great hall of the castle; where a grey-headed seneschal sings a funnychorus with a funnier body of vassals, who are free of all sorts of places,from church vaults to palaces, and roam about in company, carollingperpetually.
Such changes appear absurd; but they are not so unnatural as they would seem atfirst sight. The transitions in real life from well-spread boards todeath-beds, and from mourning-weeds to holiday garments, are not a whit lessstartling; only, there, we are busy actors, instead of passive lookers-on,which makes a vast difference. The actors in the mimic life of the theatre, areblind to violent transitions and abrupt impulses of passion or feeling, which,presented before the eyes of mere spectators, are at once condemned asoutrageous and preposterous.
As sudden shiftings of the scene, and rapid changes of time and place, are notonly sanctioned in books by long usage, but are by many considered as the greatart of authorship: an author’s skill in his craft being, by such critics,chiefly estimated with relation to the dilemmas in which he leaves hischaracters at the end of every chapter: this brief introduction to the presentone may perhaps be deemed unnecessary. If so, let it be considered a delicateintimation on the part of the historian that he is going back to the town inwhich Oliver Twist was born; the reader taking it for granted that there aregood and substantial reasons for making the journey, or he would not be invitedto proceed upon such an expedition.
Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse-gate, and walked withportly carriage and commanding steps, up the High Street. He was in the fullbloom and pride of beadlehood; his cocked hat and coat were dazzling in themorning sun; he clutched his cane with the vigorous tenacity of health andpower. Mr. Bumble always carried his head high; but this morning it was higherthan usual. There was an abstraction in his eye, an elevation in his air, whichmight have warned an observant stranger that thoughts were passing in thebeadle’s mind, too great for utterance.
Mr. Bumble stopped not to converse with the small shopkeepers and others whospoke to him, deferentially, as he passed along. He merely returned theirsalutations with a wave of his hand, and relaxed not in his dignified pace,until he reached the farm where Mrs. Mann tended the infant paupers withparochial care.
“Drat that beadle!” said Mrs. Mann, hearing the well-known shaking at thegarden-gate. “If it isn’t him at this time in the morning! Lauk, Mr. Bumble,only think of its being you! Well, dear me, it is a pleasure, this is!Come into the parlour, sir, please.”
The first sentence was addressed to Susan; and the exclamations of delight wereuttered to Mr. Bumble: as the good lady unlocked the garden-gate: and showedhim, with great attention and respect, into the house.
“Mrs. Mann,” said Mr. Bumble; not sitting upon, or dropping himself into aseat, as any common jackanapes would: but letting himself gradually and slowlydown into a chair; “Mrs. Mann, ma’am, good morning.”
“Well, and good morning to you, sir,” replied Mrs. Mann, with manysmiles; “and hoping you find yourself well, sir!”
“So-so, Mrs. Mann,” replied the beadle. “A porochial life is not a bed ofroses, Mrs. Mann.”
“Ah, that it isn’t indeed, Mr. Bumble,” rejoined the lady. And all the infantpaupers might have chorussed the rejoinder with great propriety, if they hadheard it.
“A porochial life, ma’am,” continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table with hiscane, “is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but all publiccharacters, as I may say, must suffer prosecution.”
Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant, raised her hands with alook of sympathy, and sighed.
“Ah! You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!” said the beadle.
Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again: evidently to thesatisfaction of the public character: who, repressing a complacent smile bylooking sternly at his cocked hat, said,
“Mrs. Mann, I am going to London.”
“Lauk, Mr. Bumble!” cried Mrs. Mann, starting back.
“To London, ma’am,” resumed the inflexible beadle, “by coach. I and twopaupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and theboard has appointed me—me, Mrs. Mann—to dispose to the matter before thequarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question,” added Mr. Bumble,drawing himself up, “whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselvesin the wrong box before they have done with me.”
“Oh! you mustn’t be too hard upon them, sir,” said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly.
“The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma’am,” replied Mr.Bumble; “and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worsethan they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank.”
There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing mannerin which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appearedquite awed by them. At length she said,
“You’re going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupersin carts.”
“That’s when they’re ill, Mrs. Mann,” said the beadle. “We put the sick paupersinto open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Mann.
“The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap,” said Mr.Bumble. “They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two poundcheaper to move ’em than to bury ’em—that is, if we can throw ’em upon anotherparish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don’t die upon the roadto spite us. Ha! ha! ha!”
When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered thecocked hat; and he became grave.
“We are forgetting business, ma’am,” said the beadle; “here is your porochialstipend for the month.”
Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocket-book;and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote.
“It’s very much blotted, sir,” said the farmer of infants; “but it’s formalenough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to you,I’m sure.”
Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann’s curtsey; andinquired how the children were.
“Bless their dear little hearts!” said Mrs. Mann with emotion, “they’re as wellas can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last week. And littleDick.”
“Isn’t that boy no better?” inquired Mr. Bumble.
Mrs. Mann shook her head.
“He’s a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that,” said Mr.Bumble angrily. “Where is he?”
“I’ll bring him to you in one minute, sir,” replied Mrs. Mann. “Here, youDick!”
After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under thepump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann’s gown, he was led into the awful presence ofMr. Bumble, the beadle.
The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large andbright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung loosely on hisfeeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like those of an old man.
Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble’s glance; notdaring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even to hear the beadle’svoice.
“Can’t you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?” said Mrs. Mann.
The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble.
“What’s the matter with you, porochial Dick?” inquired Mr. Bumble, withwell-timed jocularity.
“Nothing, sir,” replied the child faintly.
“I should think not,” said Mrs. Mann, who had of course laughed very much atMr. Bumble’s humour.
“You want for nothing, I’m sure.”
“I should like—” faltered the child.
“Hey-day!” interposed Mrs. Mann, “I suppose you’re going to say that youdo want for something, now? Why, you little wretch—”
“Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!” said the beadle, raising his hand with a show ofauthority. “Like what, sir, eh?”
“I should like,” faltered the child, “if somebody that can write, would put afew words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it up and seal it, and keepit for me, after I am laid in the ground.”
“Why, what does the boy mean?” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the earnest mannerand wan aspect of the child had made some impression: accustomed as he was tosuch things. “What do you mean, sir?”
“I should like,” said the child, “to leave my dear love to poor Oliver Twist;and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to think of hiswandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help him. And I should liketo tell him,” said the child pressing his small hands together, and speakingwith great fervour, “that I was glad to die when I was very young; for,perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and had grown old, my little sister who isin Heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; and it would be so much happier ifwe were both children there together.”
Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker, from head to foot, with indescribableastonishment; and, turning to his companion, said, “They’re all in one story,Mrs. Mann. That out-dacious Oliver had demogalized them all!”
“I couldn’t have believed it, sir” said Mrs Mann, holding up her hands, andlooking malignantly at Dick. “I never see such a hardened little wretch!”
“Take him away, ma’am!” said Mr. Bumble imperiously. “This must be stated tothe board, Mrs. Mann.”
“I hope the gentleman will understand that it isn’t my fault, sir?” said Mrs.Mann, whimpering pathetically.
“They shall understand that, ma’am; they shall be acquainted with the truestate of the case,” said Mr. Bumble. “There; take him away, I can’t bear thesight on him.”
Dick was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-cellar. Mr. Bumbleshortly afterwards took himself off, to prepare for his journey.
At six o’clock next morning, Mr. Bumble: having exchanged his cocked hat for around one, and encased his person in a blue great-coat with a cape to it: tookhis place on the outside of the coach, accompanied by the criminals whosesettlement was disputed; with whom, in due course of time, he arrived inLondon.
He experienced no other crosses on the way, than those which originated in theperverse behaviour of the two paupers, who persisted in shivering, andcomplaining of the cold, in a manner which, Mr. Bumble declared, caused histeeth to chatter in his head, and made him feel quite uncomfortable; althoughhe had a great-coat on.
Having disposed of these evil-minded persons for the night, Mr. Bumble sathimself down in the house at which the coach stopped; and took a temperatedinner of steaks, oyster sauce, and porter. Putting a glass of hotgin-and-water on the chimney-piece, he drew his chair to the fire; and, withsundry moral reflections on the too-prevalent sin of discontent andcomplaining, composed himself to read the paper.
The very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bumble’s eye rested, was the followingadvertisement.
“FIVE GUINEAS REWARD
“Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist, absconded, or was enticed, onThursday evening last, from his home, at Pentonville; and has not since beenheard of. The above reward will be paid to any person who will give suchinformation as will lead to the discovery of the said Oliver Twist, or tend tothrow any light upon his previous history, in which the advertiser is, for manyreasons, warmly interested.”
And then followed a full description of Oliver’s dress, person, appearance, anddisappearance: with the name and address of Mr. Brownlow at full length.
Mr. Bumble opened his eyes; read the advertisement, slowly and carefully, threeseveral times; and in something more than five minutes was on his way toPentonville: having actually, in his excitement, left the glass of hotgin-and-water, untasted.
“Is Mr. Brownlow at home?” inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl who opened the door.
To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather evasive reply of“I don’t know; where do you come from?”
Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver’s name, in explanation of his errand, thanMrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlour door, hastened into thepassage in a breathless state.
“Come in, come in,” said the old lady: “I knew we should hear of him. Poordear! I knew we should! I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I said so allalong.”
Having said this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour again; andseating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who was not quite sosusceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now returned with a request thatMr. Bumble would follow her immediately: which he did.
He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his friendMr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter gentleman atonce burst into the exclamation:
“A beadle. A parish beadle, or I’ll eat my head.”
“Pray don’t interrupt just now,” said Mr. Brownlow. “Take a seat, will you?”
Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr. Grimwig’smanner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an uninterrupted view ofthe beadle’s countenance; and said, with a little impatience,
“Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Bumble.
“And you are a beadle, are you not?” inquired Mr. Grimwig.
“I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen,” rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly.
“Of course,” observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend, “I knew he was. A beadleall over!”
Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, andresumed:
“Do you know where this poor boy is now?”
“No more than nobody,” replied Mr. Bumble.
“Well, what do you know of him?” inquired the old gentleman. “Speak out,my friend, if you have anything to say. What do you know of him?”
“You don’t happen to know any good of him, do you?” said Mr. Grimwig,caustically; after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble’s features.
Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his head withportentous solemnity.
“You see?” said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow.
Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble’s pursed-up countenance; andrequested him to communicate what he knew regarding Oliver, in as few words aspossible.
Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his arms; inclined hishead in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments’ reflection, commencedhis story.
It would be tedious if given in the beadle’s words: occupying, as it did, sometwenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and substance of it was, that Oliverwas a foundling, born of low and vicious parents. That he had, from his birth,displayed no better qualities than treachery, ingratitude, and malice. That hehad terminated his brief career in the place of his birth, by making asanguinary and cowardly attack on an unoffending lad, and running away in thenight-time from his master’s house. In proof of his really being the person herepresented himself, Mr. Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had broughtto town. Folding his arms again, he then awaited Mr. Brownlow’s observations.
“I fear it is all too true,” said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after lookingover the papers. “This is not much for your intelligence; but I would gladlyhave given you treble the money, if it had been favourable to the boy.”
It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of this informationat an earlier period of the interview, he might have imparted a very differentcolouring to his little history. It was too late to do it now, however; so heshook his head gravely, and, pocketing the five guineas, withdrew.
Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so muchdisturbed by the beadle’s tale, that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to vex himfurther.
At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently.
“Mrs. Bedwin,” said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; “that boy,Oliver, is an imposter.”
“It can’t be, sir. It cannot be,” said the old lady energetically.
“I tell you he is,” retorted the old gentleman. “What do you mean by can’t be?We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and he has been athorough-paced little villain, all his life.”
“I never will believe it, sir,” replied the old lady, firmly. “Never!”
“You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lyingstory-books,” growled Mr. Grimwig. “I knew it all along. Why didn’t you take myadvice in the beginning; you would if he hadn’t had a fever, I suppose, eh? Hewas interesting, wasn’t he? Interesting! Bah!” And Mr. Grimwig poked the firewith a flourish.
“He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir,” retorted Mrs. Bedwin,indignantly. “I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty years;and people who can’t say the same, shouldn’t say anything about them. That’s myopinion!”
This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted nothingfrom that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head, and smootheddown her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was stopped by Mr.Brownlow.
“Silence!” said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from feeling.“Never let me hear the boy’s name again. I rang to tell you that. Never. Never,on any pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember! I am inearnest.”
There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow’s that night.
Oliver’s heart sank within him, when he thought of his good friends; it waswell for him that he could not know what they had heard, or it might havebroken outright.
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CHAPTER XVIII. HOW OLIVER PASSED HIS TIME IN THE IMPROVING SOCIETY OF HIS REPUTABLE FRIENDS
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About noon next day, when the Dodger and Master Bates had gone out to pursuetheir customary avocations, Mr. Fagin took the opportunity of reading Oliver along lecture on the crying sin of ingratitude; of which he clearly demonstratedhe had been guilty, to no ordinary extent, in wilfully absenting himself fromthe society of his anxious friends; and, still more, in endeavouring to escapefrom them after so much trouble and expense had been incurred in his recovery.Mr. Fagin laid great stress on the fact of his having taken Oliver in, andcherished him, when, without his timely aid, he might have perished withhunger; and he related the dismal and affecting history of a young lad whom, inhis philanthropy, he had succoured under parallel circumstances, but who,proving unworthy of his confidence and evincing a desire to communicate withthe police, had unfortunately come to be hanged at the Old Bailey one morning.Mr. Fagin did not seek to conceal his share in the catastrophe, but lamentedwith tears in his eyes that the wrong-headed and treacherous behaviour of theyoung person in question, had rendered it necessary that he should become thevictim of certain evidence for the crown: which, if it were not precisely true,was indispensably necessary for the safety of him (Mr. Fagin) and a few selectfriends. Mr. Fagin concluded by drawing a rather disagreeable picture of thediscomforts of hanging; and, with great friendliness and politeness of manner,expressed his anxious hopes that he might never be obliged to submit OliverTwist to that unpleasant operation.
Little Oliver’s blood ran cold, as he listened to the Jew’s words, andimperfectly comprehended the dark threats conveyed in them. That it waspossible even for justice itself to confound the innocent with the guilty whenthey were in accidental companionship, he knew already; and that deeply-laidplans for the destruction of inconveniently knowing or over-communicativepersons, had been really devised and carried out by the Jew on more occasionsthan one, he thought by no means unlikely, when he recollected the generalnature of the altercations between that gentleman and Mr. Sikes: which seemedto bear reference to some foregone conspiracy of the kind. As he glancedtimidly up, and met the Jew’s searching look, he felt that his pale face andtrembling limbs were neither unnoticed nor unrelished by that wary oldgentleman.
The Jew, smiling hideously, patted Oliver on the head, and said, that if hekept himself quiet, and applied himself to business, he saw they would be verygood friends yet. Then, taking his hat, and covering himself with an oldpatched great-coat, he went out, and locked the room-door behind him.
And so Oliver remained all that day, and for the greater part of manysubsequent days, seeing nobody, between early morning and midnight, and leftduring the long hours to commune with his own thoughts. Which, never failing torevert to his kind friends, and the opinion they must long ago have formed ofhim, were sad indeed.
After the lapse of a week or so, the Jew left the room-door unlocked; and hewas at liberty to wander about the house.
It was a very dirty place. The rooms upstairs had great high woodenchimney-pieces and large doors, with panelled walls and cornices to theceiling; which, although they were black with neglect and dust, were ornamentedin various ways. From all of these tokens Oliver concluded that a long timeago, before the old Jew was born, it had belonged to better people, and hadperhaps been quite gay and handsome: dismal and dreary as it looked now.
Spiders had built their webs in the angles of the walls and ceilings; andsometimes, when Oliver walked softly into a room, the mice would scamper acrossthe floor, and run back terrified to their holes. With these exceptions, therewas neither sight nor sound of any living thing; and often, when it grew dark,and he was tired of wandering from room to room, he would crouch in the cornerof the passage by the street-door, to be as near living people as he could; andwould remain there, listening and counting the hours, until the Jew or the boysreturned.
In all the rooms, the mouldering shutters were fast closed: the bars which heldthem were screwed tight into the wood; the only light which was admitted,stealing its way through round holes at the top: which made the rooms moregloomy, and filled them with strange shadows. There was a back-garret windowwith rusty bars outside, which had no shutter; and out of this, Oliver oftengazed with a melancholy face for hours together; but nothing was to be descriedfrom it but a confused and crowded mass of housetops, blackened chimneys, andgable-ends. Sometimes, indeed, a grizzly head might be seen, peering over theparapet-wall of a distant house; but it was quickly withdrawn again; and as thewindow of Oliver’s observatory was nailed down, and dimmed with the rain andsmoke of years, it was as much as he could do to make out the forms of thedifferent objects beyond, without making any attempt to be seen or heard,—whichhe had as much chance of being, as if he had lived inside the ball of St.Paul’s Cathedral.
One afternoon, the Dodger and Master Bates being engaged out that evening, thefirst-named young gentleman took it into his head to evince some anxietyregarding the decoration of his person (to do him justice, this was by no meansan habitual weakness with him); and, with this end and aim, he condescendinglycommanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet, straightway.
Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful; too happy to have some faces,however bad, to look upon; too desirous to conciliate those about him when hecould honestly do so; to throw any objection in the way of this proposal. So heat once expressed his readiness; and, kneeling on the floor, while the Dodgersat upon the table so that he could take his foot in his laps, he appliedhimself to a process which Mr. Dawkins designated as “japanning histrotter-cases.” The phrase, rendered into plain English, signifieth, cleaninghis boots.
Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational animalmay be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy attitude smoking apipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his boots cleaned allthe time, without even the past trouble of having taken them off, or theprospective misery of putting them on, to disturb his reflections; or whetherit was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed the feelings of the Dodger, orthe mildness of the beer that mollified his thoughts; he was evidentlytinctured, for the nonce, with a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign tohis general nature. He looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance,for a brief space; and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sigh, said,half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates:
“What a pity it is he isn’t a prig!”
“Ah!” said Master Charles Bates; “he don’t know what’s good for him.”
The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They bothsmoked, for some seconds, in silence.
“I suppose you don’t even know what a prig is?” said the Dodger mournfully.
“I think I know that,” replied Oliver, looking up. “It’s a the—; you’re one,are you not?” inquired Oliver, checking himself.
“I am,” replied the Dodger. “I’d scorn to be anything else.” Mr. Dawkins gavehis hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment, and looked at MasterBates, as if to denote that he would feel obliged by his saying anything to thecontrary.
“I am,” repeated the Dodger. “So’s Charley. So’s Fagin. So’s Sikes. So’s Nancy.So’s Bet. So we all are, down to the dog. And he’s the downiest one of thelot!”
“And the least given to peaching,” added Charley Bates.
“He wouldn’t so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear of committing himself;no, not if you tied him up in one, and left him there without wittles for afortnight,” said the Dodger.
“Not a bit of it,” observed Charley.
“He’s a rum dog. Don’t he look fierce at any strange cove that laughs or singswhen he’s in company!” pursued the Dodger. “Won’t he growl at all, when hehears a fiddle playing! And don’t he hate other dogs as ain’t of his breed! Oh,no!”
“He’s an out-and-out Christian,” said Charley.
This was merely intended as a tribute to the animal’s abilities, but it was anappropriate remark in another sense, if Master Bates had only known it; forthere are a good many ladies and gentlemen, claiming to be out-and-outChristians, between whom, and Mr. Sikes’ dog, there exist strong and singularpoints of resemblance.
“Well, well,” said the Dodger, recurring to the point from which they hadstrayed: with that mindfulness of his profession which influenced all hisproceedings. “This hasn’t got anything to do with young Green here.”
“No more it has,” said Charley. “Why don’t you put yourself under Fagin,Oliver?”
“And make your fortun’ out of hand?” added the Dodger, with a grin.
“And so be able to retire on your property, and do the gen-teel: as I mean to,in the very next leap-year but four that ever comes, and the forty-secondTuesday in Trinity-week,” said Charley Bates.
“I don’t like it,” rejoined Oliver, timidly; “I wish they would let me go.I—I—would rather go.”
“And Fagin would rather not!” rejoined Charley.
Oliver knew this too well; but thinking it might be dangerous to express hisfeelings more openly, he only sighed, and went on with his boot-cleaning.
“Go!” exclaimed the Dodger. “Why, where’s your spirit? Don’t you take any prideout of yourself? Would you go and be dependent on your friends?”
“Oh, blow that!” said Master Bates: drawing two or three silk handkerchiefsfrom his pocket, and tossing them into a cupboard, “that’s too mean; that is.”
“I couldn’t do it,” said the Dodger, with an air of haughty disgust.
“You can leave your friends, though,” said Oliver with a half smile; “and letthem be punished for what you did.”
“That,” rejoined the Dodger, with a wave of his pipe, “That was all out ofconsideration for Fagin, ’cause the traps know that we work together, and hemight have got into trouble if we hadn’t made our lucky; that was the move,wasn’t it, Charley?”
Master Bates nodded assent, and would have spoken, but the recollection ofOliver’s flight came so suddenly upon him, that the smoke he was inhaling gotentangled with a laugh, and went up into his head, and down into his throat:and brought on a fit of coughing and stamping, about five minutes long.
“Look here!” said the Dodger, drawing forth a handful of shillings andhalfpence. “Here’s a jolly life! What’s the odds where it comes from? Here,catch hold; there’s plenty more where they were took from. You won’t, won’tyou? Oh, you precious flat!”
“It’s naughty, ain’t it, Oliver?” inquired Charley Bates. “He’ll come to bescragged, won’t he?”
“I don’t know what that means,” replied Oliver.
“Something in this way, old feller,” said Charley. As he said it, Master Batescaught up an end of his neckerchief; and, holding it erect in the air, droppedhis head on his shoulder, and jerked a curious sound through his teeth; therebyindicating, by a lively pantomimic representation, that scragging and hangingwere one and the same thing.
“That’s what it means,” said Charley. “Look how he stares, Jack! I never didsee such prime company as that ’ere boy; he’ll be the death of me, I know hewill.” Master Charley Bates, having laughed heartily again, resumed his pipewith tears in his eyes.
“You’ve been brought up bad,” said the Dodger, surveying his boots with muchsatisfaction when Oliver had polished them. “Fagin will make something of you,though, or you’ll be the first he ever had that turned out unprofitable. You’dbetter begin at once; for you’ll come to the trade long before you think of it;and you’re only losing time, Oliver.”
Master Bates backed this advice with sundry moral admonitions of his own:which, being exhausted, he and his friend Mr. Dawkins launched into a glowingdescription of the numerous pleasures incidental to the life they led,interspersed with a variety of hints to Oliver that the best thing he could do,would be to secure Fagin’s favour without more delay, by the means which theythemselves had employed to gain it.
“And always put this in your pipe, Nolly,” said the Dodger, as the Jew washeard unlocking the door above, “if you don’t take fogels and tickers—”
“What’s the good of talking in that way?” interposed Master Bates; “he don’tknow what you mean.”
“If you don’t take pocket-handkechers and watches,” said the Dodger, reducinghis conversation to the level of Oliver’s capacity, “some other cove will; sothat the coves that lose ’em will be all the worse, and you’ll be all theworse, too, and nobody half a ha’p’orth the better, except the chaps wot getsthem—and you’ve just as good a right to them as they have.”
“To be sure, to be sure!” said the Jew, who had entered unseen by Oliver. “Itall lies in a nutshell my dear; in a nutshell, take the Dodger’s word for it.Ha! ha! ha! He understands the catechism of his trade.”
The old man rubbed his hands gleefully together, as he corroborated theDodger’s reasoning in these terms; and chuckled with delight at his pupil’sproficiency.
The conversation proceeded no farther at this time, for the Jew had returnedhome accompanied by Miss Betsy, and a gentleman whom Oliver had never seenbefore, but who was accosted by the Dodger as Tom Chitling; and who, havinglingered on the stairs to exchange a few gallantries with the lady, now madehis appearance.
Mr. Chitling was older in years than the Dodger: having perhaps numberedeighteen winters; but there was a degree of deference in his deportment towardsthat young gentleman which seemed to indicate that he felt himself conscious ofa slight inferiority in point of genius and professional aquirements. He hadsmall twinkling eyes, and a pock-marked face; wore a fur cap, a dark corduroyjacket, greasy fustian trousers, and an apron. His wardrobe was, in truth,rather out of repair; but he excused himself to the company by stating that his“time” was only out an hour before; and that, in consequence of having worn theregimentals for six weeks past, he had not been able to bestow any attention onhis private clothes. Mr. Chitling added, with strong marks of irritation, thatthe new way of fumigating clothes up yonder was infernal unconstitutional, forit burnt holes in them, and there was no remedy against the county. The sameremark he considered to apply to the regulation mode of cutting the hair: whichhe held to be decidedly unlawful. Mr. Chitling wound up his observations bystating that he had not touched a drop of anything for forty-two moral longhard-working days; and that he “wished he might be busted if he warn’t as dryas a lime-basket.”
“Where do you think the gentleman has come from, Oliver?” inquired the Jew,with a grin, as the other boys put a bottle of spirits on the table.
“I—I—don’t know, sir,” replied Oliver.
“Who’s that?” inquired Tom Chitling, casting a contemptuous look at Oliver.
“A young friend of mine, my dear,” replied the Jew.
“He’s in luck, then,” said the young man, with a meaning look at Fagin. “Nevermind where I came from, young ’un; you’ll find your way there, soon enough,I’ll bet a crown!”
At this sally, the boys laughed. After some more jokes on the same subject,they exchanged a few short whispers with Fagin; and withdrew.
After some words apart between the last comer and Fagin, they drew their chairstowards the fire; and the Jew, telling Oliver to come and sit by him, led theconversation to the topics most calculated to interest his hearers. These were,the great advantages of the trade, the proficiency of the Dodger, theamiability of Charley Bates, and the liberality of the Jew himself. At lengththese subjects displayed signs of being thoroughly exhausted; and Mr. Chitlingdid the same: for the house of correction becomes fatiguing after a week ortwo. Miss Betsy accordingly withdrew; and left the party to their repose.
From this day, Oliver was seldom left alone; but was placed in almost constantcommunication with the two boys, who played the old game with the Jew everyday: whether for their own improvement or Oliver’s, Mr. Fagin best knew. Atother times the old man would tell them stories of robberies he had committedin his younger days: mixed up with so much that was droll and curious, thatOliver could not help laughing heartily, and showing that he was amused inspite of all his better feelings.
In short, the wily old Jew had the boy in his toils. Having prepared his mind,by solitude and gloom, to prefer any society to the companionship of his ownsad thoughts in such a dreary place, he was now slowly instilling into his soulthe poison which he hoped would blacken it, and change its hue for ever.
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CHAPTER XIX. IN WHICH A NOTABLE PLAN IS DISCUSSED AND DETERMINED ON
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It was a chill, damp, windy night, when the Jew: buttoning his great-coat tightround his shrivelled body, and pulling the collar up over his ears so ascompletely to obscure the lower part of his face: emerged from his den. Hepaused on the step as the door was locked and chained behind him; and havinglistened while the boys made all secure, and until their retreating footstepswere no longer audible, slunk down the street as quickly as he could.
The house to which Oliver had been conveyed, was in the neighbourhood ofWhitechapel. The Jew stopped for an instant at the corner of the street; and,glancing suspiciously round, crossed the road, and struck off in the directionof the Spitalfields.
The mud lay thick upon the stones, and a black mist hung over the streets; therain fell sluggishly down, and everything felt cold and clammy to the touch. Itseemed just the night when it befitted such a being as the Jew to be abroad. Ashe glided stealthily along, creeping beneath the shelter of the walls anddoorways, the hideous old man seemed like some loathsome reptile, engendered inthe slime and darkness through which he moved: crawling forth, by night, insearch of some rich offal for a meal.
He kept on his course, through many winding and narrow ways, until he reachedBethnal Green; then, turning suddenly off to the left, he soon became involvedin a maze of the mean and dirty streets which abound in that close anddensely-populated quarter.
The Jew was evidently too familiar with the ground he traversed to be at allbewildered, either by the darkness of the night, or the intricacies of the way.He hurried through several alleys and streets, and at length turned into one,lighted only by a single lamp at the farther end. At the door of a house inthis street, he knocked; having exchanged a few muttered words with the personwho opened it, he walked upstairs.
A dog growled as he touched the handle of a room-door; and a man’s voicedemanded who was there.
“Only me, Bill; only me, my dear,” said the Jew looking in.
“Bring in your body then,” said Sikes. “Lie down, you stupid brute! Don’t youknow the devil when he’s got a great-coat on?”
Apparently, the dog had been somewhat deceived by Mr. Fagin’s outer garment;for as the Jew unbuttoned it, and threw it over the back of a chair, he retiredto the corner from which he had risen: wagging his tail as he went, to showthat he was as well satisfied as it was in his nature to be.
“Well!” said Sikes.
“Well, my dear,” replied the Jew.—“Ah! Nancy.”
The latter recognition was uttered with just enough of embarrassment to imply adoubt of its reception; for Mr. Fagin and his young friend had not met, sinceshe had interfered in behalf of Oliver. All doubts upon the subject, if he hadany, were speedily removed by the young lady’s behaviour. She took her feet offthe fender, pushed back her chair, and bade Fagin draw up his, without sayingmore about it: for it was a cold night, and no mistake.
“It is cold, Nancy dear,” said the Jew, as he warmed his skinny handsover the fire. “It seems to go right through one,” added the old man, touchinghis side.
“It must be a piercer, if it finds its way through your heart,” said Mr. Sikes.“Give him something to drink, Nancy. Burn my body, make haste! It’s enough toturn a man ill, to see his lean old carcase shivering in that way, like a uglyghost just rose from the grave.”
Nancy quickly brought a bottle from a cupboard, in which there were many:which, to judge from the diversity of their appearance, were filled withseveral kinds of liquids. Sikes pouring out a glass of brandy, bade the Jewdrink it off.
“Quite enough, quite, thankye, Bill,” replied the Jew, putting down the glassafter just setting his lips to it.
“What! You’re afraid of our getting the better of you, are you?” inquiredSikes, fixing his eyes on the Jew. “Ugh!”
With a hoarse grunt of contempt, Mr. Sikes seized the glass, and threw theremainder of its contents into the ashes: as a preparatory ceremony to fillingit again for himself: which he did at once.
The Jew glanced round the room, as his companion tossed down the secondglassful; not in curiousity, for he had seen it often before; but in a restlessand suspicious manner habitual to him. It was a meanly furnished apartment,with nothing but the contents of the closet to induce the belief that itsoccupier was anything but a working man; and with no more suspicious articlesdisplayed to view than two or three heavy bludgeons which stood in a corner,and a “life-preserver” that hung over the chimney-piece.
“There,” said Sikes, smacking his lips. “Now I’m ready.”
“For business?” inquired the Jew.
“For business,” replied Sikes; “so say what you’ve got to say.”
“About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?” said the Jew, drawing his chair forward,and speaking in a very low voice.
“Yes. Wot about it?” inquired Sikes.
“Ah! you know what I mean, my dear,” said the Jew. “He knows what I mean,Nancy; don’t he?”
“No, he don’t,” sneered Mr. Sikes. “Or he won’t, and that’s the same thing.Speak out, and call things by their right names; don’t sit there, winking andblinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you warn’t the very first thatthought about the robbery. Wot d’ye mean?”
“Hush, Bill, hush!” said the Jew, who had in vain attempted to stop this burstof indignation; “somebody will hear us, my dear. Somebody will hear us.”
“Let ’em hear!” said Sikes; “I don’t care.” But as Mr. Sikes did care,on reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words, and grew calmer.
“There, there,” said the Jew, coaxingly. “It was only my caution, nothing more.Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to be done, Bill, eh?When is it to be done? Such plate, my dear, such plate!” said the Jew: rubbinghis hands, and elevating his eyebrows in a rapture of anticipation.
“Not at all,” replied Sikes coldly.
“Not to be done at all!” echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair.
“No, not at all,” rejoined Sikes. “At least it can’t be a put-up job, as weexpected.”
“Then it hasn’t been properly gone about,” said the Jew, turning pale withanger. “Don’t tell me!”
“But I will tell you,” retorted Sikes. “Who are you that’s not to be told? Itell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place for a fortnight,and he can’t get one of the servants in line.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Bill,” said the Jew: softening as the other grewheated: “that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?”
“Yes, I do mean to tell you so,” replied Sikes. “The old lady has had ’em thesetwenty years; and if you were to give ’em five hundred pound, they wouldn’t bein it.”
“But do you mean to say, my dear,” remonstrated the Jew, “that the women can’tbe got over?”
“Not a bit of it,” replied Sikes.
“Not by flash Toby Crackit?” said the Jew incredulously. “Think what women are,Bill,”
“No; not even by flash Toby Crackit,” replied Sikes. “He says he’s worn shamwhiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he’s been loiteringdown there, and it’s all of no use.”
“He should have tried mustachios and a pair of military trousers, my dear,”said the Jew.
“So he did,” rejoined Sikes, “and they warn’t of no more use than the otherplant.”
The Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some minuteswith his chin sunk on his breast, he raised his head and said, with a deepsigh, that if flash Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared the game was up.
“And yet,” said the old man, dropping his hands on his knees, “it’s a sadthing, my dear, to lose so much when we had set our hearts upon it.”
“So it is,” said Mr. Sikes. “Worse luck!”
A long silence ensued; during which the Jew was plunged in deep thought, withhis face wrinkled into an expression of villainy perfectly demoniacal. Sikeseyed him furtively from time to time. Nancy, apparently fearful of irritatingthe housebreaker, sat with her eyes fixed upon the fire, as if she had beendeaf to all that passed.
“Fagin,” said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed; “is itworth fifty shiners extra, if it’s safely done from the outside?”
“Yes,” said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself.
“Is it a bargain?” inquired Sikes.
“Yes, my dear, yes,” rejoined the Jew; his eyes glistening, and every muscle inhis face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had awakened.
“Then,” said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew’s hand, with some disdain, “let itcome off as soon as you like. Toby and me were over the garden-wall the nightafore last, sounding the panels of the door and shutters. The crib’s barred upat night like a jail; but there’s one part we can crack, safe and softly.”
“Which is that, Bill?” asked the Jew eagerly.
“Why,” whispered Sikes, “as you cross the lawn—”
“Yes?” said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his eyes almost startingout of it.
“Umph!” cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl, scarcely moving her head,looked suddenly round, and pointed for an instant to the Jew’s face. “Nevermind which part it is. You can’t do it without me, I know; but it’s best to beon the safe side when one deals with you.”
“As you like, my dear, as you like” replied the Jew. “Is there no help wanted,but yours and Toby’s?”
“None,” said Sikes, “’cept a centre-bit and a boy. The first we’ve both got;the second you must find us.”
“A boy!” exclaimed the Jew. “Oh! then it’s a panel, eh?”
“Never mind wot it is!” replied Sikes. “I want a boy, and he musn’t be a big’un. Lord!” said Mr. Sikes, reflectively, “if I’d only got that young boy ofNed, the chimbley-sweeper’s! He kept him small on purpose, and let him out bythe job. But the father gets lagged; and then the Juvenile Delinquent Societycomes, and takes the boy away from a trade where he was earning money, teacheshim to read and write, and in time makes a ’prentice of him. And so they goon,” said Mr. Sikes, his wrath rising with the recollection of his wrongs, “sothey go on; and, if they’d got money enough (which it’s a Providence theyhaven’t,) we shouldn’t have half a dozen boys left in the whole trade, in ayear or two.”
“No more we should,” acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering during thisspeech, and had only caught the last sentence. “Bill!”
“What now?” inquired Sikes.
The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the fire; andintimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave the room. Sikesshrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought the precautionunnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting Miss Nancy to fetch hima jug of beer.
“You don’t want any beer,” said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining her seatvery composedly.
“I tell you I do!” replied Sikes.
“Nonsense,” rejoined the girl coolly, “Go on, Fagin. I know what he’s going tosay, Bill; he needn’t mind me.”
The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some surprise.
“Why, you don’t mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?” he asked at length. “You’veknown her long enough to trust her, or the Devil’s in it. She ain’t one toblab. Are you Nancy?”
“I should think not!” replied the young lady: drawing her chair up tothe table, and putting her elbows upon it.
“No, no, my dear, I know you’re not,” said the Jew; “but—” and again the oldman paused.
“But wot?” inquired Sikes.
“I didn’t know whether she mightn’t p’r’aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear,as she was the other night,” replied the Jew.
At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glassof brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundryexclamations of “Keep the game a-going!” “Never say die!” and the like. Theseseemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded hishead with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise.
“Now, Fagin,” said Nancy with a laugh. “Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!”
“Ha! you’re a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!” said the Jew,patting her on the neck. “It was about Oliver I was going to speak, sureenough. Ha! ha! ha!”
“What about him?” demanded Sikes.
“He’s the boy for you, my dear,” replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; layinghis finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully.
“He!” exclaimed Sikes.
“Have him, Bill!” said Nancy. “I would, if I was in your place. He mayn’t be somuch up, as any of the others; but that’s not what you want, if he’s only toopen a door for you. Depend upon it he’s a safe one, Bill.”
“I know he is,” rejoined Fagin. “He’s been in good training these last fewweeks, and it’s time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others areall too big.”
“Well, he is just the size I want,” said Mr. Sikes, ruminating.
“And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear,” interposed the Jew; “he can’thelp himself. That is, if you frighten him enough.”
“Frighten him!” echoed Sikes. “It’ll be no sham frightening, mind you. Ifthere’s anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for apenny, in for a pound. You won’t see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that,before you send him. Mark my words!” said the robber, poising a crowbar, whichhe had drawn from under the bedstead.
“I’ve thought of it all,” said the Jew with energy. “I’ve—I’ve had my eye uponhim, my dears, close—close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fillhis mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he’s ours! Ours for hislife. Oho! It couldn’t have come about better!” The old man crossed his armsupon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literallyhugged himself for joy.
“Ours!” said Sikes. “Yours, you mean.”
“Perhaps I do, my dear,” said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. “Mine, if youlike, Bill.”
“And wot,” said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, “wot makesyou take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fiftyboys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choosefrom?”
“Because they’re of no use to me, my dear,” replied the Jew, with someconfusion, “not worth the taking. Their looks convict ’em when they get intotrouble, and I lose ’em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I coulddo what I couldn’t with twenty of them. Besides,” said the Jew, recovering hisself-possession, “he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and hemust be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it’s quiteenough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that’s all I want. Now,how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out ofthe way—which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides.”
“When is it to be done?” asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation onthe part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin’saffectation of humanity.
“Ah, to be sure,” said the Jew; “when is it to be done, Bill?”
“I planned with Toby, the night arter tomorrow,” rejoined Sikes in a surlyvoice, “if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy.”
“Good,” said the Jew; “there’s no moon.”
“No,” rejoined Sikes.
“It’s all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?” asked the Jew.
Sikes nodded.
“And about—”
“Oh, ah, it’s all planned,” rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. “Never mindparticulars. You’d better bring the boy here tomorrow night. I shall get offthe stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep themelting-pot ready, and that’s all you’ll have to do.”
After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decidedthat Nancy should repair to the Jew’s next evening when the night had set in,and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evincedany disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girlwho had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was alsosolemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplatedexpedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. WilliamSikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit;and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil thatmight be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render thecompact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on hisreturn should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all importantparticulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit.
These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furiousrate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at thesame time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. Atlength, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his boxof housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened forthe purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implementsit contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fellover the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.
“Good-night, Nancy,” said the Jew, muffling himself up as before.
“Good-night.”
Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinchingabout the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackithimself could be.
The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the prostrateform of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs.
“Always the way!” muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward. “The worstof these women is, that a very little thing serves to call up somelong-forgotten feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never lasts. Ha! ha!The man against the child, for a bag of gold!”
Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagin wended his way,through mud and mire, to his gloomy abode: where the Dodger was sitting up,impatiently awaiting his return.
“Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him,” was his first remark as theydescended the stairs.
“Hours ago,” replied the Dodger, throwing open a door. “Here he is!”
The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale withanxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked likedeath; not death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it wearswhen life has just departed; when a young and gentle spirit has, but aninstant, fled to Heaven, and the gross air of the world has not had time tobreathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.
“Not now,” said the Jew, turning softly away. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow.”
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CHAPTER XX. WHEREIN OLIVER IS DELIVERED OVER TO MR. WILLIAM SIKES
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When Oliver awoke in the morning, he was a good deal surprised to find that anew pair of shoes, with strong thick soles, had been placed at his bedside; andthat his old shoes had been removed. At first, he was pleased with thediscovery: hoping that it might be the forerunner of his release; but suchthoughts were quickly dispelled, on his sitting down to breakfast along withthe Jew, who told him, in a tone and manner which increased his alarm, that hewas to be taken to the residence of Bill Sikes that night.
“To—to—stop there, sir?” asked Oliver, anxiously.
“No, no, my dear. Not to stop there,” replied the Jew. “We shouldn’t like tolose you. Don’t be afraid, Oliver, you shall come back to us again. Ha! ha! ha!We won’t be so cruel as to send you away, my dear. Oh no, no!”
The old man, who was stooping over the fire toasting a piece of bread, lookedround as he bantered Oliver thus; and chuckled as if to show that he knew hewould still be very glad to get away if he could.
“I suppose,” said the Jew, fixing his eyes on Oliver, “you want to know whatyou’re going to Bill’s for—eh, my dear?”
Oliver coloured, involuntarily, to find that the old thief had been reading histhoughts; but boldly said, Yes, he did want to know.
“Why, do you think?” inquired Fagin, parrying the question.
“Indeed I don’t know, sir,” replied Oliver.
“Bah!” said the Jew, turning away with a disappointed countenance from a closeperusal of the boy’s face. “Wait till Bill tells you, then.”
The Jew seemed much vexed by Oliver’s not expressing any greater curiosity onthe subject; but the truth is, that, although Oliver felt very anxious, he wastoo much confused by the earnest cunning of Fagin’s looks, and his ownspeculations, to make any further inquiries just then. He had no otheropportunity: for the Jew remained very surly and silent till night: when heprepared to go abroad.
“You may burn a candle,” said the Jew, putting one upon the table. “And here’sa book for you to read, till they come to fetch you. Good-night!”
“Good-night!” replied Oliver, softly.
The Jew walked to the door: looking over his shoulder at the boy as he went.Suddenly stopping, he called him by his name.
Oliver looked up; the Jew, pointing to the candle, motioned him to light it. Hedid so; and, as he placed the candlestick upon the table, saw that the Jew wasgazing fixedly at him, with lowering and contracted brows, from the dark end ofthe room.
“Take heed, Oliver! take heed!” said the old man, shaking his right hand beforehim in a warning manner. “He’s a rough man, and thinks nothing of blood whenhis own is up. Whatever falls out, say nothing; and do what he bids you. Mind!”Placing a strong emphasis on the last word, he suffered his features graduallyto resolve themselves into a ghastly grin, and, nodding his head, left theroom.
Oliver leaned his head upon his hand when the old man disappeared, andpondered, with a trembling heart, on the words he had just heard. The more hethought of the Jew’s admonition, the more he was at a loss to divine its realpurpose and meaning.
He could think of no bad object to be attained by sending him to Sikes, whichwould not be equally well answered by his remaining with Fagin; and aftermeditating for a long time, concluded that he had been selected to perform someordinary menial offices for the housebreaker, until another boy, better suitedfor his purpose could be engaged. He was too well accustomed to suffering, andhad suffered too much where he was, to bewail the prospect of change veryseverely. He remained lost in thought for some minutes; and then, with a heavysigh, snuffed the candle, and, taking up the book which the Jew had left withhim, began to read.
He turned over the leaves. Carelessly at first; but, lighting on a passagewhich attracted his attention, he soon became intent upon the volume. It was ahistory of the lives and trials of great criminals; and the pages were soiledand thumbed with use. Here, he read of dreadful crimes that made the blood runcold; of secret murders that had been committed by the lonely wayside; ofbodies hidden from the eye of man in deep pits and wells: which would not keepthem down, deep as they were, but had yielded them up at last, after manyyears, and so maddened the murderers with the sight, that in their horror theyhad confessed their guilt, and yelled for the gibbet to end their agony. Here,too, he read of men who, lying in their beds at dead of night, had been tempted(so they said) and led on, by their own bad thoughts, to such dreadfulbloodshed as it made the flesh creep, and the limbs quail, to think of. Theterrible descriptions were so real and vivid, that the sallow pages seemed toturn red with gore; and the words upon them, to be sounded in his ears, as ifthey were whispered, in hollow murmurs, by the spirits of the dead.
In a paroxysm of fear, the boy closed the book, and thrust it from him. Then,falling upon his knees, he prayed Heaven to spare him from such deeds; andrather to will that he should die at once, than be reserved for crimes, sofearful and appalling. By degrees, he grew more calm, and besought, in a lowand broken voice, that he might be rescued from his present dangers; and thatif any aid were to be raised up for a poor outcast boy who had never known thelove of friends or kindred, it might come to him now, when, desolate anddeserted, he stood alone in the midst of wickedness and guilt.
He had concluded his prayer, but still remained with his head buried in hishands, when a rustling noise aroused him.
“What’s that!” he cried, starting up, and catching sight of a figure standingby the door. “Who’s there?”
“Me. Only me,” replied a tremulous voice.
Oliver raised the candle above his head: and looked towards the door. It wasNancy.
“Put down the light,” said the girl, turning away her head. “It hurts my eyes.”
Oliver saw that she was very pale, and gently inquired if she were ill. Thegirl threw herself into a chair, with her back towards him: and wrung herhands; but made no reply.
“God forgive me!” she cried after a while, “I never thought of this.”
“Has anything happened?” asked Oliver. “Can I help you? I will if I can. Iwill, indeed.”
She rocked herself to and fro; caught her throat; and, uttering a gurglingsound, gasped for breath.
“Nancy!” cried Oliver, “What is it?”
The girl beat her hands upon her knees, and her feet upon the ground; and,suddenly stopping, drew her shawl close round her: and shivered with cold.
Oliver stirred the fire. Drawing her chair close to it, she sat there, for alittle time, without speaking; but at length she raised her head, and lookedround.
“I don’t know what comes over me sometimes,” said she, affecting to busyherself in arranging her dress; “it’s this damp dirty room, I think. Now,Nolly, dear, are you ready?”
“Am I to go with you?” asked Oliver.
“Yes. I have come from Bill,” replied the girl. “You are to go with me.”
“What for?” asked Oliver, recoiling.
“What for?” echoed the girl, raising her eyes, and averting them again, themoment they encountered the boy’s face. “Oh! For no harm.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Oliver: who had watched her closely.
“Have it your own way,” rejoined the girl, affecting to laugh. “For no good,then.”
Oliver could see that he had some power over the girl’s better feelings, and,for an instant, thought of appealing to her compassion for his helpless state.But, then, the thought darted across his mind that it was barely eleveno’clock; and that many people were still in the streets: of whom surely somemight be found to give credence to his tale. As the reflection occured to him,he stepped forward: and said, somewhat hastily, that he was ready.
Neither his brief consideration, nor its purport, was lost on his companion.She eyed him narrowly, while he spoke; and cast upon him a look of intelligencewhich sufficiently showed that she guessed what had been passing in histhoughts.
“Hush!” said the girl, stooping over him, and pointing to the door as shelooked cautiously round. “You can’t help yourself. I have tried hard for you,but all to no purpose. You are hedged round and round. If ever you are to getloose from here, this is not the time.”
Struck by the energy of her manner, Oliver looked up in her face with greatsurprise. She seemed to speak the truth; her countenance was white andagitated; and she trembled with very earnestness.
“I have saved you from being ill-used once, and I will again, and I do now,”continued the girl aloud; “for those who would have fetched you, if I had not,would have been far more rough than me. I have promised for your being quietand silent; if you are not, you will only do harm to yourself and me too, andperhaps be my death. See here! I have borne all this for you already, as trueas God sees me show it.”
She pointed, hastily, to some livid bruises on her neck and arms; andcontinued, with great rapidity:
“Remember this! And don’t let me suffer more for you, just now. If I could helpyou, I would; but I have not the power. They don’t mean to harm you; whateverthey make you do, is no fault of yours. Hush! Every word from you is a blow forme. Give me your hand. Make haste! Your hand!”
She caught the hand which Oliver instinctively placed in hers, and, blowing outthe light, drew him after her up the stairs. The door was opened, quickly, bysome one shrouded in the darkness, and was as quickly closed, when they hadpassed out. A hackney-cabriolet was in waiting; with the same vehemence whichshe had exhibited in addressing Oliver, the girl pulled him in with her, anddrew the curtains close. The driver wanted no directions, but lashed his horseinto full speed, without the delay of an instant.
The girl still held Oliver fast by the hand, and continued to pour into hisear, the warnings and assurances she had already imparted. All was so quick andhurried, that he had scarcely time to recollect where he was, or how he camethere, when the carriage stopped at the house to which the Jew’s steps had beendirected on the previous evening.
For one brief moment, Oliver cast a hurried glance along the empty street, anda cry for help hung upon his lips. But the girl’s voice was in his ear,beseeching him in such tones of agony to remember her, that he had not theheart to utter it. While he hesitated, the opportunity was gone; he was alreadyin the house, and the door was shut.
“This way,” said the girl, releasing her hold for the first time. “Bill!”
“Hallo!” replied Sikes: appearing at the head of the stairs, with a candle.“Oh! That’s the time of day. Come on!”
This was a very strong expression of approbation, an uncommonly hearty welcome,from a person of Mr. Sikes’ temperament. Nancy, appearing much gratifiedthereby, saluted him cordially.
“Bull’s-eye’s gone home with Tom,” observed Sikes, as he lighted them up. “He’dhave been in the way.”
“That’s right,” rejoined Nancy.
“So you’ve got the kid,” said Sikes when they had all reached the room: closingthe door as he spoke.
“Yes, here he is,” replied Nancy.
“Did he come quiet?” inquired Sikes.
“Like a lamb,” rejoined Nancy.
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Sikes, looking grimly at Oliver; “for the sake ofhis young carcase: as would otherways have suffered for it. Come here, young’un; and let me read you a lectur’, which is as well got over at once.”
Thus addressing his new pupil, Mr. Sikes pulled off Oliver’s cap and threw itinto a corner; and then, taking him by the shoulder, sat himself down by thetable, and stood the boy in front of him.
“Now, first: do you know wot this is?” inquired Sikes, taking up apocket-pistol which lay on the table.
Oliver replied in the affirmative.
“Well, then, look here,” continued Sikes. “This is powder; that ’ere’s abullet; and this is a little bit of a old hat for waddin’.”
Oliver murmured his comprehension of the different bodies referred to; and Mr.Sikes proceeded to load the pistol, with great nicety and deliberation.
“Now it’s loaded,” said Mr. Sikes, when he had finished.
“Yes, I see it is, sir,” replied Oliver.
“Well,” said the robber, grasping Oliver’s wrist, and putting the barrel soclose to his temple that they touched; at which moment the boy could notrepress a start; “if you speak a word when you’re out o’doors with me, exceptwhen I speak to you, that loading will be in your head without notice. So, ifyou do make up your mind to speak without leave, say your prayersfirst.”
Having bestowed a scowl upon the object of this warning, to increase itseffect, Mr. Sikes continued.
“As near as I know, there isn’t anybody as would be asking very particklerarter you, if you was disposed of; so I needn’t take this devil-and-allof trouble to explain matters to you, if it warn’t for your own good. D’ye hearme?”
“The short and the long of what you mean,” said Nancy: speaking veryemphatically, and slightly frowning at Oliver as if to bespeak his seriousattention to her words: “is, that if you’re crossed by him in this job you haveon hand, you’ll prevent his ever telling tales afterwards, by shooting himthrough the head, and will take your chance of swinging for it, as you do for agreat many other things in the way of business, every month of your life.”
“That’s it!” observed Mr. Sikes, approvingly; “women can always put things infewest words.—Except when it’s blowing up; and then they lengthens it out. Andnow that he’s thoroughly up to it, let’s have some supper, and get a snoozebefore starting.”
In pursuance of this request, Nancy quickly laid the cloth; disappearing for afew minutes, she presently returned with a pot of porter and a dish of sheep’sheads: which gave occasion to several pleasant witticisms on the part of Mr.Sikes, founded upon the singular coincidence of “jemmies” being a can name,common to them, and also to an ingenious implement much used in his profession.Indeed, the worthy gentleman, stimulated perhaps by the immediate prospect ofbeing on active service, was in great spirits and good humour; in proofwhereof, it may be here remarked, that he humourously drank all the beer at adraught, and did not utter, on a rough calculation, more than four-score oathsduring the whole progress of the meal.
Supper being ended—it may be easily conceived that Oliver had no great appetitefor it—Mr. Sikes disposed of a couple of glasses of spirits and water, andthrew himself on the bed; ordering Nancy, with many imprecations in case offailure, to call him at five precisely. Oliver stretched himself in hisclothes, by command of the same authority, on a mattress upon the floor; andthe girl, mending the fire, sat before it, in readiness to rouse them at theappointed time.
For a long time Oliver lay awake, thinking it not impossible that Nancy mightseek that opportunity of whispering some further advice; but the girl satbrooding over the fire, without moving, save now and then to trim the light.Weary with watching and anxiety, he at length fell asleep.
When he awoke, the table was covered with tea-things, and Sikes was thrustingvarious articles into the pockets of his great-coat, which hung over the backof a chair. Nancy was busily engaged in preparing breakfast. It was not yetdaylight; for the candle was still burning, and it was quite dark outside. Asharp rain, too, was beating against the window-panes; and the sky looked blackand cloudy.
“Now, then!” growled Sikes, as Oliver started up; “half-past five! Look sharp,or you’ll get no breakfast; for it’s late as it is.”
Oliver was not long in making his toilet; having taken some breakfast, hereplied to a surly inquiry from Sikes, by saying that he was quite ready.
Nancy, scarcely looking at the boy, threw him a handkerchief to tie round histhroat; Sikes gave him a large rough cape to button over his shoulders. Thusattired, he gave his hand to the robber, who, merely pausing to show him with amenacing gesture that he had that same pistol in a side-pocket of hisgreat-coat, clasped it firmly in his, and, exchanging a farewell with Nancy,led him away.
Oliver turned, for an instant, when they reached the door, in the hope ofmeeting a look from the girl. But she had resumed her old seat in front of thefire, and sat, perfectly motionless before it.
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CHAPTER XXI. THE EXPEDITION
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It was a cheerless morning when they got into the street; blowing and raininghard; and the clouds looking dull and stormy. The night had been very wet:large pools of water had collected in the road: and the kennels wereoverflowing. There was a faint glimmering of the coming day in the sky; but itrather aggravated than relieved the gloom of the scene: the sombre light onlyserving to pale that which the street lamps afforded, without shedding anywarmer or brighter tints upon the wet house-tops, and dreary streets. Thereappeared to be nobody stirring in that quarter of the town; the windows of thehouses were all closely shut; and the streets through which they passed, werenoiseless and empty.
By the time they had turned into the Bethnal Green Road, the day had fairlybegun to break. Many of the lamps were already extinguished; a few countrywaggons were slowly toiling on, towards London; now and then, a stage-coach,covered with mud, rattled briskly by: the driver bestowing, as he passed, anadmonitory lash upon the heavy waggoner who, by keeping on the wrong side ofthe road, had endangered his arriving at the office, a quarter of a minuteafter his time. The public-houses, with gas-lights burning inside, were alreadyopen. By degrees, other shops began to be unclosed, and a few scattered peoplewere met with. Then, came straggling groups of labourers going to their work;then, men and women with fish-baskets on their heads; donkey-carts laden withvegetables; chaise-carts filled with live-stock or whole carcasses of meat;milk-women with pails; an unbroken concourse of people, trudging out withvarious supplies to the eastern suburbs of the town. As they approached theCity, the noise and traffic gradually increased; when they threaded the streetsbetween Shoreditch and Smithfield, it had swelled into a roar of sound andbustle. It was as light as it was likely to be, till night came on again, andthe busy morning of half the London population had begun.
Turning down Sun Street and Crown Street, and crossing Finsbury square, Mr.Sikes struck, by way of Chiswell Street, into Barbican: thence into Long Lane,and so into Smithfield; from which latter place arose a tumult of discordantsounds that filled Oliver Twist with amazement.
It was market-morning. The ground was covered, nearly ankle-deep, with filthand mire; a thick steam, perpetually rising from the reeking bodies of thecattle, and mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest upon the chimney-tops,hung heavily above. All the pens in the centre of the large area, and as manytemporary pens as could be crowded into the vacant space, were filled withsheep; tied up to posts by the gutter side were long lines of beasts and oxen,three or four deep. Countrymen, butchers, drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves,idlers, and vagabonds of every low grade, were mingled together in a mass; thewhistling of drovers, the barking dogs, the bellowing and plunging of the oxen,the bleating of sheep, the grunting and squeaking of pigs, the cries ofhawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarrelling on all sides; the ringing of bellsand roar of voices, that issued from every public-house; the crowding, pushing,driving, beating, whooping and yelling; the hideous and discordant dim thatresounded from every corner of the market; and the unwashed, unshaven, squalid,and dirty figures constantly running to and fro, and bursting in and out of thethrong; rendered it a stunning and bewildering scene, which quite confoundedthe senses.
Mr. Sikes, dragging Oliver after him, elbowed his way through the thickest ofthe crowd, and bestowed very little attention on the numerous sights andsounds, which so astonished the boy. He nodded, twice or thrice, to a passingfriend; and, resisting as many invitations to take a morning dram, pressedsteadily onward, until they were clear of the turmoil, and had made their waythrough Hosier Lane into Holborn.
“Now, young ’un!” said Sikes, looking up at the clock of St. Andrew’s Church,“hard upon seven! you must step out. Come, don’t lag behind already,Lazy-legs!”
Mr. Sikes accompanied this speech with a jerk at his little companion’s wrist;Oliver, quickening his pace into a kind of trot between a fast walk and a run,kept up with the rapid strides of the house-breaker as well as he could.
They held their course at this rate, until they had passed Hyde Park corner,and were on their way to Kensington: when Sikes relaxed his pace, until anempty cart which was at some little distance behind, came up. Seeing “Hounslow”written on it, he asked the driver with as much civility as he could assume, ifhe would give them a lift as far as Isleworth.
“Jump up,” said the man. “Is that your boy?”
“Yes; he’s my boy,” replied Sikes, looking hard at Oliver, and putting his handabstractedly into the pocket where the pistol was.
“Your father walks rather too quick for you, don’t he, my man?” inquired thedriver: seeing that Oliver was out of breath.
“Not a bit of it,” replied Sikes, interposing. “He’s used to it. Here, takehold of my hand, Ned. In with you!”
Thus addressing Oliver, he helped him into the cart; and the driver, pointingto a heap of sacks, told him to lie down there, and rest himself.
As they passed the different mile-stones, Oliver wondered, more and more, wherehis companion meant to take him. Kensington, Hammersmith, Chiswick, Kew Bridge,Brentford, were all passed; and yet they went on as steadily as if they hadonly just begun their journey. At length, they came to a public-house calledthe Coach and Horses; a little way beyond which, another road appeared to runoff. And here, the cart stopped.
Sikes dismounted with great precipitation, holding Oliver by the hand all thewhile; and lifting him down directly, bestowed a furious look upon him, andrapped the side-pocket with his fist, in a significant manner.
“Good-bye, boy,” said the man.
“He’s sulky,” replied Sikes, giving him a shake; “he’s sulky. A young dog!Don’t mind him.”
“Not I!” rejoined the other, getting into his cart. “It’s a fine day, afterall.” And he drove away.
Sikes waited until he had fairly gone; and then, telling Oliver he might lookabout him if he wanted, once again led him onward on his journey.
They turned round to the left, a short way past the public-house; and then,taking a right-hand road, walked on for a long time: passing many large gardensand gentlemen’s houses on both sides of the way, and stopping for nothing but alittle beer, until they reached a town. Here against the wall of a house,Oliver saw written up in pretty large letters, “Hampton.” They lingered about,in the fields, for some hours. At length they came back into the town; and,turning into an old public-house with a defaced sign-board, ordered some dinnerby the kitchen fire.
The kitchen was an old, low-roofed room; with a great beam across the middle ofthe ceiling, and benches, with high backs to them, by the fire; on which wereseated several rough men in smock-frocks, drinking and smoking. They took nonotice of Oliver; and very little of Sikes; and, as Sikes took very littlenotice of them, he and his young comrade sat in a corner by themselves, withoutbeing much troubled by their company.
They had some cold meat for dinner, and sat so long after it, while Mr. Sikesindulged himself with three or four pipes, that Oliver began to feel quitecertain they were not going any further. Being much tired with the walk, andgetting up so early, he dozed a little at first; then, quite overpowered byfatigue and the fumes of the tobacco, fell asleep.
It was quite dark when he was awakened by a push from Sikes. Rousing himselfsufficiently to sit up and look about him, he found that worthy in closefellowship and communication with a labouring man, over a pint of ale.
“So, you’re going on to Lower Halliford, are you?” inquired Sikes.
“Yes, I am,” replied the man, who seemed a little the worse—or better, as thecase might be—for drinking; “and not slow about it neither. My horse hasn’t gota load behind him going back, as he had coming up in the mornin’; and he won’tbe long a-doing of it. Here’s luck to him. Ecod! he’s a good ’un!”
“Could you give my boy and me a lift as far as there?” demanded Sikes, pushingthe ale towards his new friend.
“If you’re going directly, I can,” replied the man, looking out of the pot.“Are you going to Halliford?”
“Going on to Shepperton,” replied Sikes.
“I’m your man, as far as I go,” replied the other. “Is all paid, Becky?”
“Yes, the other gentleman’s paid,” replied the girl.
“I say!” said the man, with tipsy gravity; “that won’t do, you know.”
“Why not?” rejoined Sikes. “You’re a-going to accommodate us, and wot’s toprevent my standing treat for a pint or so, in return?”
The stranger reflected upon this argument, with a very profound face; havingdone so, he seized Sikes by the hand: and declared he was a real good fellow.To which Mr. Sikes replied, he was joking; as, if he had been sober, therewould have been strong reason to suppose he was.
After the exchange of a few more compliments, they bade the company good-night,and went out; the girl gathering up the pots and glasses as they did so, andlounging out to the door, with her hands full, to see the party start.
The horse, whose health had been drunk in his absence, was standing outside:ready harnessed to the cart. Oliver and Sikes got in without any furtherceremony; and the man to whom he belonged, having lingered for a minute or two“to bear him up,” and to defy the hostler and the world to produce his equal,mounted also. Then, the hostler was told to give the horse his head; and, hishead being given him, he made a very unpleasant use of it: tossing it into theair with great disdain, and running into the parlour windows over the way;after performing those feats, and supporting himself for a short time on hishind-legs, he started off at great speed, and rattled out of the town rightgallantly.
The night was very dark. A damp mist rose from the river, and the marshy groundabout; and spread itself over the dreary fields. It was piercing cold, too; allwas gloomy and black. Not a word was spoken; for the driver had grown sleepy;and Sikes was in no mood to lead him into conversation. Oliver sat huddledtogether, in a corner of the cart; bewildered with alarm and apprehension; andfiguring strange objects in the gaunt trees, whose branches waved grimly to andfro, as if in some fantastic joy at the desolation of the scene.
As they passed Sunbury Church, the clock struck seven. There was a light in theferry-house window opposite: which streamed across the road, and threw intomore sombre shadow a dark yew-tree with graves beneath it. There was a dullsound of falling water not far off; and the leaves of the old tree stirredgently in the night wind. It seemed like quiet music for the repose of thedead.
Sunbury was passed through, and they came again into the lonely road. Two orthree miles more, and the cart stopped. Sikes alighted, took Oliver by thehand, and they once again walked on.
They turned into no house at Shepperton, as the weary boy had expected; butstill kept walking on, in mud and darkness, through gloomy lanes and over coldopen wastes, until they came within sight of the lights of a town at no greatdistance. On looking intently forward, Oliver saw that the water was just belowthem, and that they were coming to the foot of a bridge.
Sikes kept straight on, until they were close upon the bridge; then turnedsuddenly down a bank upon the left.
“The water!” thought Oliver, turning sick with fear. “He has brought me to thislonely place to murder me!”
He was about to throw himself on the ground, and make one struggle for hisyoung life, when he saw that they stood before a solitary house: all ruinousand decayed. There was a window on each side of the dilapidated entrance; andone story above; but no light was visible. The house was dark, dismantled: and,to all appearance, uninhabited.
Sikes, with Oliver’s hand still in his, softly approached the low porch, andraised the latch. The door yielded to the pressure, and they passed intogether.
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CHAPTER XXII. THE BURGLARY
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“Hallo!” cried a loud, hoarse voice, as soon as they set foot in the passage.
“Don’t make such a row,” said Sikes, bolting the door. “Show a glim, Toby.”
“Aha! my pal!” cried the same voice. “A glim, Barney, a glim! Show thegentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if convenient.”
The speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, or some such article, at the personhe addressed, to rouse him from his slumbers: for the noise of a wooden body,falling violently, was heard; and then an indistinct muttering, as of a manbetween sleep and awake.
“Do you hear?” cried the same voice. “There’s Bill Sikes in the passage withnobody to do the civil to him; and you sleeping there, as if you took laudanumwith your meals, and nothing stronger. Are you any fresher now, or do you wantthe iron candlestick to wake you thoroughly?”
A pair of slipshod feet shuffled, hastily, across the bare floor of the room,as this interrogatory was put; and there issued, from a door on the right hand;first, a feeble candle: and next, the form of the same individual who has beenheretofore described as labouring under the infirmity of speaking through hisnose, and officiating as waiter at the public-house on Saffron Hill.
“Bister Sikes!” exclaimed Barney, with real or counterfeit joy; “cub id, sir;cub id.”
“Here! you get on first,” said Sikes, putting Oliver in front of him. “Quicker!or I shall tread upon your heels.”
Muttering a curse upon his tardiness, Sikes pushed Oliver before him; and theyentered a low dark room with a smoky fire, two or three broken chairs, a table,and a very old couch: on which, with his legs much higher than his head, a manwas reposing at full length, smoking a long clay pipe. He was dressed in asmartly-cut snuff-coloured coat, with large brass buttons; an orangeneckerchief; a coarse, staring, shawl-pattern waistcoat; and drab breeches. Mr.Crackit (for he it was) had no very great quantity of hair, either upon hishead or face; but what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured into longcorkscrew curls, through which he occasionally thrust some very dirty fingers,ornamented with large common rings. He was a trifle above the middle size, andapparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by no means detractedfrom his own admiration of his top-boots, which he contemplated, in theirelevated situation, with lively satisfaction.
“Bill, my boy!” said this figure, turning his head towards the door, “I’m gladto see you. I was almost afraid you’d given it up: in which case I should havemade a personal wentur. Hallo!”
Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes rested onOliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting posture, and demandedwho that was.
“The boy. Only the boy!” replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the fire.
“Wud of Bister Fagid’s lads,” exclaimed Barney, with a grin.
“Fagin’s, eh!” exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. “Wot an inwalable boy that’llmake, for the old ladies’ pockets in chapels! His mug is a fortin’ to him.”
“There—there’s enough of that,” interposed Sikes, impatiently; and stoopingover his recumbant friend, he whispered a few words in his ear: at which Mr.Crackit laughed immensely, and honoured Oliver with a long stare ofastonishment.
“Now,” said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, “if you’ll give us something to eatand drink while we’re waiting, you’ll put some heart in us; or in me, at allevents. Sit down by the fire, younker, and rest yourself; for you’ll have to goout with us again tonight, though not very far off.”
Oliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and drawing a stool to thefire, sat with his aching head upon his hands, scarcely knowing where he was,or what was passing around him.
“Here,” said Toby, as the young Jew placed some fragments of food, and a bottleupon the table, “Success to the crack!” He rose to honour the toast; and,carefully depositing his empty pipe in a corner, advanced to the table, filleda glass with spirits, and drank off its contents. Mr. Sikes did the same.
“A drain for the boy,” said Toby, half-filling a wine-glass. “Down with it,innocence.”
“Indeed,” said Oliver, looking piteously up into the man’s face; “indeed, I—”
“Down with it!” echoed Toby. “Do you think I don’t know what’s good for you?Tell him to drink it, Bill.”
“He had better!” said Sikes clapping his hand upon his pocket. “Burn my body,if he isn’t more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers. Drink it, you perwerseimp; drink it!”
Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily swallowedthe contents of the glass, and immediately fell into a violent fit of coughing:which delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and even drew a smile from the surlyMr. Sikes.
This done, and Sikes having satisfied his appetite (Oliver could eat nothingbut a small crust of bread which they made him swallow), the two men laidthemselves down on chairs for a short nap. Oliver retained his stool by thefire; Barney wrapped in a blanket, stretched himself on the floor: closeoutside the fender.
They slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time; nobody stirring but Barney,who rose once or twice to throw coals on the fire. Oliver fell into a heavydoze: imagining himself straying along the gloomy lanes, or wandering about thedark churchyard, or retracing some one or other of the scenes of the past day:when he was roused by Toby Crackit jumping up and declaring it was half-pastone.
In an instant, the other two were on their legs, and all were actively engagedin busy preparation. Sikes and his companion enveloped their necks and chins inlarge dark shawls, and drew on their great-coats; Barney, opening a cupboard,brought forth several articles, which he hastily crammed into the pockets.
“Barkers for me, Barney,” said Toby Crackit.
“Here they are,” replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols. “You loaded themyourself.”
“All right!” replied Toby, stowing them away. “The persuaders?”
“I’ve got ’em,” replied Sikes.
“Crape, keys, centre-bits, darkies—nothing forgotten?” inquired Toby: fasteninga small crowbar to a loop inside the skirt of his coat.
“All right,” rejoined his companion. “Bring them bits of timber, Barney. That’sthe time of day.”
With these words, he took a thick stick from Barney’s hands, who, havingdelivered another to Toby, busied himself in fastening on Oliver’s cape.
“Now then!” said Sikes, holding out his hand.
Oliver: who was completely stupified by the unwonted exercise, and the air, andthe drink which had been forced upon him: put his hand mechanically into thatwhich Sikes extended for the purpose.
“Take his other hand, Toby,” said Sikes. “Look out, Barney.”
The man went to the door, and returned to announce that all was quiet. The tworobbers issued forth with Oliver between them. Barney, having made all fast,rolled himself up as before, and was soon asleep again.
It was now intensely dark. The fog was much heavier than it had been in theearly part of the night; and the atmosphere was so damp, that, although no rainfell, Oliver’s hair and eyebrows, within a few minutes after leaving the house,had become stiff with the half-frozen moisture that was floating about. Theycrossed the bridge, and kept on towards the lights which he had seen before.They were at no great distance off; and, as they walked pretty briskly, theysoon arrived at Chertsey.
“Slap through the town,” whispered Sikes; “there’ll be nobody in the way,tonight, to see us.”
Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little town,which at that late hour was wholly deserted. A dim light shone at intervalsfrom some bed-room window; and the hoarse barking of dogs occasionally brokethe silence of the night. But there was nobody abroad. They had cleared thetown, as the church-bell struck two.
Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After walkingabout a quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house surrounded by awall: to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to take breath,climbed in a twinkling.
“The boy next,” said Toby. “Hoist him up; I’ll catch hold of him.”
Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the arms; andin three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass on the other side.Sikes followed directly. And they stole cautiously towards the house.
And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, sawthat housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of theexpedition. He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subduedexclamation of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood uponhis ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees.
“Get up!” murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from hispocket; “Get up, or I’ll strew your brains upon the grass.”
“Oh! for God’s sake let me go!” cried Oliver; “let me run away and die in thefields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me,and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest inHeaven, have mercy upon me!”
The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked thepistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy’smouth, and dragged him to the house.
“Hush!” cried the man; “it won’t answer here. Say another word, and I’ll doyour business myself with a crack on the head. That makes no noise, and isquite as certain, and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open. He’sgame enough now, I’ll engage. I’ve seen older hands of his age took the sameway, for a minute or two, on a cold night.”
Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin’s head for sending Oliver onsuch an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little noise. After somedelay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had referred,swung open on its hinges.
It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the ground, atthe back of the house: which belonged to a scullery, or small brewing-place, atthe end of the passage. The aperture was so small, that the inmates hadprobably not thought it worth while to defend it more securely; but it waslarge enough to admit a boy of Oliver’s size, nevertheless. A very briefexercise of Mr. Sikes’s art, sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice;and it soon stood wide open also.
“Now listen, you young limb,” whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern from hispocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver’s face; “I’m a going to put youthrough there. Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, andalong the little hall, to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in.”
“There’s a bolt at the top, you won’t be able to reach,” interposed Toby.“Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a jollylarge blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on ’em: which is the old lady’s arms.”
“Keep quiet, can’t you?” replied Sikes, with a threatening look. “The room-dooris open, is it?”
“Wide,” replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. “The game of thatis, that they always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog, who’s got abed in here, may walk up and down the passage when he feels wakeful. Ha! ha!Barney ’ticed him away tonight. So neat!”
Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed withoutnoise, Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get to work. Tobycomplied, by first producing his lantern, and placing it on the ground; then byplanting himself firmly with his head against the wall beneath the window, andhis hands upon his knees, so as to make a step of his back. This was no soonerdone, than Sikes, mounting upon him, put Oliver gently through the window withhis feet first; and, without leaving hold of his collar, planted him safely onthe floor inside.
“Take this lantern,” said Sikes, looking into the room. “You see the stairsafore you?”
Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, “Yes.” Sikes, pointing to thestreet-door with the pistol-barrel, briefly advised him to take notice that hewas within shot all the way; and that if he faltered, he would fall dead thatinstant.
“It’s done in a minute,” said Sikes, in the same low whisper. “Directly I leavego of you, do your work. Hark!”
“What’s that?” whispered the other man.
They listened intently.
“Nothing,” said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. “Now!”
In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly resolvedthat, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dartupstairs from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, headvanced at once, but stealthily.
“Come back!” suddenly cried Sikes aloud. “Back! back!”
Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and by a loudcry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew not whether toadvance or fly.
The cry was repeated—a light appeared—a vision of two terrified half-dressedmen at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes—a flash—a loud noise—asmoke—a crash somewhere, but where he knew not,—and he staggered back.
Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him by thecollar before the smoke had cleared away. He fired his own pistol after themen, who were already retreating; and dragged the boy up.
“Clasp your arm tighter,” said Sikes, as he drew him through the window. “Giveme a shawl here. They’ve hit him. Quick! How the boy bleeds!”
Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of fire-arms, andthe shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried over uneven ground at arapid pace. And then, the noises grew confused in the distance; and a colddeadly feeling crept over the boy’s heart; and he saw or heard no more.
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CHAPTER XXIII. WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON SOME POINTS
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The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a hard thickcrust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways and corners wereaffected by the sharp wind that howled abroad: which, as if expending increasedfury on such prey as it found, caught it savagely up in clouds, and, whirlingit into a thousand misty eddies, scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercingcold, it was a night for the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fireand thank God they were at home; and for the homeless, starving wretch to layhim down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our barestreets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may, canhardly open them in a more bitter world.
Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs. Corney, the matron ofthe workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as thebirthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a cheerful fire in her ownlittle room, and glanced, with no small degree of complacency, at a small roundtable: on which stood a tray of corresponding size, furnished with allnecessary materials for the most grateful meal that matrons enjoy. In fact,Mrs. Corney was about to solace herself with a cup of tea. As she glanced fromthe table to the fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles wassinging a small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidentlyincreased,—so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled.
“Well!” said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and lookingreflectively at the fire; “I’m sure we have all on us a great deal to begrateful for! A great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!”
Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental blindness ofthose paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver spoon (privateproperty) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin tea-caddy, proceeded tomake the tea.
How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The blackteapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs. Corney wasmoralising; and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney’s hand.
“Drat the pot!” said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on thehob; “a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What use is itof, to anybody! Except,” said Mrs. Corney, pausing, “except to a poor desolatecreature like me. Oh dear!”
With these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more resting herelbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small teapot, and thesingle cup, had awakened in her mind sad recollections of Mr. Corney (who hadnot been dead more than five-and-twenty years); and she was overpowered.
“I shall never get another!” said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; “I shall never getanother—like him.”
Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is uncertain.It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it as she spoke; andtook it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup, when she wasdisturbed by a soft tap at the room-door.
“Oh, come in with you!” said Mrs. Corney, sharply. “Some of the old womendying, I suppose. They always die when I’m at meals. Don’t stand there, lettingthe cold air in, don’t. What’s amiss now, eh?”
“Nothing, ma’am, nothing,” replied a man’s voice.
“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, “is that Mr. Bumble?”
“At your service, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping outside to rubhis shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat; and who now made hisappearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the other.“Shall I shut the door, ma’am?”
The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any impropriety inholding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors. Mr. Bumble takingadvantage of the hesitation, and being very cold himself, shut it withoutpermission.
“Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.
“Hard, indeed, ma’am,” replied the beadle. “Anti-porochial weather this, ma’am.We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a matter of twenty quarternloaves and a cheese and a half, this very blessed afternoon; and yet thempaupers are not contented.”
“Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?” said the matron, sipping hertea.
“When, indeed, ma’am!” rejoined Mr. Bumble. “Why here’s one man that, inconsideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and a goodpound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma’am? Is he grateful? Not acopper farthing’s worth of it! What does he do, ma’am, but ask for a few coals;if it’s only a pocket handkerchief full, he says! Coals! What would he do withcoals? Toast his cheese with ’em and then come back for more. That’s the waywith these people, ma’am; give ’em a apron full of coals today, and they’llcome back for another, the day after tomorrow, as brazen as alabaster.”
The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile; andthe beadle went on.
“I never,” said Mr. Bumble, “see anything like the pitch it’s got to. The dayafore yesterday, a man—you have been a married woman, ma’am, and I may mentionit to you—a man, with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs. Corney looked atthe floor), goes to our overseer’s door when he has got company coming todinner; and says, he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn’t go away, andshocked the company very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoesand half a pint of oatmeal. ‘My heart!’ says the ungrateful villain, ‘what’sthe use of this to me? You might as well give me a pair of ironspectacles!’ ‘Very good,’ says our overseer, taking ’em away again, ‘you won’tget anything else here.’ ‘Then I’ll die in the streets!’ says the vagrant. ‘Ohno, you won’t,’ says our overseer.”
“Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn’t it?” interposed thematron. “Well, Mr. Bumble?”
“Well, ma’am,” rejoined the beadle, “he went away; and he did die in thestreets. There’s a obstinate pauper for you!”
“It beats anything I could have believed,” observed the matron emphatically.“But don’t you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, any way, Mr. Bumble?You’re a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come.”
“Mrs. Corney,” said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious ofsuperior information, “out-of-door relief, properly managed: properly managed,ma’am: is the porochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-door reliefis, to give the paupers exactly what they don’t want; and then they get tiredof coming.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Corney. “Well, that is a good one, too!”
“Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma’am,” returned Mr. Bumble, “that’s the greatprinciple; and that’s the reason why, if you look at any cases that get intothem owdacious newspapers, you’ll always observe that sick families have beenrelieved with slices of cheese. That’s the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over thecountry. But, however,” said the beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, “theseare official secrets, ma’am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may say, amongthe porochial officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma’am, thatthe board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only outof the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!”
Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test itsexcellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers; foldedthe handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in hispocket; and took up his hat, as if to go.
“You’ll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.
“It blows, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, “enough tocut one’s ears off.”
The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was movingtowards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding hergood-night, bashfully inquired whether—whether he wouldn’t take a cup of tea?
Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and stickupon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seatedhimself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr.Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.
Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she satdown, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; shecoloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumblecoughed—louder this time than he had coughed yet.
“Sweet? Mr. Bumble?” inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.
“Very sweet, indeed, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs.Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was thatbeadle at that moment.
The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread ahandkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendourof his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally,by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon hisappetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations inthe tea and toast department.
“You have a cat, ma’am, I see,” said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in thecentre of her family, was basking before the fire; “and kittens too, Ideclare!”
“I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can’t think,” replied the matron.“They’re so happy, so frolicsome, and so cheerful, thatthey are quite companions for me.”
“Very nice animals, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; “so verydomestic.”
“Oh, yes!” rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; “so fond of their home too,that it’s quite a pleasure, I’m sure.”
“Mrs. Corney, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with histeaspoon, “I mean to say this, ma’am; that any cat, or kitten, that could livewith you, ma’am, and not be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma’am.”
“Oh, Mr. Bumble!” remonstrated Mrs. Corney.
“It’s of no use disguising facts, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishingthe teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive;“I would drown it myself, with pleasure.”
“Then you’re a cruel man,” said the matron vivaciously, as she held out herhand for the beadle’s cup; “and a very hard-hearted man besides.”
“Hard-hearted, ma’am?” said Mr. Bumble. “Hard?” Mr. Bumble resigned his cupwithout another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney’s little finger as she took it; andinflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh,and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire.
It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sittingopposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire,it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keepingat the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; whichproceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and toconsider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble’s part: he being in some sorttempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain softnothings, which however well they may become the lips of the light andthoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land,members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great publicfunctionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of abeadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible amongthem all.
Whatever were Mr. Bumble’s intentions, however (and no doubt they were of thebest): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that thetable was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little andlittle, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron;and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought hischair, in time, close to that in which the matron was seated.
Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble stopped.
Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have beenscorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr.Bumble’s arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt foreseeing theseconsequences at a glance) she remained where she was, and handed Mr. Bumbleanother cup of tea.
“Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?” said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and looking upinto the matron’s face; “are you hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?”
“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, “what a very curious question from a singleman. What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?”
The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast; whiskedthe crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately kissed the matron.
“Mr. Bumble!” cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was sogreat, that she had quite lost her voice, “Mr. Bumble, I shall scream!” Mr.Bumble made no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner, put his arm round thematron’s waist.
As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would havescreamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was renderedunnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door: which was no sooner heard, thanMr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine bottles, and began dustingthem with great violence: while the matron sharply demanded who was there.
It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy of asudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that her voicehad quite recovered all its official asperity.
“If you please, mistress,” said a withered old female pauper, hideously ugly:putting her head in at the door, “Old Sally is a-going fast.”
“Well, what’s that to me?” angrily demanded the matron. “I can’t keep heralive, can I?”
“No, no, mistress,” replied the old woman, “nobody can; she’s far beyond thereach of help. I’ve seen a many people die; little babes and great strong men;and I know when death’s a-coming, well enough. But she’s troubled in her mind:and when the fits are not on her,—and that’s not often, for she is dying veryhard,—she says she has got something to tell, which you must hear. She’ll neverdie quiet till you come, mistress.”
At this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered a variety of invectivesagainst old women who couldn’t even die without purposely annoying theirbetters; and, muffling herself in a thick shawl which she hastily caught up,briefly requested Mr. Bumble to stay till she came back, lest anythingparticular should occur. Bidding the messenger walk fast, and not be all nighthobbling up the stairs, she followed her from the room with a very ill grace,scolding all the way.
Mr. Bumble’s conduct on being left to himself, was rather inexplicable. Heopened the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs, closelyinspected a silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the genuine metal, and,having satisfied his curiosity on these points, put on his cocked hatcorner-wise, and danced with much gravity four distinct times round the table.
Having gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off the cockedhat again, and, spreading himself before the fire with his back towards it,seemed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of the furniture.
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CHAPTER XXIV. TREATS ON A VERY POOR SUBJECT, BUT IS A SHORT ONE, AND MAY BE FOUND OF IMPORTANCE IN THIS HISTORY
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It was no unfit messenger of death, who had disturbed the quiet of the matron’sroom. Her body was bent by age; her limbs trembled with palsy; her face,distorted into a mumbling leer, resembled more the grotesque shaping of somewild pencil, than the work of Nature’s hand.
Alas! How few of Nature’s faces are left alone to gladden us with their beauty!The cares, and sorrows, and hungerings, of the world, change them as theychange hearts; and it is only when those passions sleep, and have lost theirhold for ever, that the troubled clouds pass off, and leave Heaven’s surfaceclear. It is a common thing for the countenances of the dead, even in thatfixed and rigid state, to subside into the long-forgotten expression ofsleeping infancy, and settle into the very look of early life; so calm, sopeaceful, do they grow again, that those who knew them in their happychildhood, kneel by the coffin’s side in awe, and see the Angel even uponearth.
The old crone tottered along the passages, and up the stairs, muttering someindistinct answers to the chidings of her companion; being at length compelledto pause for breath, she gave the light into her hand, and remained behind tofollow as she might: while the more nimble superior made her way to the roomwhere the sick woman lay.
It was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at the farther end. Therewas another old woman watching by the bed; the parish apothecary’s apprenticewas standing by the fire, making a toothpick out of a quill.
“Cold night, Mrs. Corney,” said this young gentleman, as the matron entered.
“Very cold, indeed, sir,” replied the mistress, in her most civil tones, anddropping a curtsey as she spoke.
“You should get better coals out of your contractors,” said the apothecary’sdeputy, breaking a lump on the top of the fire with the rusty poker; “these arenot at all the sort of thing for a cold night.”
“They’re the board’s choosing, sir,” returned the matron. “The least they coulddo, would be to keep us pretty warm: for our places are hard enough.”
The conversation was here interrupted by a moan from the sick woman.
“Oh!” said the young man, turning his face towards the bed, as if he hadpreviously quite forgotten the patient, “it’s all U.P. there, Mrs. Corney.”
“It is, is it, sir?” asked the matron.
“If she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be surprised,” said the apothecary’sapprentice, intent upon the toothpick’s point. “It’s a break-up of the systemaltogether. Is she dozing, old lady?”
The attendant stooped over the bed, to ascertain; and nodded in theaffirmative.
“Then perhaps she’ll go off in that way, if you don’t make a row,” said theyoung man. “Put the light on the floor. She won’t see it there.”
The attendant did as she was told: shaking her head meanwhile, to intimate thatthe woman would not die so easily; having done so, she resumed her seat by theside of the other nurse, who had by this time returned. The mistress, with anexpression of impatience, wrapped herself in her shawl, and sat at the foot ofthe bed.
The apothecary’s apprentice, having completed the manufacture of the toothpick,planted himself in front of the fire and made good use of it for ten minutes orso: when apparently growing rather dull, he wished Mrs. Corney joy of her job,and took himself off on tiptoe.
When they had sat in silence for some time, the two old women rose from thebed, and crouching over the fire, held out their withered hands to catch theheat. The flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled faces, and made theirugliness appear terrible, as, in this position, they began to converse in a lowvoice.
“Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?” inquired the messenger.
“Not a word,” replied the other. “She plucked and tore at her arms for a littletime; but I held her hands, and she soon dropped off. She hasn’t much strengthin her, so I easily kept her quiet. I ain’t so weak for an old woman, althoughI am on parish allowance; no, no!”
“Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to have?” demanded thefirst.
“I tried to get it down,” rejoined the other. “But her teeth were tight set,and she clenched the mug so hard that it was as much as I could do to get itback again. So I drank it; and it did me good!”
Looking cautiously round, to ascertain that they were not overheard, the twohags cowered nearer to the fire, and chuckled heartily.
“I mind the time,” said the first speaker, “when she would have done the same,and made rare fun of it afterwards.”
“Ay, that she would,” rejoined the other; “she had a merry heart. A many, many,beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as waxwork. My old eyes haveseen them—ay, and those old hands touched them too; for I have helped her,scores of times.”
Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature shookthem exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket, brought out an oldtime-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook a few grains into theoutstretched palm of her companion, and a few more into her own. While theywere thus employed, the matron, who had been impatiently watching until thedying woman should awaken from her stupor, joined them by the fire, and sharplyasked how long she was to wait?
“Not long, mistress,” replied the second woman, looking up into her face. “Wehave none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience! He’ll be here soonenough for us all.”
“Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!” said the matron sternly. “You, Martha,tell me; has she been in this way before?”
“Often,” answered the first woman.
“But will never be again,” added the second one; “that is, she’ll never wakeagain but once—and mind, mistress, that won’t be for long!”
“Long or short,” said the matron, snappishly, “she won’t find me here when shedoes wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for nothing. It’s nopart of my duty to see all the old women in the house die, and I won’t—that’smore. Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If you make a fool of me again,I’ll soon cure you, I warrant you!”
She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned towardsthe bed, caused her to look round. The patient had raised herself upright, andwas stretching her arms towards them.
“Who’s that?” she cried, in a hollow voice.
“Hush, hush!” said one of the women, stooping over her. “Lie down, lie down!”
“I’ll never lie down again alive!” said the woman, struggling. “I willtell her! Come here! Nearer! Let me whisper in your ear.”
She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by thebedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of the twoold women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners.
“Turn them away,” said the woman, drowsily; “make haste! make haste!”
The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteouslamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; andwere uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when thesuperior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to thebedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and criedthrough the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely;since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary,she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which hadbeen privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy oldladies themselves.
“Now listen to me,” said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort torevive one latent spark of energy. “In this very room—in this very bed—I oncenursed a pretty young creetur’, that was brought into the house with her feetcut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gavebirth to a boy, and died. Let me think—what was the year again!”
“Never mind the year,” said the impatient auditor; “what about her?”
“Ay,” murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, “whatabout her?—what about—I know!” she cried, jumping fiercely up: her faceflushed, and her eyes starting from her head—“I robbed her, so I did! Shewasn’t cold—I tell you she wasn’t cold, when I stole it!”
“Stole what, for God’s sake?” cried the matron, with a gesture as if she wouldcall for help.
“It!” replied the woman, laying her hand over the other’s mouth. “Theonly thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; butshe had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Richgold, that might have saved her life!”
“Gold!” echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. “Goon, go on—yes—what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?”
“She charged me to keep it safe,” replied the woman with a groan, “and trustedme as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed itme hanging round her neck; and the child’s death, perhaps, is on me besides!They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!”
“Known what?” asked the other. “Speak!”
“The boy grew so like his mother,” said the woman, rambling on, and not heedingthe question, “that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl!poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there’s more totell. I have not told you all, have I?”
“No, no,” replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as theycame more faintly from the dying woman. “Be quick, or it may be too late!”
“The mother,” said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; “themother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear thatif her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would notfeel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named. ‘And oh, kindHeaven!’ she said, folding her thin hands together, ‘whether it be boy or girl,raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon alonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!’”
“The boy’s name?” demanded the matron.
“They called him Oliver,” replied the woman, feebly. “The gold I stolewas—”
“Yes, yes—what?” cried the other.
She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back,instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sittingposture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinctsounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed.
“Stone dead!” said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door wasopened.
“And nothing to tell, after all,” rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away.
The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations fortheir dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about thebody.
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CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY
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While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in theold den—the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl—brooding over adull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he hadapparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he hadfallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chinresting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars.
At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr.Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy againstMaster Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named gentleman,peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional interest fromhis close observance of the game, and his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling’shand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, he bestowed a varietyof earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play by the result of hisobservations upon his neighbour’s cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger worehis hat, as, indeed, was often his custom within doors. He also sustained aclay pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space when hedeemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the table,which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of thecompany.
Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more excitablenature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that he more frequentlyapplied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in many jests andirrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, theArtful, presuming upon their close attachment, more than once took occasion toreason gravely with his companion upon these improprieties; all of whichremonstrances, Master Bates received in extremely good part; merely requestinghis friend to be “blowed,” or to insert his head in a sack, or replying withsome other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application ofwhich, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It wasremarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and thatthe circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him thehighest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of everydeal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his borndays.
“That’s two doubles and the rub,” said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, ashe drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. “I never see such a feller asyou, Jack; you win everything. Even when we’ve good cards, Charley and I can’tmake nothing of ’em.”
Either the matter or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully,delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of laughter rousedthe Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what was the matter.
“Matter, Fagin!” cried Charley. “I wish you had watched the play. TommyChitling hasn’t won a point; and I went partners with him against the Artfuland dumb.”
“Ay, ay!” said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that hewas at no loss to understand the reason. “Try ’em again, Tom; try ’em again.”
“No more of it for me, thank ’ee, Fagin,” replied Mr. Chitling; “I’ve hadenough. That ’ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there’s no standing again’him.”
“Ha! ha! my dear,” replied the Jew, “you must get up very early in the morning,to win against the Dodger.”
“Morning!” said Charley Bates; “you must put your boots on over-night, and havea telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if you wantto come over him.”
Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy, andoffered to cut any gentleman in company, for the first picture-card, at ashilling at a time. Nobody accepting the challenge, and his pipe being by thistime smoked out, he proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground-plan ofNewgate on the table with the piece of chalk which had served him in lieu ofcounters; whistling, meantime, with peculiar shrillness.
“How precious dull you are, Tommy!” said the Dodger, stopping short when therehad been a long silence; and addressing Mr. Chitling. “What do you think he’sthinking of, Fagin?”
“How should I know, my dear?” replied the Jew, looking round as he plied thebellows. “About his losses, maybe; or the little retirement in the country thathe’s just left, eh? Ha! ha! Is that it, my dear?”
“Not a bit of it,” replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of discourse as Mr.Chitling was about to reply. “What do you say, Charley?”
“I should say,” replied Master Bates, with a grin, “that he was uncommonsweet upon Betsy. See how he’s a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here’s amerry-go-rounder! Tommy Chitling’s in love! Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a spree!”
Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim of thetender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair with suchviolence, that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the floor; where (theaccident abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at full length until hislaugh was over, when he resumed his former position, and began another laugh.
“Never mind him, my dear,” said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and givingMaster Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows. “Betsy’s a finegirl. Stick up to her, Tom. Stick up to her.”
“What I mean to say, Fagin,” replied Mr. Chitling, very red in the face, “is,that that isn’t anything to anybody here.”
“No more it is,” replied the Jew; “Charley will talk. Don’t mind him, my dear;don’t mind him. Betsy’s a fine girl. Do as she bids you, Tom, and you will makeyour fortune.”
“So I do do as she bids me,” replied Mr. Chitling; “I shouldn’t havebeen milled, if it hadn’t been for her advice. But it turned out a good job foryou; didn’t it, Fagin! And what’s six weeks of it? It must come, some time oranother, and why not in the winter time when you don’t want to go out a-walkingso much; eh, Fagin?”
“Ah, to be sure, my dear,” replied the Jew.
“You wouldn’t mind it again, Tom, would you,” asked the Dodger, winking uponCharley and the Jew, “if Bet was all right?”
“I mean to say that I shouldn’t,” replied Tom, angrily. “There, now. Ah! Who’llsay as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?”
“Nobody, my dear,” replied the Jew; “not a soul, Tom. I don’t know one of ’emthat would do it besides you; not one of ’em, my dear.”
“I might have got clear off, if I’d split upon her; mightn’t I, Fagin?” angrilypursued the poor half-witted dupe. “A word from me would have done it; wouldn’tit, Fagin?”
“To be sure it would, my dear,” replied the Jew.
“But I didn’t blab it; did I, Fagin?” demanded Tom, pouring question uponquestion with great volubility.
“No, no, to be sure,” replied the Jew; “you were too stout-hearted for that. Adeal too stout, my dear!”
“Perhaps I was,” rejoined Tom, looking round; “and if I was, what’s to laughat, in that; eh, Fagin?”
The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably roused, hastened toassure him that nobody was laughing; and to prove the gravity of the company,appealed to Master Bates, the principal offender. But, unfortunately, Charley,in opening his mouth to reply that he was never more serious in his life, wasunable to prevent the escape of such a violent roar, that the abused Mr.Chitling, without any preliminary ceremonies, rushed across the room and aimeda blow at the offender; who, being skilful in evading pursuit, ducked to avoidit, and chose his time so well that it lighted on the chest of the merry oldgentleman, and caused him to stagger to the wall, where he stood panting forbreath, while Mr. Chitling looked on in intense dismay.
“Hark!” cried the Dodger at this moment, “I heard the tinkler.” Catching up thelight, he crept softly upstairs.
The bell was rung again, with some impatience, while the party were indarkness. After a short pause, the Dodger reappeared, and whispered Faginmysteriously.
“What!” cried the Jew, “alone?”
The Dodger nodded in the affirmative, and, shading the flame of the candle withhis hand, gave Charley Bates a private intimation, in dumb show, that he hadbetter not be funny just then. Having performed this friendly office, he fixedhis eyes on the Jew’s face, and awaited his directions.
The old man bit his yellow fingers, and meditated for some seconds; his faceworking with agitation the while, as if he dreaded something, and feared toknow the worst. At length he raised his head.
“Where is he?” he asked.
The Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture, as if to leave theroom.
“Yes,” said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; “bring him down. Hush! Quiet,Charley! Gently, Tom! Scarce, scarce!”
This brief direction to Charley Bates, and his recent antagonist, was softlyand immediately obeyed. There was no sound of their whereabout, when the Dodgerdescended the stairs, bearing the light in his hand, and followed by a man in acoarse smock-frock; who, after casting a hurried glance round the room, pulledoff a large wrapper which had concealed the lower portion of his face, anddisclosed: all haggard, unwashed, and unshorn: the features of flash TobyCrackit.
“How are you, Faguey?” said this worthy, nodding to the Jew. “Pop that shawlaway in my castor, Dodger, so that I may know where to find it when I cut;that’s the time of day! You’ll be a fine young cracksman afore the old filenow.”
With these words he pulled up the smock-frock; and, winding it round hismiddle, drew a chair to the fire, and placed his feet upon the hob.
“See there, Faguey,” he said, pointing disconsolately to his top boots; “not adrop of Day and Martin since you know when; not a bubble of blacking, by Jove!But don’t look at me in that way, man. All in good time. I can’t talk aboutbusiness till I’ve eat and drank; so produce the sustainance, and let’s have aquiet fill-out for the first time these three days!”
The Jew motioned to the Dodger to place what eatables there were, upon thetable; and, seating himself opposite the housebreaker, waited his leisure.
To judge from appearances, Toby was by no means in a hurry to open theconversation. At first, the Jew contented himself with patiently watching hiscountenance, as if to gain from its expression some clue to the intelligence hebrought; but in vain.
He looked tired and worn, but there was the same complacent repose upon hisfeatures that they always wore: and through dirt, and beard, and whisker, therestill shone, unimpaired, the self-satisfied smirk of flash Toby Crackit. Thenthe Jew, in an agony of impatience, watched every morsel he put into his mouth;pacing up and down the room, meanwhile, in irrepressible excitement. It was allof no use. Toby continued to eat with the utmost outward indifference, until hecould eat no more; then, ordering the Dodger out, he closed the door, mixed aglass of spirits and water, and composed himself for talking.
“First and foremost, Faguey,” said Toby.
“Yes, yes!” interposed the Jew, drawing up his chair.
Mr. Crackit stopped to take a draught of spirits and water, and to declare thatthe gin was excellent; then placing his feet against the low mantelpiece, so asto bring his boots to about the level of his eye, he quietly resumed.
“First and foremost, Faguey,” said the housebreaker, “how’s Bill?”
“What!” screamed the Jew, starting from his seat.
“Why, you don’t mean to say—” began Toby, turning pale.
“Mean!” cried the Jew, stamping furiously on the ground. “Where are they? Sikesand the boy! Where are they? Where have they been? Where are they hiding? Whyhave they not been here?”
“The crack failed,” said Toby faintly.
“I know it,” replied the Jew, tearing a newspaper from his pocket and pointingto it. “What more?”
“They fired and hit the boy. We cut over the fields at the back, with himbetween us—straight as the crow flies—through hedge and ditch. They gave chase.Damme! the whole country was awake, and the dogs upon us.”
“The boy!”
“Bill had him on his back, and scudded like the wind. We stopped to take himbetween us; his head hung down, and he was cold. They were close upon ourheels; every man for himself, and each from the gallows! We parted company, andleft the youngster lying in a ditch. Alive or dead, that’s all I know abouthim.”
The Jew stopped to hear no more; but uttering a loud yell, and twining hishands in his hair, rushed from the room, and from the house.
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CHAPTER XXVI. IN WHICH A MYSTERIOUS CHARACTER APPEARS UPON THE SCENE; AND MANY THINGS, INSEPARABLE FROM THIS HISTORY, ARE DONE AND PERFORMED
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The old man had gained the street corner, before he began to recover the effectof Toby Crackit’s intelligence. He had relaxed nothing of his unusual speed;but was still pressing onward, in the same wild and disordered manner, when thesudden dashing past of a carriage: and a boisterous cry from the footpassengers, who saw his danger: drove him back upon the pavement. Avoiding, asmuch as was possible, all the main streets, and skulking only through theby-ways and alleys, he at length emerged on Snow Hill. Here he walked evenfaster than before; nor did he linger until he had again turned into a court;when, as if conscious that he was now in his proper element, he fell into hisusual shuffling pace, and seemed to breathe more freely.
Near to the spot on which Snow Hill and Holborn Hill meet, opens, upon theright hand as you come out of the City, a narrow and dismal alley, leading toSaffron Hill. In its filthy shops are exposed for sale huge bunches ofsecond-hand silk handkerchiefs, of all sizes and patterns; for here reside thetraders who purchase them from pick-pockets. Hundreds of these handkerchiefshang dangling from pegs outside the windows or flaunting from the door-posts;and the shelves, within, are piled with them. Confined as the limits of FieldLane are, it has its barber, its coffee-shop, its beer-shop, and its fried-fishwarehouse. It is a commercial colony of itself: the emporium of petty larceny:visited at early morning, and setting-in of dusk, by silent merchants, whotraffic in dark back-parlours, and who go as strangely as they come. Here, theclothesman, the shoe-vamper, and the rag-merchant, display their goods, assign-boards to the petty thief; here, stores of old iron and bones, and heapsof mildewy fragments of woollen-stuff and linen, rust and rot in the grimycellars.
It was into this place that the Jew turned. He was well known to the sallowdenizens of the lane; for such of them as were on the look-out to buy or sell,nodded, familiarly, as he passed along. He replied to their salutations in thesame way; but bestowed no closer recognition until he reached the further endof the alley; when he stopped, to address a salesman of small stature, who hadsqueezed as much of his person into a child’s chair as the chair would hold,and was smoking a pipe at his warehouse door.
“Why, the sight of you, Mr. Fagin, would cure the hoptalmy!” said thisrespectable trader, in acknowledgment of the Jew’s inquiry after his health.
“The neighbourhood was a little too hot, Lively,” said Fagin, elevating hiseyebrows, and crossing his hands upon his shoulders.
“Well, I’ve heerd that complaint of it, once or twice before,” replied thetrader; “but it soon cools down again; don’t you find it so?”
Fagin nodded in the affirmative. Pointing in the direction of Saffron Hill, heinquired whether any one was up yonder tonight.
“At the Cripples?” inquired the man.
The Jew nodded.
“Let me see,” pursued the merchant, reflecting. “Yes, there’s some half-dozenof ’em gone in, that I knows. I don’t think your friend’s there.”
“Sikes is not, I suppose?” inquired the Jew, with a disappointed countenance.
“Non istwentus, as the lawyers say,” replied the little man, shaking hishead, and looking amazingly sly. “Have you got anything in my line tonight?”
“Nothing tonight,” said the Jew, turning away.
“Are you going up to the Cripples, Fagin?” cried the little man, calling afterhim. “Stop! I don’t mind if I have a drop there with you!”
But as the Jew, looking back, waved his hand to intimate that he preferredbeing alone; and, moreover, as the little man could not very easily disengagehimself from the chair; the sign of the Cripples was, for a time, bereft of theadvantage of Mr. Lively’s presence. By the time he had got upon his legs, theJew had disappeared; so Mr. Lively, after ineffectually standing on tiptoe, inthe hope of catching sight of him, again forced himself into the little chair,and, exchanging a shake of the head with a lady in the opposite shop, in whichdoubt and mistrust were plainly mingled, resumed his pipe with a gravedemeanour.
The Three Cripples, or rather the Cripples; which was the sign by which theestablishment was familiarly known to its patrons: was the public-house inwhich Mr. Sikes and his dog have already figured. Merely making a sign to a manat the bar, Fagin walked straight upstairs, and opening the door of a room, andsoftly insinuating himself into the chamber, looked anxiously about: shadinghis eyes with his hand, as if in search of some particular person.
The room was illuminated by two gas-lights; the glare of which was prevented bythe barred shutters, and closely-drawn curtains of faded red, from beingvisible outside. The ceiling was blackened, to prevent its colour from beinginjured by the flaring of the lamps; and the place was so full of dense tobaccosmoke, that at first it was scarcely possible to discern anything more. Bydegrees, however, as some of it cleared away through the open door, anassemblage of heads, as confused as the noises that greeted the ear, might bemade out; and as the eye grew more accustomed to the scene, the spectatorgradually became aware of the presence of a numerous company, male and female,crowded round a long table: at the upper end of which, sat a chairman with ahammer of office in his hand; while a professional gentleman with a bluishnose, and his face tied up for the benefit of a toothache, presided at ajingling piano in a remote corner.
As Fagin stepped softly in, the professional gentleman, running over the keysby way of prelude, occasioned a general cry of order for a song; which havingsubsided, a young lady proceeded to entertain the company with a ballad in fourverses, between each of which the accompanyist played the melody all through,as loud as he could. When this was over, the chairman gave a sentiment, afterwhich, the professional gentleman on the chairman’s right and left volunteereda duet, and sang it, with great applause.
It was curious to observe some faces which stood out prominently from among thegroup. There was the chairman himself, (the landlord of the house,) a coarse,rough, heavy built fellow, who, while the songs were proceeding, rolled hiseyes hither and thither, and, seeming to give himself up to joviality, had aneye for everything that was done, and an ear for everything that was said—andsharp ones, too. Near him were the singers: receiving, with professionalindifference, the compliments of the company, and applying themselves, in turn,to a dozen proffered glasses of spirits and water, tendered by their moreboisterous admirers; whose countenances, expressive of almost every vice inalmost every grade, irresistibly attracted the attention, by their veryrepulsiveness. Cunning, ferocity, and drunkeness in all its stages, were there,in their strongest aspect; and women: some with the last lingering tinge oftheir early freshness almost fading as you looked: others with every mark andstamp of their sex utterly beaten out, and presenting but one loathsome blankof profligacy and crime; some mere girls, others but young women, and none pastthe prime of life; formed the darkest and saddest portion of this drearypicture.
Fagin, troubled by no grave emotions, looked eagerly from face to face whilethese proceedings were in progress; but apparently without meeting that ofwhich he was in search. Succeeding, at length, in catching the eye of the manwho occupied the chair, he beckoned to him slightly, and left the room, asquietly as he had entered it.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Fagin?” inquired the man, as he followed him out tothe landing. “Won’t you join us? They’ll be delighted, every one of ’em.”
The Jew shook his head impatiently, and said in a whisper, “Is he here?”
“No,” replied the man.
“And no news of Barney?” inquired Fagin.
“None,” replied the landlord of the Cripples; for it was he. “He won’t stirtill it’s all safe. Depend on it, they’re on the scent down there; and that ifhe moved, he’d blow upon the thing at once. He’s all right enough, Barney is,else I should have heard of him. I’ll pound it, that Barney’s managingproperly. Let him alone for that.”
“Will he be here tonight?” asked the Jew, laying the same emphasis onthe pronoun as before.
“Monks, do you mean?” inquired the landlord, hesitating.
“Hush!” said the Jew. “Yes.”
“Certain,” replied the man, drawing a gold watch from his fob; “I expected himhere before now. If you’ll wait ten minutes, he’ll be—”
“No, no,” said the Jew, hastily; as though, however desirous he might be to seethe person in question, he was nevertheless relieved by his absence. “Tell himI came here to see him; and that he must come to me tonight. No, saytomorrow. As he is not here, tomorrow will be time enough.”
“Good!” said the man. “Nothing more?”
“Not a word now,” said the Jew, descending the stairs.
“I say,” said the other, looking over the rails, and speaking in a hoarsewhisper; “what a time this would be for a sell! I’ve got Phil Barker here: sodrunk, that a boy might take him!”
“Ah! But it’s not Phil Barker’s time,” said the Jew, looking up. “Phil hassomething more to do, before we can afford to part with him; so go back to thecompany, my dear, and tell them to lead merry lives—while they last. Ha!ha! ha!”
The landlord reciprocated the old man’s laugh; and returned to his guests. TheJew was no sooner alone, than his countenance resumed its former expression ofanxiety and thought. After a brief reflection, he called a hack-cabriolet, andbade the man drive towards Bethnal Green. He dismissed him within some quarterof a mile of Mr. Sikes’s residence, and performed the short remainder of thedistance on foot.
“Now,” muttered the Jew, as he knocked at the door, “if there is any deep playhere, I shall have it out of you, my girl, cunning as you are.”
She was in her room, the woman said. Fagin crept softly upstairs, and enteredit without any previous ceremony. The girl was alone; lying with her head uponthe table, and her hair straggling over it.
“She has been drinking,” thought the Jew, cooly, “or perhaps she is onlymiserable.”
The old man turned to close the door, as he made this reflection; the noisethus occasioned, roused the girl. She eyed his crafty face narrowly, as sheinquired to his recital of Toby Crackit’s story. When it was concluded, shesank into her former attitude, but spoke not a word. She pushed the candleimpatiently away; and once or twice as she feverishly changed her position,shuffled her feet upon the ground; but this was all.
During the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to assurehimself that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly returned.Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice or thrice, and madeas many efforts to open a conversation; but the girl heeded him no more than ifhe had been made of stone. At length he made another attempt; and rubbing hishands together, said, in his most conciliatory tone,
“And where should you think Bill was now, my dear?”
The girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not tell; andseemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be crying.
“And the boy, too,” said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of herface. “Poor leetle child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!”
“The child,” said the girl, suddenly looking up, “is better where he is, thanamong us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in theditch and that his young bones may rot there.”
“What!” cried the Jew, in amazement.
“Ay, I do,” returned the girl, meeting his gaze. “I shall be glad to have himaway from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can’t bear to have himabout me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you.”
“Pooh!” said the Jew, scornfully. “You’re drunk.”
“Am I?” cried the girl bitterly. “It’s no fault of yours, if I am not! You’dnever have me anything else, if you had your will, except now;—the humourdoesn’t suit you, doesn’t it?”
“No!” rejoined the Jew, furiously. “It does not.”
“Change it, then!” responded the girl, with a laugh.
“Change it!” exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all bounds by hiscompanion’s unexpected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night, “I willchange it! Listen to me, you drab. Listen to me, who with six words, canstrangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull’s throat between my fingers now.If he comes back, and leaves the boy behind him; if he gets off free, and deador alive, fails to restore him to me; murder him yourself if you would have himescape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment he sets foot in this room, or mind me,it will be too late!”
“What is all this?” cried the girl involuntarily.
“What is it?” pursued Fagin, mad with rage. “When the boy’s worth hundreds ofpounds to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way of getting safely,through the whims of a drunken gang that I could whistle away the lives of! Andme bound, too, to a born devil that only wants the will, and has the power to,to—”
Panting for breath, the old man stammered for a word; and in that instantchecked the torrent of his wrath, and changed his whole demeanour. A momentbefore, his clenched hands had grasped the air; his eyes had dilated; and hisface grown livid with passion; but now, he shrunk into a chair, and, coweringtogether, trembled with the apprehension of having himself disclosed somehidden villainy. After a short silence, he ventured to look round at hiscompanion. He appeared somewhat reassured, on beholding her in the samelistless attitude from which he had first roused her.
“Nancy, dear!” croaked the Jew, in his usual voice. “Did you mind me, dear?”
“Don’t worry me now, Fagin!” replied the girl, raising her head languidly. “IfBill has not done it this time, he will another. He has done many a good jobfor you, and will do many more when he can; and when he can’t he won’t; so nomore about that.”
“Regarding this boy, my dear?” said the Jew, rubbing the palms of his handsnervously together.
“The boy must take his chance with the rest,” interrupted Nancy, hastily; “andI say again, I hope he is dead, and out of harm’s way, and out of yours,—thatis, if Bill comes to no harm. And if Toby got clear off, Bill’s pretty sure tobe safe; for Bill’s worth two of Toby any time.”
“And about what I was saying, my dear?” observed the Jew, keeping hisglistening eye steadily upon her.
“You must say it all over again, if it’s anything you want me to do,” rejoinedNancy; “and if it is, you had better wait till tomorrow. You put me up for aminute; but now I’m stupid again.”
Fagin put several other questions: all with the same drift of ascertainingwhether the girl had profited by his unguarded hints; but, she answered them soreadily, and was withal so utterly unmoved by his searching looks, that hisoriginal impression of her being more than a trifle in liquor, was confirmed.Nancy, indeed, was not exempt from a failing which was very common among theJew’s female pupils; and in which, in their tenderer years, they were ratherencouraged than checked. Her disordered appearance, and a wholesale perfume ofGeneva which pervaded the apartment, afforded strong confirmatory evidence ofthe justice of the Jew’s supposition; and when, after indulging in thetemporary display of violence above described, she subsided, first intodullness, and afterwards into a compound of feelings: under the influence ofwhich she shed tears one minute, and in the next gave utterance to variousexclamations of “Never say die!” and divers calculations as to what might bethe amount of the odds so long as a lady or gentleman was happy, Mr. Fagin, whohad had considerable experience of such matters in his time, saw, with greatsatisfaction, that she was very far gone indeed.
Having eased his mind by this discovery; and having accomplished his twofoldobject of imparting to the girl what he had, that night, heard, and ofascertaining, with his own eyes, that Sikes had not returned, Mr. Fagin againturned his face homeward: leaving his young friend asleep, with her head uponthe table.
It was within an hour of midnight. The weather being dark, and piercing cold,he had no great temptation to loiter. The sharp wind that scoured the streets,seemed to have cleared them of passengers, as of dust and mud, for few peoplewere abroad, and they were to all appearance hastening fast home. It blew fromthe right quarter for the Jew, however, and straight before it he went:trembling, and shivering, as every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way.
He had reached the corner of his own street, and was already fumbling in hispocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a projecting entrancewhich lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road, glided up to him unperceived.
“Fagin!” whispered a voice close to his ear.
“Ah!” said the Jew, turning quickly round, “is that—”
“Yes!” interrupted the stranger. “I have been lingering here these two hours.Where the devil have you been?”
“On your business, my dear,” replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at hiscompanion, and slackening his pace as he spoke. “On your business all night.”
“Oh, of course!” said the stranger, with a sneer. “Well; and what’s come ofit?”
“Nothing good,” said the Jew.
“Nothing bad, I hope?” said the stranger, stopping short, and turning astartled look on his companion.
The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger, interruptinghim, motioned to the house, before which they had by this time arrived:remarking, that he had better say what he had got to say, under cover: for hisblood was chilled with standing about so long, and the wind blew through him.
Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking home avisitor at that unseasonable hour; and, indeed, muttered something about havingno fire; but his companion repeating his request in a peremptory manner, heunlocked the door, and requested him to close it softly, while he got a light.
“It’s as dark as the grave,” said the man, groping forward a few steps. “Makehaste!”
“Shut the door,” whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he spoke, itclosed with a loud noise.
“That wasn’t my doing,” said the other man, feeling his way. “The wind blew itto, or it shut of its own accord: one or the other. Look sharp with the light,or I shall knock my brains out against something in this confounded hole.”
Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a short absence, hereturned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby Crackit wasasleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in the front one.Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs.
“We can say the few words we’ve got to say in here, my dear,” said the Jew,throwing open a door on the first floor; “and as there are holes in theshutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we’ll set the candle onthe stairs. There!”
With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper flightof stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This done, he led the way intothe apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a broken arm-chair, andan old couch or sofa without covering, which stood behind the door. Upon thispiece of furniture, the stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; andthe Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face. It was notquite dark; the door was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeblereflection on the opposite wall.
They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversationwas distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listenermight easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself againstsome remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state ofconsiderable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter ofan hour or more, when Monks—by which name the Jew had designated the strangeman several times in the course of their colloquy—said, raising his voice alittle,
“I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among therest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?”
“Only hear him!” exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders.
“Why, do you mean to say you couldn’t have done it, if you had chosen?”demanded Monks, sternly. “Haven’t you done it, with other boys, scores oftimes? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn’t you havegot him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?”
“Whose turn would that have served, my dear?” inquired the Jew humbly.
“Mine,” replied Monks.
“But not mine,” said the Jew, submissively. “He might have become of use to me.When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that theinterests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?”
“What then?” demanded Monks.
“I saw it was not easy to train him to the business,” replied the Jew; “he wasnot like other boys in the same circumstances.”
“Curse him, no!” muttered the man, “or he would have been a thief, long ago.”
“I had no hold upon him to make him worse,” pursued the Jew, anxiously watchingthe countenance of his companion. “His hand was not in. I had nothing tofrighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour invain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enoughof that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all.”
“That was not my doing,” observed Monks.
“No, no, my dear!” renewed the Jew. “And I don’t quarrel with it now; because,if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy tonotice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for.Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then she beginsto favour him.”
“Throttle the girl!” said Monks, impatiently.
“Why, we can’t afford to do that just now, my dear,” replied the Jew, smiling;“and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of these days, Imight be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well. Assoon as the boy begins to harden, she’ll care no more for him, than for a blockof wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one fromthis time; and, if—if—” said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other,—“it’s notlikely, mind,—but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead—”
“It’s no fault of mine if he is!” interposed the other man, with a look ofterror, and clasping the Jew’s arm with trembling hands. “Mind that. Fagin! Ihad no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won’tshed blood; it’s always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they shot himdead, I was not the cause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den! What’sthat?”
“What!” cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both arms, ashe sprung to his feet. “Where?”
“Yonder!” replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall. “The shadow! I saw theshadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like abreath!”
The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. Thecandle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been placed. It showedthem only the empty staircase, and their own white faces. They listenedintently: a profound silence reigned throughout the house.
“It’s your fancy,” said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to hiscompanion.
“I’ll swear I saw it!” replied Monks, trembling. “It was bending forward when Isaw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away.”
The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, tellinghim he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into allthe rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage,and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; thetracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all wasstill as death.
“What do you think now?” said the Jew, when they had regained the passage.“Besides ourselves, there’s not a creature in the house except Toby and theboys; and they’re safe enough. See here!”
As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket; andexplained, that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them in, toprevent any intrusion on the conference.
This accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr. Monks. His protestationshad gradually become less and less vehement as they proceeded in their searchwithout making any discovery; and, now, he gave vent to several very grimlaughs, and confessed it could only have been his excited imagination. Hedeclined any renewal of the conversation, however, for that night: suddenlyremembering that it was past one o’clock. And so the amiable couple parted.
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CHAPTER XXVII. ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED A LADY, MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY
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As it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author to keep so mighty apersonage as a beadle waiting, with his back to the fire, and the skirts of hiscoat gathered up under his arms, until such time as it might suit his pleasureto relieve him; and as it would still less become his station, or his gallantryto involve in the same neglect a lady on whom that beadle had looked with aneye of tenderness and affection, and in whose ear he had whispered sweet words,which, coming from such a quarter, might well thrill the bosom of maid ormatron of whatsoever degree; the historian whose pen traces thesewords—trusting that he knows his place, and that he entertains a becomingreverence for those upon earth to whom high and important authority isdelegated—hastens to pay them that respect which their position demands, and totreat them with all that duteous ceremony which their exalted rank, and (byconsequence) great virtues, imperatively claim at his hands. Towards this end,indeed, he had purposed to introduce, in this place, a dissertation touchingthe divine right of beadles, and elucidative of the position, that a beadle cando no wrong: which could not fail to have been both pleasurable and profitableto the right-minded reader but which he is unfortunately compelled, by want oftime and space, to postpone to some more convenient and fitting opportunity; onthe arrival of which, he will be prepared to show, that a beadle properlyconstituted: that is to say, a parochial beadle, attached to a parochialworkhouse, and attending in his official capacity the parochial church: is, inright and virtue of his office, possessed of all the excellences and bestqualities of humanity; and that to none of those excellences, can merecompanies’ beadles, or court-of-law beadles, or even chapel-of-ease beadles(save the last, and they in a very lowly and inferior degree), lay the remotestsustainable claim.
Mr. Bumble had re-counted the teaspoons, re-weighed the sugar-tongs, made acloser inspection of the milk-pot, and ascertained to a nicety the exactcondition of the furniture, down to the very horse-hair seats of the chairs;and had repeated each process full half a dozen times; before he began to thinkthat it was time for Mrs. Corney to return. Thinking begets thinking; as therewere no sounds of Mrs. Corney’s approach, it occured to Mr. Bumble that itwould be an innocent and virtuous way of spending the time, if he were furtherto allay his curiousity by a cursory glance at the interior of Mrs. Corney’schest of drawers.
Having listened at the keyhole, to assure himself that nobody was approachingthe chamber, Mr. Bumble, beginning at the bottom, proceeded to make himselfacquainted with the contents of the three long drawers: which, being filledwith various garments of good fashion and texture, carefully preserved betweentwo layers of old newspapers, speckled with dried lavender: seemed to yield himexceeding satisfaction. Arriving, in course of time, at the right-hand cornerdrawer (in which was the key), and beholding therein a small padlocked box,which, being shaken, gave forth a pleasant sound, as of the chinking of coin,Mr. Bumble returned with a stately walk to the fireplace; and, resuming his oldattitude, said, with a grave and determined air, “I’ll do it!” He followed upthis remarkable declaration, by shaking his head in a waggish manner for tenminutes, as though he were remonstrating with himself for being such a pleasantdog; and then, he took a view of his legs in profile, with much seemingpleasure and interest.
He was still placidly engaged in this latter survey, when Mrs. Corney, hurryinginto the room, threw herself, in a breathless state, on a chair by thefireside, and covering her eyes with one hand, placed the other over her heart,and gasped for breath.
“Mrs. Corney,” said Mr. Bumble, stooping over the matron, “what is this, ma’am?Has anything happened, ma’am? Pray answer me: I’m on—on—” Mr. Bumble, in hisalarm, could not immediately think of the word “tenterhooks,” so he said“broken bottles.”
“Oh, Mr. Bumble!” cried the lady, “I have been so dreadfully put out!”
“Put out, ma’am!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble; “who has dared to—? I know!” said Mr.Bumble, checking himself, with native majesty, “this is them wicious paupers!”
“It’s dreadful to think of!” said the lady, shuddering.
“Then don’t think of it, ma’am,” rejoined Mr. Bumble.
“I can’t help it,” whimpered the lady.
“Then take something, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble soothingly. “A little of thewine?”
“Not for the world!” replied Mrs. Corney. “I couldn’t,—oh! The top shelf in theright-hand corner—oh!” Uttering these words, the good lady pointed,distractedly, to the cupboard, and underwent a convulsion from internal spasms.Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet; and, snatching a pint green-glass bottle fromthe shelf thus incoherently indicated, filled a tea-cup with its contents, andheld it to the lady’s lips.
“I’m better now,” said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after drinking half of it.
Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in thankfulness; and,bringing them down again to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his nose.
“Peppermint,” exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling gently on thebeadle as she spoke. “Try it! There’s a little—a little something else in it.”
Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look; smacked his lips; tookanother taste; and put the cup down empty.
“It’s very comforting,” said Mrs. Corney.
“Very much so indeed, ma’am,” said the beadle. As he spoke, he drew a chairbeside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her.
“Nothing,” replied Mrs. Corney. “I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur.”
“Not weak, ma’am,” retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a little closer. “Areyou a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?”
“We are all weak creeturs,” said Mrs. Corney, laying down a general principle.
“So we are,” said the beadle.
Nothing was said on either side, for a minute or two afterwards. By theexpiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by removinghis left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney’s chair, where it had previouslyrested, to Mrs. Corney’s apron-string, round which it gradually becameentwined.
“We are all weak creeturs,” said Mr. Bumble.
Mrs. Corney sighed.
“Don’t sigh, Mrs. Corney,” said Mr. Bumble.
“I can’t help it,” said Mrs. Corney. And she sighed again.
“This is a very comfortable room, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble looking round.“Another room, and this, ma’am, would be a complete thing.”
“It would be too much for one,” murmured the lady.
“But not for two, ma’am,” rejoined Mr. Bumble, in soft accents. “Eh, Mrs.Corney?”
Mrs. Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said this; the beadle droopedhis, to get a view of Mrs. Corney’s face. Mrs. Corney, with great propriety,turned her head away, and released her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief;but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble.
“The board allows you coals, don’t they, Mrs. Corney?” inquired the beadle,affectionately pressing her hand.
“And candles,” replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure.
“Coals, candles, and house-rent free,” said Mr. Bumble. “Oh, Mrs. Corney, whatan Angel you are!”
The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sank into Mr.Bumble’s arms; and that gentleman in his agitation, imprinted a passionate kissupon her chaste nose.
“Such porochial perfection!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. “You know thatMr. Slout is worse tonight, my fascinator?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully.
“He can’t live a week, the doctor says,” pursued Mr. Bumble. “He is the masterof this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that wacancy must befilled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity fora jining of hearts and housekeepings!”
Mrs. Corney sobbed.
“The little word?” said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty. “The onelittle, little, little word, my blessed Corney?”
“Ye—ye—yes!” sighed out the matron.
“One more,” pursued the beadle; “compose your darling feelings for only onemore. When is it to come off?”
Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and twice failed. At length summoning upcourage, she threw her arms around Mr. Bumble’s neck, and said, it might be assoon as ever he pleased, and that he was “a irresistible duck.”
Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract wassolemnly ratified in another teacupful of the peppermint mixture; which wasrendered the more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of the lady’sspirits. While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the oldwoman’s decease.
“Very good,” said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; “I’ll call atSowerberry’s as I go home, and tell him to send tomorrow morning. Was it thatas frightened you, love?”
“It wasn’t anything particular, dear,” said the lady evasively.
“It must have been something, love,” urged Mr. Bumble. “Won’t you tell your ownB.?”
“Not now,” rejoined the lady; “one of these days. After we’re married, dear.”
“After we’re married!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble. “It wasn’t any impudence from anyof them male paupers as—”
“No, no, love!” interposed the lady, hastily.
“If I thought it was,” continued Mr. Bumble; “if I thought as any one of ’emhad dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance—”
“They wouldn’t have dared to do it, love,” responded the lady.
“They had better not!” said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. “Let me see anyman, porochial or extra-porochial, as would presume to do it; and I can tellhim that he wouldn’t do it a second time!”
Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have seemed no veryhigh compliment to the lady’s charms; but, as Mr. Bumble accompanied the threatwith many warlike gestures, she was much touched with this proof of hisdevotion, and protested, with great admiration, that he was indeed a dove.
The dove then turned up his coat-collar, and put on his cocked hat; and, havingexchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, once againbraved the cold wind of the night: merely pausing, for a few minutes, in themale paupers’ ward, to abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himselfthat he could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity.Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building with a light heart,and bright visions of his future promotion: which served to occupy his minduntil he reached the shop of the undertaker.
Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper: and NoahClaypole not being at any time disposed to take upon himself a greater amountof physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance of the twofunctions of eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was pastthe usual hour of shutting-up. Mr. Bumble tapped with his cane on the counterseveral times; but, attracting no attention, and beholding a light shiningthrough the glass-window of the little parlour at the back of the shop, he madebold to peep in and see what was going forward; and when he saw what was goingforward, he was not a little surprised.
The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread and butter,plates and glasses; a porter-pot and a wine-bottle. At the upper end of thetable, Mr. Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair, with his legsthrown over one of the arms: an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass ofbuttered bread in the other. Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening oystersfrom a barrel: which Mr. Claypole condescended to swallow, with remarkableavidity. A more than ordinary redness in the region of the young gentleman’snose, and a kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was in aslight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relishwith which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong appreciation oftheir cooling properties, in cases of internal fever, could have sufficientlyaccounted.
“Here’s a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!” said Charlotte; “try him, do; onlythis one.”
“What a delicious thing is a oyster!” remarked Mr. Claypole, after he hadswallowed it. “What a pity it is, a number of ’em should ever make you feeluncomfortable; isn’t it, Charlotte?”
“It’s quite a cruelty,” said Charlotte.
“So it is,” acquiesced Mr. Claypole. “An’t yer fond of oysters?”
“Not overmuch,” replied Charlotte. “I like to see you eat ’em, Noah dear,better than eating ’em myself.”
“Lor!” said Noah, reflectively; “how queer!”
“Have another,” said Charlotte. “Here’s one with such a beautiful, delicatebeard!”
“I can’t manage any more,” said Noah. “I’m very sorry. Come here, Charlotte,and I’ll kiss yer.”
“What!” said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. “Say that again, sir.”
Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr. Claypole,without making any further change in his position than suffering his legs toreach the ground, gazed at the beadle in drunken terror.
“Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!” said Mr. Bumble. “How dare youmention such a thing, sir? And how dare you encourage him, you insolent minx?Kiss her!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation. “Faugh!”
“I didn’t mean to do it!” said Noah, blubbering. “She’s always a-kissing of me,whether I like it, or not.”
“Oh, Noah,” cried Charlotte, reproachfully.
“Yer are; yer know yer are!” retorted Noah. “She’s always a-doin’ of it, Mr.Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and makes all manner oflove!”
“Silence!” cried Mr. Bumble, sternly. “Take yourself downstairs, ma’am. Noah,you shut up the shop; say another word till your master comes home, at yourperil; and, when he does come home, tell him that Mr. Bumble said he was tosend a old woman’s shell after breakfast tomorrow morning. Do you hear sir?Kissing!” cried Mr. Bumble, holding up his hands. “The sin and wickedness ofthe lower orders in this porochial district is frightful! If Parliament don’ttake their abominable courses under consideration, this country’s ruined, andthe character of the peasantry gone for ever!” With these words, the beadlestrode, with a lofty and gloomy air, from the undertaker’s premises.
And now that we have accompanied him so far on his road home, and have made allnecessary preparations for the old woman’s funeral, let us set on foot a fewinquires after young Oliver Twist, and ascertain whether he be still lying inthe ditch where Toby Crackit left him.
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CHAPTER XXVIII. LOOKS AFTER OLIVER, AND PROCEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES
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“Wolves tear your throats!” muttered Sikes, grinding his teeth. “I wish I wasamong some of you; you’d howl the hoarser for it.”
As Sikes growled forth this imprecation, with the most desperate ferocity thathis desperate nature was capable of, he rested the body of the wounded boyacross his bended knee; and turned his head, for an instant, to look back athis pursuers.
There was little to be made out, in the mist and darkness; but the loudshouting of men vibrated through the air, and the barking of the neighbouringdogs, roused by the sound of the alarm bell, resounded in every direction.
“Stop, you white-livered hound!” cried the robber, shouting after Toby Crackit,who, making the best use of his long legs, was already ahead. “Stop!”
The repetition of the word, brought Toby to a dead stand-still. For he was notquite satisfied that he was beyond the range of pistol-shot; and Sikes was inno mood to be played with.
“Bear a hand with the boy,” cried Sikes, beckoning furiously to hisconfederate. “Come back!”
Toby made a show of returning; but ventured, in a low voice, broken for want ofbreath, to intimate considerable reluctance as he came slowly along.
“Quicker!” cried Sikes, laying the boy in a dry ditch at his feet, and drawinga pistol from his pocket. “Don’t play booty with me.”
At this moment the noise grew louder. Sikes, again looking round, could discernthat the men who had given chase were already climbing the gate of the field inwhich he stood; and that a couple of dogs were some paces in advance of them.
“It’s all up, Bill!” cried Toby; “drop the kid, and show ’em your heels.” Withthis parting advice, Mr. Crackit, preferring the chance of being shot by hisfriend, to the certainty of being taken by his enemies, fairly turned tail, anddarted off at full speed. Sikes clenched his teeth; took one look around; threwover the prostrate form of Oliver, the cape in which he had been hurriedlymuffled; ran along the front of the hedge, as if to distract the attention ofthose behind, from the spot where the boy lay; paused, for a second, beforeanother hedge which met it at right angles; and whirling his pistol high intothe air, cleared it at a bound, and was gone.
“Ho, ho, there!” cried a tremulous voice in the rear. “Pincher! Neptune! Comehere, come here!”
The dogs, who, in common with their masters, seemed to have no particularrelish for the sport in which they were engaged, readily answered to thecommand. Three men, who had by this time advanced some distance into the field,stopped to take counsel together.
“My advice, or, leastways, I should say, my orders, is,” said thefattest man of the party, “that we ’mediately go home again.”
“I am agreeable to anything which is agreeable to Mr. Giles,” said a shorterman; who was by no means of a slim figure, and who was very pale in the face,and very polite: as frightened men frequently are.
“I shouldn’t wish to appear ill-mannered, gentlemen,” said the third, who hadcalled the dogs back, “Mr. Giles ought to know.”
“Certainly,” replied the shorter man; “and whatever Mr. Giles says, it isn’tour place to contradict him. No, no, I know my sitiwation! Thank my stars, Iknow my sitiwation.” To tell the truth, the little man did seem to knowhis situation, and to know perfectly well that it was by no means a desirableone; for his teeth chattered in his head as he spoke.
“You are afraid, Brittles,” said Mr. Giles.
“I an’t,” said Brittles.
“You are,” said Giles.
“You’re a falsehood, Mr. Giles,” said Brittles.
“You’re a lie, Brittles,” said Mr. Giles.
Now, these four retorts arose from Mr. Giles’s taunt; and Mr. Giles’s taunt hadarisen from his indignation at having the responsibility of going home again,imposed upon himself under cover of a compliment. The third man brought thedispute to a close, most philosophically.
“I’ll tell you what it is, gentlemen,” said he, “we’re all afraid.”
“Speak for yourself, sir,” said Mr. Giles, who was the palest of the party.
“So I do,” replied the man. “It’s natural and proper to be afraid, under suchcircumstances. I am.”
“So am I,” said Brittles; “only there’s no call to tell a man he is, sobounceably.”
These frank admissions softened Mr. Giles, who at once owned that he wasafraid; upon which, they all three faced about, and ran back again with thecompletest unanimity, until Mr. Giles (who had the shortest wind of the party,as was encumbered with a pitchfork) most handsomely insisted on stopping, tomake an apology for his hastiness of speech.
“But it’s wonderful,” said Mr. Giles, when he had explained, “what a man willdo, when his blood is up. I should have committed murder—I know I should—ifwe’d caught one of them rascals.”
As the other two were impressed with a similar presentiment; and as theirblood, like his, had all gone down again; some speculation ensued upon thecause of this sudden change in their temperament.
“I know what it was,” said Mr. Giles; “it was the gate.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if it was,” exclaimed Brittles, catching at the idea.
“You may depend upon it,” said Giles, “that that gate stopped the flow of theexcitement. I felt all mine suddenly going away, as I was climbing over it.”
By a remarkable coincidence, the other two had been visited with the sameunpleasant sensation at that precise moment. It was quite obvious, therefore,that it was the gate; especially as there was no doubt regarding the time atwhich the change had taken place, because all three remembered that they hadcome in sight of the robbers at the instant of its occurance.
This dialogue was held between the two men who had surprised the burglars, anda travelling tinker who had been sleeping in an outhouse, and who had beenroused, together with his two mongrel curs, to join in the pursuit. Mr. Gilesacted in the double capacity of butler and steward to the old lady of themansion; Brittles was a lad of all-work: who, having entered her service a merechild, was treated as a promising young boy still, though he was something pastthirty.
Encouraging each other with such converse as this; but, keeping very closetogether, notwithstanding, and looking apprehensively round, whenever a freshgust rattled through the boughs; the three men hurried back to a tree, behindwhich they had left their lantern, lest its light should inform the thieves inwhat direction to fire. Catching up the light, they made the best of their wayhome, at a good round trot; and long after their dusky forms had ceased to bediscernible, the light might have been seen twinkling and dancing in thedistance, like some exhalation of the damp and gloomy atmosphere through whichit was swiftly borne.
The air grew colder, as day came slowly on; and the mist rolled along theground like a dense cloud of smoke. The grass was wet; the pathways, and lowplaces, were all mire and water; the damp breath of an unwholesome wind wentlanguidly by, with a hollow moaning. Still, Oliver lay motionless andinsensible on the spot where Sikes had left him.
Morning drew on apace. The air became more sharp and piercing, as its firstdull hue—the death of night, rather than the birth of day—glimmered faintly inthe sky. The objects which had looked dim and terrible in the darkness, grewmore and more defined, and gradually resolved into their familiar shapes. Therain came down, thick and fast, and pattered noisily among the leafless bushes.But, Oliver felt it not, as it beat against him; for he still lay stretched,helpless and unconscious, on his bed of clay.
At length, a low cry of pain broke the stillness that prevailed; and utteringit, the boy awoke. His left arm, rudely bandaged in a shawl, hung heavy anduseless at his side; the bandage was saturated with blood. He was so weak, thathe could scarcely raise himself into a sitting posture; when he had done so, helooked feebly round for help, and groaned with pain. Trembling in every joint,from cold and exhaustion, he made an effort to stand upright; but, shudderingfrom head to foot, fell prostrate on the ground.
After a short return of the stupor in which he had been so long plunged,Oliver: urged by a creeping sickness at his heart, which seemed to warn himthat if he lay there, he must surely die: got upon his feet, and essayed towalk. His head was dizzy, and he staggered to and fro like a drunken man. Buthe kept up, nevertheless, and, with his head drooping languidly on his breast,went stumbling onward, he knew not whither.
And now, hosts of bewildering and confused ideas came crowding on his mind. Heseemed to be still walking between Sikes and Crackit, who were angrilydisputing—for the very words they said, sounded in his ears; and when he caughthis own attention, as it were, by making some violent effort to save himselffrom falling, he found that he was talking to them. Then, he was alone withSikes, plodding on as on the previous day; and as shadowy people passed them,he felt the robber’s grasp upon his wrist. Suddenly, he started back at thereport of firearms; there rose into the air, loud cries and shouts; lightsgleamed before his eyes; all was noise and tumult, as some unseen hand bore himhurriedly away. Through all these rapid visions, there ran an undefined, uneasyconsciousness of pain, which wearied and tormented him incessantly.
Thus he staggered on, creeping, almost mechanically, between the bars of gates,or through hedge-gaps as they came in his way, until he reached a road. Herethe rain began to fall so heavily, that it roused him.
He looked about, and saw that at no great distance there was a house, whichperhaps he could reach. Pitying his condition, they might have compassion onhim; and if they did not, it would be better, he thought, to die near humanbeings, than in the lonely open fields. He summoned up all his strength for onelast trial, and bent his faltering steps towards it.
As he drew nearer to this house, a feeling come over him that he had seen itbefore. He remembered nothing of its details; but the shape and aspect of thebuilding seemed familiar to him.
That garden wall! On the grass inside, he had fallen on his knees last night,and prayed the two men’s mercy. It was the very house they had attempted torob.
Oliver felt such fear come over him when he recognised the place, that, for theinstant, he forgot the agony of his wound, and thought only of flight. Flight!He could scarcely stand: and if he were in full possession of all the bestpowers of his slight and youthful frame, whither could he fly? He pushedagainst the garden-gate; it was unlocked, and swung open on its hinges. Hetottered across the lawn; climbed the steps; knocked faintly at the door; and,his whole strength failing him, sunk down against one of the pillars of thelittle portico.
It happened that about this time, Mr. Giles, Brittles, and the tinker, wererecruiting themselves, after the fatigues and terrors of the night, with teaand sundries, in the kitchen. Not that it was Mr. Giles’s habit to admit to toogreat familiarity the humbler servants: towards whom it was rather his wont todeport himself with a lofty affability, which, while it gratified, could notfail to remind them of his superior position in society. But, death, fires, andburglary, make all men equals; so Mr. Giles sat with his legs stretched outbefore the kitchen fender, leaning his left arm on the table, while, with hisright, he illustrated a circumstantial and minute account of the robbery, towhich his hearers (but especially the cook and housemaid, who were of theparty) listened with breathless interest.
“It was about half-past two,” said Mr. Giles, “or I wouldn’t swear that itmightn’t have been a little nearer three, when I woke up, and, turning round inmy bed, as it might be so, (here Mr. Giles turned round in his chair, andpulled the corner of the table-cloth over him to imitate bed-clothes,) Ifancied I heerd a noise.”
At this point of the narrative the cook turned pale, and asked the housemaid toshut the door: who asked Brittles, who asked the tinker, who pretended not tohear.
“—Heerd a noise,” continued Mr. Giles. “I says, at first, ‘This is illusion’;and was composing myself off to sleep, when I heerd the noise again, distinct.”
“What sort of a noise?” asked the cook.
“A kind of a busting noise,” replied Mr. Giles, looking round him.
“More like the noise of powdering a iron bar on a nutmeg-grater,” suggestedBrittles.
“It was, when you heerd it, sir,” rejoined Mr. Giles; “but, at thistime, it had a busting sound. I turned down the clothes”; continued Giles,rolling back the table-cloth, “sat up in bed; and listened.”
The cook and housemaid simultaneously ejaculated “Lor!” and drew their chairscloser together.
“I heerd it now, quite apparent,” resumed Mr. Giles. “‘Somebody,’ I says, ‘isforcing of a door, or window; what’s to be done? I’ll call up that poor lad,Brittles, and save him from being murdered in his bed; or his throat,’ I says,‘may be cut from his right ear to his left, without his ever knowing it.’”
Here, all eyes were turned upon Brittles, who fixed his upon the speaker, andstared at him, with his mouth wide open, and his face expressive of the mostunmitigated horror.
“I tossed off the clothes,” said Giles, throwing away the table-cloth, andlooking very hard at the cook and housemaid, “got softly out of bed; drew on apair of—”
“Ladies present, Mr. Giles,” murmured the tinker.
“—Of shoes, sir,” said Giles, turning upon him, and laying greatemphasis on the word; “seized the loaded pistol that always goes upstairs withthe plate-basket; and walked on tiptoes to his room. ‘Brittles,’ I says, when Ihad woke him, ‘don’t be frightened!’”
“So you did,” observed Brittles, in a low voice.
“‘We’re dead men, I think, Brittles,’ I says,” continued Giles; “‘but don’t befrightened.’”
“Was he frightened?” asked the cook.
“Not a bit of it,” replied Mr. Giles. “He was as firm—ah! pretty near as firmas I was.”
“I should have died at once, I’m sure, if it had been me,” observed thehousemaid.
“You’re a woman,” retorted Brittles, plucking up a little.
“Brittles is right,” said Mr. Giles, nodding his head, approvingly; “from awoman, nothing else was to be expected. We, being men, took a dark lantern thatwas standing on Brittle’s hob, and groped our way downstairs in the pitchdark,—as it might be so.”
Mr. Giles had risen from his seat, and taken two steps with his eyes shut, toaccompany his description with appropriate action, when he started violently,in common with the rest of the company, and hurried back to his chair. The cookand housemaid screamed.
“It was a knock,” said Mr. Giles, assuming perfect serenity. “Open the door,somebody.”
Nobody moved.
“It seems a strange sort of a thing, a knock coming at such a time in themorning,” said Mr. Giles, surveying the pale faces which surrounded him, andlooking very blank himself; “but the door must be opened. Do you hear,somebody?”
Mr. Giles, as he spoke, looked at Brittles; but that young man, being naturallymodest, probably considered himself nobody, and so held that the inquiry couldnot have any application to him; at all events, he tendered no reply. Mr. Gilesdirected an appealing glance at the tinker; but he had suddenly fallen asleep.The women were out of the question.
“If Brittles would rather open the door, in the presence of witnesses,” saidMr. Giles, after a short silence, “I am ready to make one.”
“So am I,” said the tinker, waking up, as suddenly as he had fallen asleep.
Brittles capitulated on these terms; and the party being somewhat re-assured bythe discovery (made on throwing open the shutters) that it was now broad day,took their way upstairs; with the dogs in front. The two women, who were afraidto stay below, brought up the rear. By the advice of Mr. Giles, they all talkedvery loud, to warn any evil-disposed person outside, that they were strong innumbers; and by a master-stoke of policy, originating in the brain of the sameingenious gentleman, the dogs’ tails were well pinched, in the hall, to makethem bark savagely.
These precautions having been taken, Mr. Giles held on fast by the tinker’s arm(to prevent his running away, as he pleasantly said), and gave the word ofcommand to open the door. Brittles obeyed; the group, peeping timorously overeach other’s shoulders, beheld no more formidable object than poor littleOliver Twist, speechless and exhausted, who raised his heavy eyes, and mutelysolicited their compassion.
“A boy!” exclaimed Mr. Giles, valiantly, pushing the tinker into thebackground. “What’s the matter with the—eh?—Why—Brittles—look here—don’t youknow?”
Brittles, who had got behind the door to open it, no sooner saw Oliver, than heuttered a loud cry. Mr. Giles, seizing the boy by one leg and one arm(fortunately not the broken limb) lugged him straight into the hall, anddeposited him at full length on the floor thereof.
“Here he is!” bawled Giles, calling in a state of great excitement, up thestaircase; “here’s one of the thieves, ma’am! Here’s a thief, miss! Wounded,miss! I shot him, miss; and Brittles held the light.”
“—In a lantern, miss,” cried Brittles, applying one hand to the side of hismouth, so that his voice might travel the better.
The two women-servants ran upstairs to carry the intelligence that Mr. Gileshad captured a robber; and the tinker busied himself in endeavouring to restoreOliver, lest he should die before he could be hanged. In the midst of all thisnoise and commotion, there was heard a sweet female voice, which quelled it inan instant.
“Giles!” whispered the voice from the stair-head.
“I’m here, miss,” replied Mr. Giles. “Don’t be frightened, miss; I ain’t muchinjured. He didn’t make a very desperate resistance, miss! I was soon too manyfor him.”
“Hush!” replied the young lady; “you frighten my aunt as much as the thievesdid. Is the poor creature much hurt?”
“Wounded desperate, miss,” replied Giles, with indescribable complacency.
“He looks as if he was a-going, miss,” bawled Brittles, in the same manner asbefore. “Wouldn’t you like to come and look at him, miss, in case he should?”
“Hush, pray; there’s a good man!” rejoined the lady. “Wait quietly only oneinstant, while I speak to aunt.”
With a footstep as soft and gentle as the voice, the speaker tripped away. Shesoon returned, with the direction that the wounded person was to be carried,carefully, upstairs to Mr. Giles’s room; and that Brittles was to saddle thepony and betake himself instantly to Chertsey: from which place, he was todespatch, with all speed, a constable and doctor.
“But won’t you take one look at him, first, miss?” asked Mr. Giles, with asmuch pride as if Oliver were some bird of rare plumage, that he had skilfullybrought down. “Not one little peep, miss?”
“Not now, for the world,” replied the young lady. “Poor fellow! Oh! treat himkindly, Giles for my sake!”
The old servant looked up at the speaker, as she turned away, with a glance asproud and admiring as if she had been his own child. Then, bending over Oliver,he helped to carry him upstairs, with the care and solicitude of a woman.
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CHAPTER XXIX. HAS AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNT OF THE INMATES OF THE HOUSE, TO WHICH OLIVER RESORTED
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In a handsome room: though its furniture had rather the air of old-fashionedcomfort, than of modern elegance: there sat two ladies at a well-spreadbreakfast-table. Mr. Giles, dressed with scrupulous care in a full suit ofblack, was in attendance upon them. He had taken his station some half-waybetween the side-board and the breakfast-table; and, with his body drawn up toits full height, his head thrown back, and inclined the merest trifle on oneside, his left leg advanced, and his right hand thrust into his waist-coat,while his left hung down by his side, grasping a waiter, looked like one wholaboured under a very agreeable sense of his own merits and importance.
Of the two ladies, one was well advanced in years; but the high-backed oakenchair in which she sat, was not more upright than she. Dressed with the utmostnicety and precision, in a quaint mixture of by-gone costume, with some slightconcessions to the prevailing taste, which rather served to point the old stylepleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat, in a stately manner, with herhands folded on the table before her. Her eyes (and age had dimmed but littleof their brightness) were attentively upon her young companion.
The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood; at thatage, when, if ever angels be for God’s good purposes enthroned in mortal forms,they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers.
She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mildand gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor itsrough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in herdeep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age,or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour,the thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; aboveall, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and firesidepeace and happiness.
She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raiseher eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair,which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, suchan expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits mighthave smiled to look upon her.
“And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?” asked the old lady,after a pause.
“An hour and twelve minutes, ma’am,” replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silverwatch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon.
“He is always slow,” remarked the old lady.
“Brittles always was a slow boy, ma’am,” replied the attendant. And seeing, bythe bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, thereappeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one.
“He gets worse instead of better, I think,” said the elder lady.
“It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys,” saidthe young lady, smiling.
Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectfulsmile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which therejumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, gettingquickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, andnearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together.
“I never heard of such a thing!” exclaimed the fat gentleman. “My dear Mrs.Maylie—bless my soul—in the silence of the night, too—I never heard ofsuch a thing!”
With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands with bothladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found themselves.
“You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright,” said the fatgentleman. “Why didn’t you send? Bless me, my man should have come in a minute;and so would I; and my assistant would have been delighted; or anybody, I’msure, under such circumstances. Dear, dear! So unexpected! In the silence ofthe night, too!”
The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having beenunexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the establishedcustom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, andto make an appointment, by post, a day or two previous.
“And you, Miss Rose,” said the doctor, turning to the young lady, “I—”
“Oh! very much so, indeed,” said Rose, interrupting him; “but there is a poorcreature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see.”
“Ah! to be sure,” replied the doctor, “so there is. That was your handiwork,Giles, I understand.”
Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights, blushed veryred, and said that he had had that honour.
“Honour, eh?” said the doctor; “well, I don’t know; perhaps it’s as honourableto hit a thief in a back kitchen, as to hit your man at twelve paces. Fancythat he fired in the air, and you’ve fought a duel, Giles.”
Mr. Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an unjust attempt atdiminishing his glory, answered respectfully, that it was not for the like ofhim to judge about that; but he rather thought it was no joke to the oppositeparty.
“Gad, that’s true!” said the doctor. “Where is he? Show me the way. I’ll lookin again, as I come down, Mrs. Maylie. That’s the little window that he got inat, eh? Well, I couldn’t have believed it!”
Talking all the way, he followed Mr. Giles upstairs; and while he is goingupstairs, the reader may be informed, that Mr. Losberne, a surgeon in theneighbourhood, known through a circuit of ten miles round as “the doctor,” hadgrown fat, more from good-humour than from good living: and was as kind andhearty, and withal as eccentric an old bachelor, as will be found in five timesthat space, by any explorer alive.
The doctor was absent, much longer than either he or the ladies hadanticipated. A large flat box was fetched out of the gig; and a bedroom bellwas rung very often; and the servants ran up and down stairs perpetually; fromwhich tokens it was justly concluded that something important was going onabove. At length he returned; and in reply to an anxious inquiry after hispatient; looked very mysterious, and closed the door, carefully.
“This is a very extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maylie,” said the doctor, standingwith his back to the door, as if to keep it shut.
“He is not in danger, I hope?” said the old lady.
“Why, that would not be an extraordinary thing, under thecircumstances,” replied the doctor; “though I don’t think he is. Have you seenthe thief?”
“No,” rejoined the old lady.
“Nor heard anything about him?”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” interposed Mr. Giles; “but I was going to tell youabout him when Doctor Losberne came in.”
The fact was, that Mr. Giles had not, at first, been able to bring his mind tothe avowal, that he had only shot a boy. Such commendations had been bestowedupon his bravery, that he could not, for the life of him, help postponing theexplanation for a few delicious minutes; during which he had flourished, in thevery zenith of a brief reputation for undaunted courage.
“Rose wished to see the man,” said Mrs. Maylie, “but I wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Humph!” rejoined the doctor. “There is nothing very alarming in hisappearance. Have you any objection to see him in my presence?”
“If it be necessary,” replied the old lady, “certainly not.”
“Then I think it is necessary,” said the doctor; “at all events, I am quitesure that you would deeply regret not having done so, if you postponed it. Heis perfectly quiet and comfortable now. Allow me—Miss Rose, will you permit me?Not the slightest fear, I pledge you my honour!”
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CHAPTER XXX. RELATES WHAT OLIVER’S NEW VISITORS THOUGHT OF HIM
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With many loquacious assurances that they would be agreeably surprised in theaspect of the criminal, the doctor drew the young lady’s arm through one ofhis; and offering his disengaged hand to Mrs. Maylie, led them, with muchceremony and stateliness, upstairs.
“Now,” said the doctor, in a whisper, as he softly turned the handle of abedroom-door, “let us hear what you think of him. He has not been shaved veryrecently, but he don’t look at all ferocious notwithstanding. Stop, though! Letme first see that he is in visiting order.”
Stepping before them, he looked into the room. Motioning them to advance, heclosed the door when they had entered; and gently drew back the curtains of thebed. Upon it, in lieu of the dogged, black-visaged ruffian they had expected tobehold, there lay a mere child: worn with pain and exhaustion, and sunk into adeep sleep. His wounded arm, bound and splintered up, was crossed upon hisbreast; his head reclined upon the other arm, which was half hidden by his longhair, as it streamed over the pillow.
The honest gentleman held the curtain in his hand, and looked on, for a minuteor so, in silence. Whilst he was watching the patient thus, the younger ladyglided softly past, and seating herself in a chair by the bedside, gatheredOliver’s hair from his face. As she stooped over him, her tears fell upon hisforehead.
The boy stirred, and smiled in his sleep, as though these marks of pity andcompassion had awakened some pleasant dream of a love and affection he hadnever known. Thus, a strain of gentle music, or the rippling of water in asilent place, or the odour of a flower, or the mention of a familiar word, willsometimes call up sudden dim remembrances of scenes that never were, in thislife; which vanish like a breath; which some brief memory of a happierexistence, long gone by, would seem to have awakened; which no voluntaryexertion of the mind can ever recall.
“What can this mean?” exclaimed the elder lady. “This poor child can never havebeen the pupil of robbers!”
“Vice,” said the surgeon, replacing the curtain, “takes up her abode in manytemples; and who can say that a fair outside shall not enshrine her?”
“But at so early an age!” urged Rose.
“My dear young lady,” rejoined the surgeon, mournfully shaking his head;“crime, like death, is not confined to the old and withered alone. The youngestand fairest are too often its chosen victims.”
“But, can you—oh! can you really believe that this delicate boy has been thevoluntary associate of the worst outcasts of society?” said Rose.
The surgeon shook his head, in a manner which intimated that he feared it wasvery possible; and observing that they might disturb the patient, led the wayinto an adjoining apartment.
“But even if he has been wicked,” pursued Rose, “think how young he is; thinkthat he may never have known a mother’s love, or the comfort of a home; thatill-usage and blows, or the want of bread, may have driven him to herd with menwho have forced him to guilt. Aunt, dear aunt, for mercy’s sake, think of this,before you let them drag this sick child to a prison, which in any case must bethe grave of all his chances of amendment. Oh! as you love me, and know that Ihave never felt the want of parents in your goodness and affection, but that Imight have done so, and might have been equally helpless and unprotected withthis poor child, have pity upon him before it is too late!”
“My dear love,” said the elder lady, as she folded the weeping girl to herbosom, “do you think I would harm a hair of his head?”
“Oh, no!” replied Rose, eagerly.
“No, surely,” said the old lady; “my days are drawing to their close: and maymercy be shown to me as I show it to others! What can I do to save him, sir?”
“Let me think, ma’am,” said the doctor; “let me think.”
Mr. Losberne thrust his hands into his pockets, and took several turns up anddown the room; often stopping, and balancing himself on his toes, and frowningfrightfully. After various exclamations of “I’ve got it now” and “no, Ihaven’t,” and as many renewals of the walking and frowning, he at length made adead halt, and spoke as follows:
“I think if you give me a full and unlimited commission to bully Giles, andthat little boy, Brittles, I can manage it. Giles is a faithful fellow and anold servant, I know; but you can make it up to him in a thousand ways, andreward him for being such a good shot besides. You don’t object to that?”
“Unless there is some other way of preserving the child,” replied Mrs. Maylie.
“There is no other,” said the doctor. “No other, take my word for it.”
“Then my aunt invests you with full power,” said Rose, smiling through hertears; “but pray don’t be harder upon the poor fellows than is indispensablynecessary.”
“You seem to think,” retorted the doctor, “that everybody is disposed to behard-hearted today, except yourself, Miss Rose. I only hope, for the sake ofthe rising male sex generally, that you may be found in as vulnerable andsoft-hearted a mood by the first eligible young fellow who appeals to yourcompassion; and I wish I were a young fellow, that I might avail myself, on thespot, of such a favourable opportunity for doing so, as the present.”
“You are as great a boy as poor Brittles himself,” returned Rose, blushing.
“Well,” said the doctor, laughing heartily, “that is no very difficult matter.But to return to this boy. The great point of our agreement is yet to come. Hewill wake in an hour or so, I dare say; and although I have told thatthick-headed constable-fellow downstairs that he musn’t be moved or spoken to,on peril of his life, I think we may converse with him without danger. Now Imake this stipulation—that I shall examine him in your presence, and that, if,from what he says, we judge, and I can show to the satisfaction of your coolreason, that he is a real and thorough bad one (which is more than possible),he shall be left to his fate, without any farther interference on my part, atall events.”
“Oh no, aunt!” entreated Rose.
“Oh yes, aunt!” said the doctor. “Is it a bargain?”
“He cannot be hardened in vice,” said Rose; “It is impossible.”
“Very good,” retorted the doctor; “then so much the more reason for acceding tomy proposition.”
Finally the treaty was entered into; and the parties thereunto sat down towait, with some impatience, until Oliver should awake.
The patience of the two ladies was destined to undergo a longer trial than Mr.Losberne had led them to expect; for hour after hour passed on, and stillOliver slumbered heavily. It was evening, indeed, before the kind-hearteddoctor brought them the intelligence, that he was at length sufficientlyrestored to be spoken to. The boy was very ill, he said, and weak from the lossof blood; but his mind was so troubled with anxiety to disclose something, thathe deemed it better to give him the opportunity, than to insist upon hisremaining quiet until next morning: which he should otherwise have done.
The conference was a long one. Oliver told them all his simple history, and wasoften compelled to stop, by pain and want of strength. It was a solemn thing,to hear, in the darkened room, the feeble voice of the sick child recounting aweary catalogue of evils and calamities which hard men had brought upon him.Oh! if when we oppress and grind our fellow-creatures, we bestowed but onethought on the dark evidences of human error, which, like dense and heavyclouds, are rising, slowly it is true, but not less surely, to Heaven, to pourtheir after-vengeance on our heads; if we heard but one instant, inimagination, the deep testimony of dead men’s voices, which no power canstifle, and no pride shut out; where would be the injury and injustice, thesuffering, misery, cruelty, and wrong, that each day’s life brings with it!
Oliver’s pillow was smoothed by gentle hands that night; and loveliness andvirtue watched him as he slept. He felt calm and happy, and could have diedwithout a murmur.
The momentous interview was no sooner concluded, and Oliver composed to restagain, than the doctor, after wiping his eyes, and condemning them for beingweak all at once, betook himself downstairs to open upon Mr. Giles. And findingnobody about the parlours, it occurred to him, that he could perhaps originatethe proceedings with better effect in the kitchen; so into the kitchen he went.
There were assembled, in that lower house of the domestic parliament, thewomen-servants, Mr. Brittles, Mr. Giles, the tinker (who had received a specialinvitation to regale himself for the remainder of the day, in consideration ofhis services), and the constable. The latter gentleman had a large staff, alarge head, large features, and large half-boots; and he looked as if he hadbeen taking a proportionate allowance of ale—as indeed he had.
The adventures of the previous night were still under discussion; for Mr. Gileswas expatiating upon his presence of mind, when the doctor entered; Mr.Brittles, with a mug of ale in his hand, was corroborating everything, beforehis superior said it.
“Sit still!” said the doctor, waving his hand.
“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Giles. “Misses wished some ale to be given out, sir;and as I felt no ways inclined for my own little room, sir, and was disposedfor company, I am taking mine among ’em here.”
Brittles headed a low murmur, by which the ladies and gentlemen generally wereunderstood to express the gratification they derived from Mr. Giles’scondescension. Mr. Giles looked round with a patronising air, as much as to saythat so long as they behaved properly, he would never desert them.
“How is the patient tonight, sir?” asked Giles.
“So-so”; returned the doctor. “I am afraid you have got yourself into a scrapethere, Mr. Giles.”
“I hope you don’t mean to say, sir,” said Mr. Giles, trembling, “that he’sgoing to die. If I thought it, I should never be happy again. I wouldn’t cut aboy off: no, not even Brittles here; not for all the plate in the county, sir.”
“That’s not the point,” said the doctor, mysteriously. “Mr. Giles, are you aProtestant?”
“Yes, sir, I hope so,” faltered Mr. Giles, who had turned very pale.
“And what are you, boy?” said the doctor, turning sharply upon Brittles.
“Lord bless me, sir!” replied Brittles, starting violently; “I’m the same asMr. Giles, sir.”
“Then tell me this,” said the doctor, “both of you, both of you! Are you goingto take upon yourselves to swear, that that boy upstairs is the boy that wasput through the little window last night? Out with it! Come! We are preparedfor you!”
The doctor, who was universally considered one of the best-tempered creatureson earth, made this demand in such a dreadful tone of anger, that Giles andBrittles, who were considerably muddled by ale and excitement, stared at eachother in a state of stupefaction.
“Pay attention to the reply, constable, will you?” said the doctor, shaking hisforefinger with great solemnity of manner, and tapping the bridge of his nosewith it, to bespeak the exercise of that worthy’s utmost acuteness. “Somethingmay come of this before long.”
The constable looked as wise as he could, and took up his staff of office:which had been reclining indolently in the chimney-corner.
“It’s a simple question of identity, you will observe,” said the doctor.
“That’s what it is, sir,” replied the constable, coughing with great violence;for he had finished his ale in a hurry, and some of it had gone the wrong way.
“Here’s the house broken into,” said the doctor, “and a couple of men catch onemoment’s glimpse of a boy, in the midst of gunpowder smoke, and in all thedistraction of alarm and darkness. Here’s a boy comes to that very same house,next morning, and because he happens to have his arm tied up, these men layviolent hands upon him—by doing which, they place his life in great danger—andswear he is the thief. Now, the question is, whether these men are justified bythe fact; if not, in what situation do they place themselves?”
The constable nodded profoundly. He said, if that wasn’t law, he would be gladto know what was.
“I ask you again,” thundered the doctor, “are you, on your solemn oaths, ableto identify that boy?”
Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles; Mr. Giles looked doubtfully atBrittles; the constable put his hand behind his ear, to catch the reply; thetwo women and the tinker leaned forward to listen; the doctor glanced keenlyround; when a ring was heard at the gate, and at the same moment, the sound ofwheels.
“It’s the runners!” cried Brittles, to all appearance much relieved.
“The what?” exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn.
“The Bow Street officers, sir,” replied Brittles, taking up a candle; “me andMr. Giles sent for ’em this morning.”
“What?” cried the doctor.
“Yes,” replied Brittles; “I sent a message up by the coachman, and I onlywonder they weren’t here before, sir.”
“You did, did you? Then confound your—slow coaches down here; that’s all,” saidthe doctor, walking away.
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CHAPTER XXXI. INVOLVES A CRITICAL POSITION
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“Who’s that?” inquired Brittles, opening the door a little way, with the chainup, and peeping out, shading the candle with his hand.
“Open the door,” replied a man outside; “it’s the officers from Bow Street, aswas sent to today.”
Much comforted by this assurance, Brittles opened the door to its full width,and confronted a portly man in a great-coat; who walked in, without sayinganything more, and wiped his shoes on the mat, as coolly as if he lived there.
“Just send somebody out to relieve my mate, will you, young man?” said theofficer; “he’s in the gig, a-minding the prad. Have you got a coach ’us here,that you could put it up in, for five or ten minutes?”
Brittles replying in the affirmative, and pointing out the building, the portlyman stepped back to the garden-gate, and helped his companion to put up thegig: while Brittles lighted them, in a state of great admiration. This done,they returned to the house, and, being shown into a parlour, took off theirgreat-coats and hats, and showed like what they were.
The man who had knocked at the door, was a stout personage of middle height,aged about fifty: with shiny black hair, cropped pretty close; half-whiskers, around face, and sharp eyes. The other was a red-headed, bony man, in top-boots;with a rather ill-favoured countenance, and a turned-up sinister-looking nose.
“Tell your governor that Blathers and Duff is here, will you?” said the stouterman, smoothing down his hair, and laying a pair of handcuffs on the table. “Oh!Good-evening, master. Can I have a word or two with you in private, if youplease?”
This was addressed to Mr. Losberne, who now made his appearance; thatgentleman, motioning Brittles to retire, brought in the two ladies, and shutthe door.
“This is the lady of the house,” said Mr. Losberne, motioning towards Mrs.Maylie.
Mr. Blathers made a bow. Being desired to sit down, he put his hat on thefloor, and taking a chair, motioned to Duff to do the same. The lattergentleman, who did not appear quite so much accustomed to good society, orquite so much at his ease in it—one of the two—seated himself, after undergoingseveral muscular affections of the limbs, and the head of his stick into hismouth, with some embarrassment.
“Now, with regard to this here robbery, master,” said Blathers. “What are thecircumstances?”
Mr. Losberne, who appeared desirous of gaining time, recounted them at greatlength, and with much circumlocution. Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked veryknowing meanwhile, and occasionally exchanged a nod.
“I can’t say, for certain, till I see the work, of course,” said Blathers; “butmy opinion at once is,—I don’t mind committing myself to that extent,—that thiswasn’t done by a yokel; eh, Duff?”
“Certainly not,” replied Duff.
“And, translating the word yokel for the benefit of the ladies, I apprehendyour meaning to be, that this attempt was not made by a countryman?” said Mr.Losberne, with a smile.
“That’s it, master,” replied Blathers. “This is all about the robbery, is it?”
“All,” replied the doctor.
“Now, what is this, about this here boy that the servants are a-talking on?”said Blathers.
“Nothing at all,” replied the doctor. “One of the frightened servants chose totake it into his head, that he had something to do with this attempt to breakinto the house; but it’s nonsense: sheer absurdity.”
“Wery easy disposed of, if it is,” remarked Duff.
“What he says is quite correct,” observed Blathers, nodding his head in aconfirmatory way, and playing carelessly with the handcuffs, as if they were apair of castanets. “Who is the boy? What account does he give of himself? Wheredid he come from? He didn’t drop out of the clouds, did he, master?”
“Of course not,” replied the doctor, with a nervous glance at the two ladies.“I know his whole history: but we can talk about that presently. You wouldlike, first, to see the place where the thieves made their attempt, I suppose?”
“Certainly,” rejoined Mr. Blathers. “We had better inspect the premises first,and examine the servants afterwards. That’s the usual way of doing business.”
Lights were then procured; and Messrs. Blathers and Duff, attended by thenative constable, Brittles, Giles, and everybody else in short, went into thelittle room at the end of the passage and looked out at the window; andafterwards went round by way of the lawn, and looked in at the window; andafter that, had a candle handed out to inspect the shutter with; and afterthat, a lantern to trace the footsteps with; and after that, a pitchfork topoke the bushes with. This done, amidst the breathless interest of allbeholders, they came in again; and Mr. Giles and Brittles were put through amelodramatic representation of their share in the previous night’s adventures:which they performed some six times over: contradicting each other, in not morethan one important respect, the first time, and in not more than a dozen thelast. This consummation being arrived at, Blathers and Duff cleared the room,and held a long council together, compared with which, for secrecy andsolemnity, a consultation of great doctors on the knottiest point in medicine,would be mere child’s play.
Meanwhile, the doctor walked up and down the next room in a very uneasy state;and Mrs. Maylie and Rose looked on, with anxious faces.
“Upon my word,” he said, making a halt, after a great number of very rapidturns, “I hardly know what to do.”
“Surely,” said Rose, “the poor child’s story, faithfully repeated to these men,will be sufficient to exonerate him.”
“I doubt it, my dear young lady,” said the doctor, shaking his head. “I don’tthink it would exonerate him, either with them, or with legal functionaries ofa higher grade. What is he, after all, they would say? A runaway. Judged bymere worldly considerations and probabilities, his story is a very doubtfulone.”
“You believe it, surely?” interrupted Rose.
“I believe it, strange as it is; and perhaps I may be an old fool fordoing so,” rejoined the doctor; “but I don’t think it is exactly the tale for apractical police-officer, nevertheless.”
“Why not?” demanded Rose.
“Because, my pretty cross-examiner,” replied the doctor: “because, viewed withtheir eyes, there are many ugly points about it; he can only prove the partsthat look ill, and none of those that look well. Confound the fellows, theywill have the why and the wherefore, and will take nothing for granted.On his own showing, you see, he has been the companion of thieves for some timepast; he has been carried to a police-officer, on a charge of picking agentleman’s pocket; he has been taken away, forcibly, from that gentleman’shouse, to a place which he cannot describe or point out, and of the situationof which he has not the remotest idea. He is brought down to Chertsey, by menwho seem to have taken a violent fancy to him, whether he will or no; and isput through a window to rob a house; and then, just at the very moment when heis going to alarm the inmates, and so do the very thing that would set him allto rights, there rushes into the way, a blundering dog of a half-bred butler,and shoots him! As if on purpose to prevent his doing any good for himself!Don’t you see all this?”
“I see it, of course,” replied Rose, smiling at the doctor’s impetuosity; “butstill I do not see anything in it, to criminate the poor child.”
“No,” replied the doctor; “of course not! Bless the bright eyes of your sex!They never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side of any question;and that is, always, the one which first presents itself to them.”
Having given vent to this result of experience, the doctor put his hands intohis pockets, and walked up and down the room with even greater rapidity thanbefore.
“The more I think of it,” said the doctor, “the more I see that it willoccasion endless trouble and difficulty if we put these men in possession ofthe boy’s real story. I am certain it will not be believed; and even if theycan do nothing to him in the end, still the dragging it forward, and givingpublicity to all the doubts that will be cast upon it, must interfere,materially, with your benevolent plan of rescuing him from misery.”
“Oh! what is to be done?” cried Rose. “Dear, dear! why did they send for thesepeople?”
“Why, indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Maylie. “I would not have had them here, for theworld.”
“All I know is,” said Mr. Losberne, at last: sitting down with a kind ofdesperate calmness, “that we must try and carry it off with a bold face. Theobject is a good one, and that must be our excuse. The boy has strong symptomsof fever upon him, and is in no condition to be talked to any more; that’s onecomfort. We must make the best of it; and if bad be the best, it is no fault ofours. Come in!”
“Well, master,” said Blathers, entering the room followed by his colleague, andmaking the door fast, before he said any more. “This warn’t a put-up thing.”
“And what the devil’s a put-up thing?” demanded the doctor, impatiently.
“We call it a put-up robbery, ladies,” said Blathers, turning to them, as if hepitied their ignorance, but had a contempt for the doctor’s, “when the servantsis in it.”
“Nobody suspected them, in this case,” said Mrs. Maylie.
“Wery likely not, ma’am,” replied Blathers; “but they might have been in it,for all that.”
“More likely on that wery account,” said Duff.
“We find it was a town hand,” said Blathers, continuing his report; “for thestyle of work is first-rate.”
“Wery pretty indeed it is,” remarked Duff, in an undertone.
“There was two of ’em in it,” continued Blathers; “and they had a boy with ’em;that’s plain from the size of the window. That’s all to be said at present.We’ll see this lad that you’ve got upstairs at once, if you please.”
“Perhaps they will take something to drink first, Mrs. Maylie?” said thedoctor: his face brightening, as if some new thought had occurred to him.
“Oh! to be sure!” exclaimed Rose, eagerly. “You shall have it immediately, ifyou will.”
“Why, thank you, miss!” said Blathers, drawing his coat-sleeve across hismouth; “it’s dry work, this sort of duty. Anythink that’s handy, miss; don’tput yourself out of the way, on our accounts.”
“What shall it be?” asked the doctor, following the young lady to thesideboard.
“A little drop of spirits, master, if it’s all the same,” replied Blathers.“It’s a cold ride from London, ma’am; and I always find that spirits comes homewarmer to the feelings.”
This interesting communication was addressed to Mrs. Maylie, who received itvery graciously. While it was being conveyed to her, the doctor slipped out ofthe room.
“Ah!” said Mr. Blathers: not holding his wine-glass by the stem, but graspingthe bottom between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand: and placing it infront of his chest; “I have seen a good many pieces of business like this, inmy time, ladies.”
“That crack down in the back lane at Edmonton, Blathers,” said Mr. Duff,assisting his colleague’s memory.
“That was something in this way, warn’t it?” rejoined Mr. Blathers; “that wasdone by Conkey Chickweed, that was.”
“You always gave that to him” replied Duff. “It was the Family Pet, I tell you.Conkey hadn’t any more to do with it than I had.”
“Get out!” retorted Mr. Blathers; “I know better. Do you mind that time whenConkey was robbed of his money, though? What a start that was! Better than anynovel-book I ever see!”
“What was that?” inquired Rose: anxious to encourage any symptoms ofgood-humour in the unwelcome visitors.
“It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon,” saidBlathers. “This here Conkey Chickweed—”
“Conkey means Nosey, ma’am,” interposed Duff.
“Of course the lady knows that, don’t she?” demanded Mr. Blathers. “Alwaysinterrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept apublic-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good manyyoung lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a weryintellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I’ve seen ’em off’en. Hewarn’t one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of threehundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of hisbedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye,who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery,jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick aboutit. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and rousedthe neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came tolook about ’em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces ofblood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost’em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name ofMr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the otherbankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don’t know whatall, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about hisloss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling hishair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might begoing to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in ahurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal oftalk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), andtells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed hishouse. ‘I see him, Spyers,’ said Chickweed, ‘pass my house yesterday morning,’‘Why didn’t you up, and collar him!’ says Spyers. ‘I was so struck all of aheap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,’ says the poorman; ‘but we’re sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o’clock at nighthe passed again.’ Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen anda comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away hegoes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind thelittle red curtain, with his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment’snotice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a suddenChickweed roars out, ‘Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!’ Jem Spyers dashes out;and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry. Away goesSpyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars out,‘Thieves!’ and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time, like mad.Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner; shoots round; sees alittle crowd; dives in; ‘Which is the man?’ ‘D—me!’ says Chickweed, ‘I’ve losthim again!’ It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn’t to be seen nowhere,so they went back to the public-house. Next morning, Spyers took his old place,and looked out, from behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch overhis eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn’t help shutting’em, to ease ’em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweeda-roaring out, ‘Here he is!’ Off he starts once more, with Chickweed half-waydown the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a run as the yesterday’sone, the man’s lost again! This was done, once or twice more, till one-half theneighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who wasplaying tricks with him arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweedhad gone mad with grief.”
“What did Jem Spyers say?” inquired the doctor; who had returned to the roomshortly after the commencement of the story.
“Jem Spyers,” resumed the officer, “for a long time said nothing at all, andlistened to everything without seeming to, which showed he understood hisbusiness. But, one morning, he walked into the bar, and taking out hissnuffbox, says ‘Chickweed, I’ve found out who done this here robbery.’ ‘Haveyou?’ said Chickweed. ‘Oh, my dear Spyers, only let me have wengeance, and Ishall die contented! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the villain!’ ‘Come!’ saidSpyers, offering him a pinch of snuff, ‘none of that gammon! You did ityourself.’ So he had; and a good bit of money he had made by it, too; andnobody would never have found it out, if he hadn’t been so precious anxious tokeep up appearances!” said Mr. Blathers, putting down his wine-glass, andclinking the handcuffs together.
“Very curious, indeed,” observed the doctor. “Now, if you please, you can walkupstairs.”
“If you please, sir,” returned Mr. Blathers. Closely following Mr.Losberne, the two officers ascended to Oliver’s bedroom; Mr. Giles precedingthe party, with a lighted candle.
Oliver had been dozing; but looked worse, and was more feverish than he hadappeared yet. Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up in bed for aminute or so; and looked at the strangers without at all understanding what wasgoing forward—in fact, without seeming to recollect where he was, or what hadbeen passing.
“This,” said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemencenotwithstanding, “this is the lad, who, being accidently wounded by aspring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d’ ye-call-him’s grounds, at theback here, comes to the house for assistance this morning, and is immediatelylaid hold of and maltreated, by that ingenious gentleman with the candle in hishand: who has placed his life in considerable danger, as I can professionallycertify.”
Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus recommended totheir notice. The bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and fromOliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear andperplexity.
“You don’t mean to deny that, I suppose?” said the doctor, laying Oliver gentlydown again.
“It was all done for the—for the best, sir,” answered Giles. “I am sure Ithought it was the boy, or I wouldn’t have meddled with him. I am not of aninhuman disposition, sir.”
“Thought it was what boy?” inquired the senior officer.
“The housebreaker’s boy, sir!” replied Giles. “They—they certainly had a boy.”
“Well? Do you think so now?” inquired Blathers.
“Think what, now?” replied Giles, looking vacantly at his questioner.
“Think it’s the same boy, Stupid-head?” rejoined Blathers, impatiently.
“I don’t know; I really don’t know,” said Giles, with a rueful countenance. “Icouldn’t swear to him.”
“What do you think?” asked Mr. Blathers.
“I don’t know what to think,” replied poor Giles. “I don’t think it is the boy;indeed, I’m almost certain that it isn’t. You know it can’t be.”
“Has this man been a-drinking, sir?” inquired Blathers, turning to the doctor.
“What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!” said Duff, addressing Mr. Giles,with supreme contempt.
Mr. Losberne had been feeling the patient’s pulse during this short dialogue;but he now rose from the chair by the bedside, and remarked, that if theofficers had any doubts upon the subject, they would perhaps like to step intothe next room, and have Brittles before them.
Acting upon this suggestion, they adjourned to a neighbouring apartment, whereMr. Brittles, being called in, involved himself and his respected superior insuch a wonderful maze of fresh contradictions and impossibilities, as tended tothrow no particular light on anything, but the fact of his own strongmystification; except, indeed, his declarations that he shouldn’t know the realboy, if he were put before him that instant; that he had only taken Oliver tobe he, because Mr. Giles had said he was; and that Mr. Giles had, five minutespreviously, admitted in the kitchen, that he began to be very much afraid hehad been a little too hasty.
Among other ingenious surmises, the question was then raised, whether Mr. Gileshad really hit anybody; and upon examination of the fellow pistol to that whichhe had fired, it turned out to have no more destructive loading than gunpowderand brown paper: a discovery which made a considerable impression on everybodybut the doctor, who had drawn the ball about ten minutes before. Upon no one,however, did it make a greater impression than on Mr. Giles himself; who, afterlabouring, for some hours, under the fear of having mortally wounded afellow-creature, eagerly caught at this new idea, and favoured it to theutmost. Finally, the officers, without troubling themselves very much aboutOliver, left the Chertsey constable in the house, and took up their rest forthat night in the town; promising to return the next morning.
With the next morning, there came a rumour, that two men and a boy were in thecage at Kingston, who had been apprehended over night under suspiciouscircumstances; and to Kingston Messrs. Blathers and Duff journeyed accordingly.The suspicious circumstances, however, resolving themselves, on investigation,into the one fact, that they had been discovered sleeping under a haystack;which, although a great crime, is only punishable by imprisonment, and is, inthe merciful eye of the English law, and its comprehensive love of all theKing’s subjects, held to be no satisfactory proof, in the absence of all otherevidence, that the sleeper, or sleepers, have committed burglary accompaniedwith violence, and have therefore rendered themselves liable to the punishmentof death; Messrs. Blathers and Duff came back again, as wise as they went.
In short, after some more examination, and a great deal more conversation, aneighbouring magistrate was readily induced to take the joint bail of Mrs.Maylie and Mr. Losberne for Oliver’s appearance if he should ever be calledupon; and Blathers and Duff, being rewarded with a couple of guineas, returnedto town with divided opinions on the subject of their expedition: the lattergentleman on a mature consideration of all the circumstances, inclining to thebelief that the burglarious attempt had originated with the Family Pet; and theformer being equally disposed to concede the full merit of it to the great Mr.Conkey Chickweed.
Meanwhile, Oliver gradually throve and prospered under the united care of Mrs.Maylie, Rose, and the kind-hearted Mr. Losberne. If fervent prayers, gushingfrom hearts overcharged with gratitude, be heard in heaven—and if they be not,what prayers are!—the blessings which the orphan child called down upon them,sunk into their souls, diffusing peace and happiness.
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CHAPTER XXXII. OF THE HAPPY LIFE OLIVER BEGAN TO LEAD WITH HIS KIND FRIENDS
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Oliver’s ailings were neither slight nor few. In addition to the pain and delayattendant on a broken limb, his exposure to the wet and cold had brought onfever and ague: which hung about him for many weeks, and reduced him sadly.But, at length, he began, by slow degrees, to get better, and to be able to saysometimes, in a few tearful words, how deeply he felt the goodness of the twosweet ladies, and how ardently he hoped that when he grew strong and wellagain, he could do something to show his gratitude; only something, which wouldlet them see the love and duty with which his breast was full; something,however slight, which would prove to them that their gentle kindness had notbeen cast away; but that the poor boy whom their charity had rescued frommisery, or death, was eager to serve them with his whole heart and soul.
“Poor fellow!” said Rose, when Oliver had been one day feebly endeavouring toutter the words of thankfulness that rose to his pale lips; “you shall havemany opportunities of serving us, if you will. We are going into the country,and my aunt intends that you shall accompany us. The quiet place, the pure air,and all the pleasure and beauties of spring, will restore you in a few days. Wewill employ you in a hundred ways, when you can bear the trouble.”
“The trouble!” cried Oliver. “Oh! dear lady, if I could but work for you; if Icould only give you pleasure by watering your flowers, or watching your birds,or running up and down the whole day long, to make you happy; what would I giveto do it!”
“You shall give nothing at all,” said Miss Maylie, smiling; “for, as I told youbefore, we shall employ you in a hundred ways; and if you only take half thetrouble to please us, that you promise now, you will make me very happyindeed.”
“Happy, ma’am!” cried Oliver; “how kind of you to say so!”
“You will make me happier than I can tell you,” replied the young lady. “Tothink that my dear good aunt should have been the means of rescuing any onefrom such sad misery as you have described to us, would be an unspeakablepleasure to me; but to know that the object of her goodness and compassion wassincerely grateful and attached, in consequence, would delight me, more thanyou can well imagine. Do you understand me?” she inquired, watching Oliver’sthoughtful face.
“Oh yes, ma’am, yes!” replied Oliver eagerly; “but I was thinking that I amungrateful now.”
“To whom?” inquired the young lady.
“To the kind gentleman, and the dear old nurse, who took so much care of mebefore,” rejoined Oliver. “If they knew how happy I am, they would be pleased,I am sure.”
“I am sure they would,” rejoined Oliver’s benefactress; “and Mr. Losberne hasalready been kind enough to promise that when you are well enough to bear thejourney, he will carry you to see them.”
“Has he, ma’am?” cried Oliver, his face brightening with pleasure. “I don’tknow what I shall do for joy when I see their kind faces once again!”
In a short time Oliver was sufficiently recovered to undergo the fatigue ofthis expedition. One morning he and Mr. Losberne set out, accordingly, in alittle carriage which belonged to Mrs. Maylie. When they came to ChertseyBridge, Oliver turned very pale, and uttered a loud exclamation.
“What’s the matter with the boy?” cried the doctor, as usual, all in a bustle.“Do you see anything—hear anything—feel anything—eh?”
“That, sir,” cried Oliver, pointing out of the carriage window. “That house!”
“Yes; well, what of it? Stop coachman. Pull up here,” cried the doctor. “Whatof the house, my man; eh?”
“The thieves—the house they took me to!” whispered Oliver.
“The devil it is!” cried the doctor. “Hallo, there! let me out!”
But, before the coachman could dismount from his box, he had tumbled out of thecoach, by some means or other; and, running down to the deserted tenement,began kicking at the door like a madman.
“Halloa?” said a little ugly hump-backed man: opening the door so suddenly,that the doctor, from the very impetus of his last kick, nearly fell forwardinto the passage. “What’s the matter here?”
“Matter!” exclaimed the other, collaring him, without a moment’s reflection. “Agood deal. Robbery is the matter.”
“There’ll be Murder the matter, too,” replied the hump-backed man, coolly, “ifyou don’t take your hands off. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” said the doctor, giving his captive a hearty shake.
“Where’s—confound the fellow, what’s his rascally name—Sikes; that’s it.Where’s Sikes, you thief?”
The hump-backed man stared, as if in excess of amazement and indignation; then,twisting himself, dexterously, from the doctor’s grasp, growled forth a volleyof horrid oaths, and retired into the house. Before he could shut the door,however, the doctor had passed into the parlour, without a word of parley.
He looked anxiously round; not an article of furniture; not a vestige ofanything, animate or inanimate; not even the position of the cupboards;answered Oliver’s description!
“Now!” said the hump-backed man, who had watched him keenly, “what do you meanby coming into my house, in this violent way? Do you want to rob me, or tomurder me? Which is it?”
“Did you ever know a man come out to do either, in a chariot and pair, youridiculous old vampire?” said the irritable doctor.
“What do you want, then?” demanded the hunchback. “Will you take yourself off,before I do you a mischief? Curse you!”
“As soon as I think proper,” said Mr. Losberne, looking into the other parlour;which, like the first, bore no resemblance whatever to Oliver’s account of it.“I shall find you out, some day, my friend.”
“Will you?” sneered the ill-favoured cripple. “If you ever want me, I’m here. Ihaven’t lived here mad and all alone, for five-and-twenty years, to be scaredby you. You shall pay for this; you shall pay for this.” And so saying, themis-shapen little demon set up a yell, and danced upon the ground, as if wildwith rage.
“Stupid enough, this,” muttered the doctor to himself; “the boy must have madea mistake. Here! Put that in your pocket, and shut yourself up again.” Withthese words he flung the hunchback a piece of money, and returned to thecarriage.
The man followed to the chariot door, uttering the wildest imprecations andcurses all the way; but as Mr. Losberne turned to speak to the driver, helooked into the carriage, and eyed Oliver for an instant with a glance so sharpand fierce and at the same time so furious and vindictive, that, waking orsleeping, he could not forget it for months afterwards. He continued to utterthe most fearful imprecations, until the driver had resumed his seat; and whenthey were once more on their way, they could see him some distance behind:beating his feet upon the ground, and tearing his hair, in transports of realor pretended rage.
“I am an ass!” said the doctor, after a long silence. “Did you know thatbefore, Oliver?”
“No, sir.”
“Then don’t forget it another time.”
“An ass,” said the doctor again, after a further silence of some minutes. “Evenif it had been the right place, and the right fellows had been there, whatcould I have done, single-handed? And if I had had assistance, I see no goodthat I should have done, except leading to my own exposure, and an unavoidablestatement of the manner in which I have hushed up this business. That wouldhave served me right, though. I am always involving myself in some scrape orother, by acting on impulse. It might have done me good.”
Now, the fact was that the excellent doctor had never acted upon anything butimpulse all through his life, and it was no bad compliment to the nature of theimpulses which governed him, that so far from being involved in any peculiartroubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest respect and esteem of all who knewhim. If the truth must be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute ortwo, at being disappointed in procuring corroborative evidence of Oliver’sstory on the very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any. Hesoon came round again, however; and finding that Oliver’s replies to hisquestions, were still as straightforward and consistent, and still deliveredwith as much apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever been, he made uphis mind to attach full credence to them, from that time forth.
As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they wereenabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heartbeat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath.
“Now, my boy, which house is it?” inquired Mr. Losberne.
“That! That!” replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. “The whitehouse. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes metremble so.”
“Come, come!” said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder. “You will seethem directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well.”
“Oh! I hope so!” cried Oliver. “They were so good to me; so very, very good tome.”
The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door.It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows,with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face.
Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. “To Let.”
“Knock at the next door,” cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver’s arm in his. “Whathas become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, do youknow?”
The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, andsaid, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies,six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backward.
“Has his housekeeper gone too?” inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment’s pause.
“Yes, sir”; replied the servant. “The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and agentleman who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow’s, all went together.”
“Then turn towards home again,” said Mr. Losberne to the driver; “and don’tstop to bait the horses, till you get out of this confounded London!”
“The book-stall keeper, sir?” said Oliver. “I know the way there. See him,pray, sir! Do see him!”
“My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day,” said the doctor.“Quite enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper’s, we shallcertainly find that he is dead, or has set his house on fire, or run away. No;home again straight!” And in obedience to the doctor’s impulse, home they went.
This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in themidst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself, many times during hisillness, with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say tohim: and what delight it would be to tell them how many long days and nights hehad passed in reflecting on what they had done for him, and in bewailing hiscruel separation from them. The hope of eventually clearing himself with them,too, and explaining how he had been forced away, had buoyed him up, andsustained him, under many of his recent trials; and now, the idea that theyshould have gone so far, and carried with them the belief that he was animpostor and a robber—a belief which might remain uncontradicted to his dyingday—was almost more than he could bear.
The circumstance occasioned no alteration, however, in the behaviour of hisbenefactors. After another fortnight, when the fine warm weather had fairlybegun, and every tree and flower was putting forth its young leaves and richblossoms, they made preparations for quitting the house at Chertsey, for somemonths.
Sending the plate, which had so excited Fagin’s cupidity, to the banker’s; andleaving Giles and another servant in care of the house, they departed to acottage at some distance in the country, and took Oliver with them.
Who can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace of mind and softtranquillity, the sickly boy felt in the balmy air, and among the green hillsand rich woods, of an inland village! Who can tell how scenes of peace andquietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close and noisy places,and carry their own freshness, deep into their jaded hearts! Men who have livedin crowded, pent-up streets, through lives of toil, and who have never wishedfor change; men, to whom custom has indeed been second nature, and who havecome almost to love each brick and stone that formed the narrow boundaries oftheir daily walks; even they, with the hand of death upon them, have been knownto yearn at last for one short glimpse of Nature’s face; and, carried far fromthe scenes of their old pains and pleasures, have seemed to pass at once into anew state of being. Crawling forth, from day to day, to some green sunny spot,they have had such memories wakened up within them by the sight of the sky, andhill and plain, and glistening water, that a foretaste of heaven itself hassoothed their quick decline, and they have sunk into their tombs, as peacefullyas the sun whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber window but afew hours before, faded from their dim and feeble sight! The memories whichpeaceful country scenes call up, are not of this world, nor of its thoughts andhopes. Their gentle influence may teach us how to weave fresh garlands for thegraves of those we loved: may purify our thoughts, and bear down before it oldenmity and hatred; but beneath all this, there lingers, in the least reflectivemind, a vague and half-formed consciousness of having held such feelings longbefore, in some remote and distant time, which calls up solemn thoughts ofdistant times to come, and bends down pride and worldliness beneath it.
It was a lovely spot to which they repaired. Oliver, whose days had been spentamong squalid crowds, and in the midst of noise and brawling, seemed to enteron a new existence there. The rose and honeysuckle clung to the cottage walls;the ivy crept round the trunks of the trees; and the garden-flowers perfumedthe air with delicious odours. Hard by, was a little churchyard; not crowdedwith tall unsightly gravestones, but full of humble mounds, covered with freshturf and moss: beneath which, the old people of the village lay at rest. Oliveroften wandered here; and, thinking of the wretched grave in which his motherlay, would sometimes sit him down and sob unseen; but, when he raised his eyesto the deep sky overhead, he would cease to think of her as lying in theground, and would weep for her, sadly, but without pain.
It was a happy time. The days were peaceful and serene; the nights brought withthem neither fear nor care; no languishing in a wretched prison, or associatingwith wretched men; nothing but pleasant and happy thoughts. Every morning hewent to a white-headed old gentleman, who lived near the little church: whotaught him to read better, and to write: and who spoke so kindly, and took suchpains, that Oliver could never try enough to please him. Then, he would walkwith Mrs. Maylie and Rose, and hear them talk of books; or perhaps sit nearthem, in some shady place, and listen whilst the young lady read: which hecould have done, until it grew too dark to see the letters. Then, he had hisown lesson for the next day to prepare; and at this, he would work hard, in alittle room which looked into the garden, till evening came slowly on, when theladies would walk out again, and he with them: listening with such pleasure toall they said: and so happy if they wanted a flower that he could climb toreach, or had forgotten anything he could run to fetch: that he could never bequick enough about it. When it became quite dark, and they returned home, theyoung lady would sit down to the piano, and play some pleasant air, or sing, ina low and gentle voice, some old song which it pleased her aunt to hear. Therewould be no candles lighted at such times as these; and Oliver would sit by oneof the windows, listening to the sweet music, in a perfect rapture.
And when Sunday came, how differently the day was spent, from any way in whichhe had ever spent it yet! and how happily too; like all the other days in thatmost happy time! There was the little church, in the morning, with the greenleaves fluttering at the windows: the birds singing without: and thesweet-smelling air stealing in at the low porch, and filling the homelybuilding with its fragrance. The poor people were so neat and clean, and kneltso reverently in prayer, that it seemed a pleasure, not a tedious duty, theirassembling there together; and though the singing might be rude, it was real,and sounded more musical (to Oliver’s ears at least) than any he had ever heardin church before. Then, there were the walks as usual, and many calls at theclean houses of the labouring men; and at night, Oliver read a chapter or twofrom the Bible, which he had been studying all the week, and in the performanceof which duty he felt more proud and pleased, than if he had been the clergymanhimself.
In the morning, Oliver would be a-foot by six o’clock, roaming the fields, andplundering the hedges, far and wide, for nosegays of wild flowers, with whichhe would return laden, home; and which it took great care and consideration toarrange, to the best advantage, for the embellishment of the breakfast-table.There was fresh groundsel, too, for Miss Maylie’s birds, with which Oliver, whohad been studying the subject under the able tuition of the village clerk,would decorate the cages, in the most approved taste. When the birds were madeall spruce and smart for the day, there was usually some little commission ofcharity to execute in the village; or, failing that, there was rarecricket-playing, sometimes, on the green; or, failing that, there was alwayssomething to do in the garden, or about the plants, to which Oliver (who hadstudied this science also, under the same master, who was a gardener by trade,)applied himself with hearty good-will, until Miss Rose made her appearance:when there were a thousand commendations to be bestowed on all he had done.
So three months glided away; three months which, in the life of the mostblessed and favoured of mortals, might have been unmingled happiness, andwhich, in Oliver’s were true felicity. With the purest and most amiablegenerosity on one side; and the truest, warmest, soul-felt gratitude on theother; it is no wonder that, by the end of that short time, Oliver Twist hadbecome completely domesticated with the old lady and her niece, and that thefervent attachment of his young and sensitive heart, was repaid by their pridein, and attachment to, himself.
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CHAPTER XXXIII. WHEREIN THE HAPPINESS OF OLIVER AND HIS FRIENDS, EXPERIENCES A SUDDEN CHECK
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Spring flew swiftly by, and summer came. If the village had been beautiful atfirst it was now in the full glow and luxuriance of its richness. The greattrees, which had looked shrunken and bare in the earlier months, had now burstinto strong life and health; and stretching forth their green arms over thethirsty ground, converted open and naked spots into choice nooks, where was adeep and pleasant shade from which to look upon the wide prospect, steeped insunshine, which lay stretched beyond. The earth had donned her mantle ofbrightest green; and shed her richest perfumes abroad. It was the prime andvigour of the year; all things were glad and flourishing.
Still, the same quiet life went on at the little cottage, and the same cheerfulserenity prevailed among its inmates. Oliver had long since grown stout andhealthy; but health or sickness made no difference in his warm feelings of agreat many people. He was still the same gentle, attached, affectionatecreature that he had been when pain and suffering had wasted his strength, andwhen he was dependent for every slight attention, and comfort on those whotended him.
One beautiful night, when they had taken a longer walk than was customary withthem: for the day had been unusually warm, and there was a brilliant moon, anda light wind had sprung up, which was unusually refreshing. Rose had been inhigh spirits, too, and they had walked on, in merry conversation, until theyhad far exceeded their ordinary bounds. Mrs. Maylie being fatigued, theyreturned more slowly home. The young lady merely throwing off her simplebonnet, sat down to the piano as usual. After running abstractedly over thekeys for a few minutes, she fell into a low and very solemn air; and as sheplayed it, they heard a sound as if she were weeping.
“Rose, my dear!” said the elder lady.
Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the words had rousedher from some painful thoughts.
“Rose, my love!” cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily, and bending over her. “Whatis this? In tears! My dear child, what distresses you?”
“Nothing, aunt; nothing,” replied the young lady. “I don’t know what it is; Ican’t describe it; but I feel—”
“Not ill, my love?” interposed Mrs. Maylie.
“No, no! Oh, not ill!” replied Rose: shuddering as though some deadly chillnesswere passing over her, while she spoke; “I shall be better presently. Close thewindow, pray!”
Oliver hastened to comply with her request. The young lady, making an effort torecover her cheerfulness, strove to play some livelier tune; but her fingersdropped powerless over the keys. Covering her face with her hands, she sankupon a sofa, and gave vent to the tears which she was now unable to repress.
“My child!” said the elderly lady, folding her arms about her, “I never saw youso before.”
“I would not alarm you if I could avoid it,” rejoined Rose; “but indeed I havetried very hard, and cannot help this. I fear I am ill, aunt.”
She was, indeed; for, when candles were brought, they saw that in the veryshort time which had elapsed since their return home, the hue of hercountenance had changed to a marble whiteness. Its expression had lost nothingof its beauty; but it was changed; and there was an anxious haggard look aboutthe gentle face, which it had never worn before. Another minute, and it wassuffused with a crimson flush: and a heavy wildness came over the soft blueeye. Again this disappeared, like the shadow thrown by a passing cloud; and shewas once more deadly pale.
Oliver, who watched the old lady anxiously, observed that she was alarmed bythese appearances; and so in truth, was he; but seeing that she affected tomake light of them, he endeavoured to do the same, and they so far succeeded,that when Rose was persuaded by her aunt to retire for the night, she was inbetter spirits; and appeared even in better health: assuring them that she feltcertain she should rise in the morning, quite well.
“I hope,” said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, “that nothing is the matter?She don’t look well tonight, but—”
The old lady motioned to him not to speak; and sitting herself down in a darkcorner of the room, remained silent for some time. At length, she said, in atrembling voice:
“I hope not, Oliver. I have been very happy with her for some years: too happy,perhaps. It may be time that I should meet with some misfortune; but I hope itis not this.”
“What?” inquired Oliver.
“The heavy blow,” said the old lady, “of losing the dear girl who has so longbeen my comfort and happiness.”
“Oh! God forbid!” exclaimed Oliver, hastily.
“Amen to that, my child!” said the old lady, wringing her hands.
“Surely there is no danger of anything so dreadful?” said Oliver. “Two hoursago, she was quite well.”
“She is very ill now,” rejoined Mrs. Maylie; “and will be worse, I am sure. Mydear, dear Rose! Oh, what shall I do without her!”
She gave way to such great grief, that Oliver, suppressing his own emotion,ventured to remonstrate with her; and to beg, earnestly, that, for the sake ofthe dear young lady herself, she would be more calm.
“And consider, ma’am,” said Oliver, as the tears forced themselves into hiseyes, despite of his efforts to the contrary. “Oh! consider how young and goodshe is, and what pleasure and comfort she gives to all about her. I amsure—certain—quite certain—that, for your sake, who are so good yourself; andfor her own; and for the sake of all she makes so happy; she will not die.Heaven will never let her die so young.”
“Hush!” said Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand on Oliver’s head. “You think like achild, poor boy. But you teach me my duty, notwithstanding. I had forgotten itfor a moment, Oliver, but I hope I may be pardoned, for I am old, and have seenenough of illness and death to know the agony of separation from the objects ofour love. I have seen enough, too, to know that it is not always the youngestand best who are spared to those that love them; but this should give uscomfort in our sorrow; for Heaven is just; and such things teach us,impressively, that there is a brighter world than this; and that the passage toit is speedy. God’s will be done! I love her; and He knows how well!”
Oliver was surprised to see that as Mrs. Maylie said these words, she checkedher lamentations as though by one effort; and drawing herself up as she spoke,became composed and firm. He was still more astonished to find that thisfirmness lasted; and that, under all the care and watching which ensued, Mrs.Maylie was ever ready and collected: performing all the duties which haddevolved upon her, steadily, and, to all external appearances, even cheerfully.But he was young, and did not know what strong minds are capable of, undertrying circumstances. How should he, when their possessors so seldom knowthemselves?
An anxious night ensued. When morning came, Mrs. Maylie’s predictions were buttoo well verified. Rose was in the first stage of a high and dangerous fever.
“We must be active, Oliver, and not give way to useless grief,” said Mrs.Maylie, laying her finger on her lip, as she looked steadily into his face;“this letter must be sent, with all possible expedition, to Mr. Losberne. Itmust be carried to the market-town: which is not more than four miles off, bythe footpath across the field: and thence dispatched, by an express onhorseback, straight to Chertsey. The people at the inn will undertake to dothis: and I can trust to you to see it done, I know.”
Oliver could make no reply, but looked his anxiety to be gone at once.
“Here is another letter,” said Mrs. Maylie, pausing to reflect; “but whether tosend it now, or wait until I see how Rose goes on, I scarcely know. I would notforward it, unless I feared the worst.”
“Is it for Chertsey, too, ma’am?” inquired Oliver; impatient to execute hiscommission, and holding out his trembling hand for the letter.
“No,” replied the old lady, giving it to him mechanically. Oliver glanced atit, and saw that it was directed to Harry Maylie, Esquire, at some great lord’shouse in the country; where, he could not make out.
“Shall it go, ma’am?” asked Oliver, looking up, impatiently.
“I think not,” replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back. “I will wait untiltomorrow.”
With these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off, without moredelay, at the greatest speed he could muster.
Swiftly he ran across the fields, and down the little lanes which sometimesdivided them: now almost hidden by the high corn on either side, and nowemerging on an open field, where the mowers and haymakers were busy at theirwork: nor did he stop once, save now and then, for a few seconds, to recoverbreath, until he came, in a great heat, and covered with dust, on the littlemarket-place of the market-town.
Here he paused, and looked about for the inn. There were a white bank, and ared brewery, and a yellow town-hall; and in one corner there was a large house,with all the wood about it painted green: before which was the sign of “TheGeorge.” To this he hastened, as soon as it caught his eye.
He spoke to a postboy who was dozing under the gateway; and who, after hearingwhat he wanted, referred him to the ostler; who after hearing all he had to sayagain, referred him to the landlord; who was a tall gentleman in a blueneckcloth, a white hat, drab breeches, and boots with tops to match, leaningagainst a pump by the stable-door, picking his teeth with a silver toothpick.
This gentleman walked with much deliberation into the bar to make out the bill:which took a long time making out: and after it was ready, and paid, a horsehad to be saddled, and a man to be dressed, which took up ten good minutesmore. Meanwhile Oliver was in such a desperate state of impatience and anxiety,that he felt as if he could have jumped upon the horse himself, and gallopedaway, full tear, to the next stage. At length, all was ready; and the littleparcel having been handed up, with many injunctions and entreaties for itsspeedy delivery, the man set spurs to his horse, and rattling over the unevenpaving of the market-place, was out of the town, and galloping along theturnpike-road, in a couple of minutes.
As it was something to feel certain that assistance was sent for, and that notime had been lost, Oliver hurried up the inn-yard, with a somewhat lighterheart. He was turning out of the gateway when he accidently stumbled against atall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at that moment coming out of the inn door.
“Hah!” cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver, and suddenly recoiling. “Whatthe devil’s this?”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Oliver; “I was in a great hurry to get home, anddidn’t see you were coming.”
“Death!” muttered the man to himself, glaring at the boy with his large darkeyes. “Who would have thought it! Grind him to ashes! He’d start up from astone coffin, to come in my way!”
“I am sorry,” stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man’s wild look. “Ihope I have not hurt you!”
“Rot you!” murmured the man, in a horrible passion; between his clenched teeth;“if I had only had the courage to say the word, I might have been free of youin a night. Curses on your head, and black death on your heart, you imp! Whatare you doing here?”
The man shook his fist, as he uttered these words incoherently. He advancedtowards Oliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blow at him, but fellviolently on the ground: writhing and foaming, in a fit.
Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles of the madman (for such hesupposed him to be); and then darted into the house for help. Having seen himsafely carried into the hotel, he turned his face homewards, running as fast ashe could, to make up for lost time: and recalling with a great deal ofastonishment and some fear, the extraordinary behaviour of the person from whomhe had just parted.
The circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long, however: for when hereached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his mind, and to drive allconsiderations of self completely from his memory.
Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before mid-night she was delirious. Amedical practitioner, who resided on the spot, was in constant attendance uponher; and after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs. Maylie aside, andpronounced her disorder to be one of a most alarming nature. “In fact,” hesaid, “it would be little short of a miracle, if she recovered.”
How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, withnoiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from thesick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terrorstart upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear thatsomething too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had beenthe fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those hepoured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the lifeand health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave’s verge!
Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while thelife of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the rackingthoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and thebreath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; thedesperate anxiety to be doing something to relieve the pain, or lessenthe danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul andspirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what torturescan equal these; what reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and feverof the time, allay them!
Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke inwhispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women andchildren went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it hadgrown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes everyinstant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, lookingas if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived. “It ishard,” said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; “so young; so muchbeloved; but there is very little hope.”
Another morning. The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked upon nomisery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom about her; withlife, and health, and sounds and sights of joy, surrounding her on every side:the fair young creature lay, wasting fast. Oliver crept away to the oldchurchyard, and sitting down on one of the green mounds, wept and prayed forher, in silence.
There was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much of brightness and mirthin the sunny landscape; such blithesome music in the songs of the summer birds;such freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering overhead; so much oflife and joyousness in all; that, when the boy raised his aching eyes, andlooked about, the thought instinctively occurred to him, that this was not atime for death; that Rose could surely never die when humbler things were allso glad and gay; that graves were for cold and cheerless winter: not forsunlight and fragrance. He almost thought that shrouds were for the old andshrunken; and that they never wrapped the young and graceful form in theirghastly folds.
A knell from the church bell broke harshly on these youthful thoughts. Another!Again! It was tolling for the funeral service. A group of humble mournersentered the gate: wearing white favours; for the corpse was young. They stooduncovered by a grave; and there was a mother—a mother once—among the weepingtrain. But the sun shone brightly, and the birds sang on.
Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received fromthe young lady, and wishing that the time could come again, that he might nevercease showing her how grateful and attached he was. He had no cause forself-reproach on the score of neglect, or want of thought, for he had beendevoted to her service; and yet a hundred little occasions rose up before him,on which he fancied he might have been more zealous, and more earnest, andwished he had been. We need be careful how we deal with those about us, whenevery death carries to some small circle of survivors, thoughts of so muchomitted, and so little done—of so many things forgotten, and so many more whichmight have been repaired! There is no remorse so deep as that which isunavailing; if we would be spared its tortures, let us remember this, in time.
When he reached home Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the little parlour. Oliver’sheart sank at sight of her; for she had never left the bedside of her niece;and he trembled to think what change could have driven her away. He learnt thatshe had fallen into a deep sleep, from which she would waken, either torecovery and life, or to bid them farewell, and die.
They sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours. The untasted meal wasremoved, with looks which showed that their thoughts were elsewhere, theywatched the sun as he sank lower and lower, and, at length, cast over sky andearth those brilliant hues which herald his departure. Their quick ears caughtthe sound of an approaching footstep. They both involuntarily darted to thedoor, as Mr. Losberne entered.
“What of Rose?” cried the old lady. “Tell me at once! I can bear it; anythingbut suspense! Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!”
“You must compose yourself,” said the doctor supporting her. “Be calm, my dearma’am, pray.”
“Let me go, in God’s name! My dear child! She is dead! She is dying!”
“No!” cried the doctor, passionately. “As He is good and merciful, she willlive to bless us all, for years to come.”
The lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her hands together; but theenergy which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven with her firstthanksgiving; and she sank into the friendly arms which were extended toreceive her.
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CHAPTER XXXIV. CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A NEW ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO OLIVER
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It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and stupefied bythe unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak, or rest. He hadscarcely the power of understanding anything that had passed, until, after along ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of tears came to his relief, andhe seemed to awaken, all at once, to a full sense of the joyful change that hadoccurred, and the almost insupportable load of anguish which had been takenfrom his breast.
The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward: laden with flowerswhich he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of the sick chamber.As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind him, the noise of somevehicle, approaching at a furious pace. Looking round, he saw that it was apost-chaise, driven at great speed; and as the horses were galloping, and theroad was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until it should have passedhim.
As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap, whoseface seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that he could notidentify the person. In another second or two, the nightcap was thrust out ofthe chaise-window, and a stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop: whichhe did, as soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, the nightcap once againappeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name.
“Here!” cried the voice. “Oliver, what’s the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!”
“Is it you, Giles?” cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door.
Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply, when hewas suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the other corner ofthe chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news.
“In a word!” cried the gentleman, “Better or worse?”
“Better—much better!” replied Oliver, hastily.
“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed the gentleman. “You are sure?”
“Quite, sir,” replied Oliver. “The change took place only a few hours ago; andMr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end.”
The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door, leaped out,and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside.
“You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on your part, myboy, is there?” demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice. “Do not deceiveme, by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled.”
“I would not for the world, sir,” replied Oliver. “Indeed you may believe me.Mr. Losberne’s words were, that she would live to bless us all for many yearsto come. I heard him say so.”
The tears stood in Oliver’s eyes as he recalled the scene which was thebeginning of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his face away, andremained silent, for some minutes. Oliver thought he heard him sob, more thanonce; but he feared to interrupt him by any fresh remark—for he could wellguess what his feelings were—and so stood apart, feigning to be occupied withhis nosegay.
All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been sitting on thesteps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee, and wiping his eyes witha blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted with white spots. That the honestfellow had not been feigning emotion, was abundantly demonstrated by the veryred eyes with which he regarded the young gentleman, when he turned round andaddressed him.
“I think you had better go on to my mother’s in the chaise, Giles,” said he. “Iwould rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time before I see her. Youcan say I am coming.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry,” said Giles: giving a final polish to hisruffled countenance with the handkerchief; “but if you would leave the postboyto say that, I should be very much obliged to you. It wouldn’t be proper forthe maids to see me in this state, sir; I should never have any more authoritywith them if they did.”
“Well,” rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, “you can do as you like. Let him go onwith the luggage, if you wish it, and do you follow with us. Only firstexchange that nightcap for some more appropriate covering, or we shall be takenfor madmen.”
Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and pocketed hisnightcap; and substituted a hat, of grave and sober shape, which he took out ofthe chaise. This done, the postboy drove off; Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver,followed at their leisure.
As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much interest andcuriosity at the new comer. He seemed about five-and-twenty years of age, andwas of the middle height; his countenance was frank and handsome; and hisdemeanor easy and prepossessing. Notwithstanding the difference between youthand age, he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver would havehad no great difficulty in imagining their relationship, if he had not alreadyspoken of her as his mother.
Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached thecottage. The meeting did not take place without great emotion on both sides.
“Mother!” whispered the young man; “why did you not write before?”
“I did,” replied Mrs. Maylie; “but, on reflection, I determined to keep backthe letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne’s opinion.”
“But why,” said the young man, “why run the chance of that occurring which sonearly happened? If Rose had—I cannot utter that word now—if this illness hadterminated differently, how could you ever have forgiven yourself! How could Iever have know happiness again!”
“If that had been the case, Harry,” said Mrs. Maylie, “I fear yourhappiness would have been effectually blighted, and that your arrival here, aday sooner or a day later, would have been of very, very little import.”
“And who can wonder if it be so, mother?” rejoined the young man; “or whyshould I say, if?—It is—it is—you know it, mother—you must know it!”
“I know that she deserves the best and purest love the heart of man can offer,”said Mrs. Maylie; “I know that the devotion and affection of her nature requireno ordinary return, but one that shall be deep and lasting. If I did not feelthis, and know, besides, that a changed behaviour in one she loved would breakher heart, I should not feel my task so difficult of performance, or have toencounter so many struggles in my own bosom, when I take what seems to me to bethe strict line of duty.”
“This is unkind, mother,” said Harry. “Do you still suppose that I am a boyignorant of my own mind, and mistaking the impulses of my own soul?”
“I think, my dear son,” returned Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand upon hisshoulder, “that youth has many generous impulses which do not last; and thatamong them are some, which, being gratified, become only the more fleeting.Above all, I think” said the lady, fixing her eyes on her son’s face, “that ifan enthusiastic, ardent, and ambitious man marry a wife on whose name there isa stain, which, though it originate in no fault of hers, may be visited by coldand sordid people upon her, and upon his children also: and, in exactproportion to his success in the world, be cast in his teeth, and made thesubject of sneers against him: he may, no matter how generous and good hisnature, one day repent of the connection he formed in early life. And she mayhave the pain of knowing that he does so.”
“Mother,” said the young man, impatiently, “he would be a selfish brute,unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you describe, who actedthus.”
“You think so now, Harry,” replied his mother.
“And ever will!” said the young man. “The mental agony I have suffered, duringthe last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you of a passion which, as youwell know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I have lightly formed. On Rose,sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, as firmly as ever heart of man was set onwoman. I have no thought, no view, no hope in life, beyond her; and if youoppose me in this great stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands,and cast them to the wind. Mother, think better of this, and of me, and do notdisregard the happiness of which you seem to think so little.”
“Harry,” said Mrs. Maylie, “it is because I think so much of warm and sensitivehearts, that I would spare them from being wounded. But we have said enough,and more than enough, on this matter, just now.”
“Let it rest with Rose, then,” interposed Harry. “You will not press theseoverstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any obstacle in my way?”
“I will not,” rejoined Mrs. Maylie; “but I would have you consider—”
“I have considered!” was the impatient reply; “Mother, I haveconsidered, years and years. I have considered, ever since I have been capableof serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged, as they ever will; and whyshould I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them vent, which can beproductive of no earthly good? No! Before I leave this place, Rose shall hearme.”
“She shall,” said Mrs. Maylie.
“There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will hearme coldly, mother,” said the young man.
“Not coldly,” rejoined the old lady; “far from it.”
“How then?” urged the young man. “She has formed no other attachment?”
“No, indeed,” replied his mother; “you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold onher affections already. What I would say,” resumed the old lady, stopping herson as he was about to speak, “is this. Before you stake your all on thischance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope;reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose’s history, and consider whateffect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted asshe is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfectsacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been hercharacteristic.”
“What do you mean?”
“That I leave you to discover,” replied Mrs. Maylie. “I must go back to her.God bless you!”
“I shall see you again tonight?” said the young man, eagerly.
“By and by,” replied the lady; “when I leave Rose.”
“You will tell her I am here?” said Harry.
“Of course,” replied Mrs. Maylie.
“And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I longto see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?”
“No,” said the old lady; “I will tell her all.” And pressing her son’s hand,affectionately, she hastened from the room.
Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while thishurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to HarryMaylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor thencommunicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, aprecise account of his patient’s situation; which was quite as consolatory andfull of promise, as Oliver’s statement had encouraged him to hope; and to thewhole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listenedwith greedy ears.
“Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?” inquired the doctor, whenhe had concluded.
“Nothing particular, sir,” replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.
“Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?” said thedoctor.
“None at all, sir,” replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity.
“Well,” said the doctor, “I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort ofthing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?”
“The boy is very well, sir,” said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone ofpatronage; “and sends his respectful duty, sir.”
“That’s well,” said the doctor. “Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, thaton the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, atthe request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just stepinto this corner a moment, will you?”
Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and washonoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the terminationof which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusualstateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in theparlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Gileswalked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with anair of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress,in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attemptedrobbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twentypounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted uptheir hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill,replied, “No, no”; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to hisinferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great manyother remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received withequal favour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to thepurpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are.
Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for thedoctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Mayliemight have been at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman’s goodhumour, which displayed itself in a great variety of sallies and professionalrecollections, and an abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as beingthe drollest things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately;to the evident satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself,and made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy. So,they were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances, they could well havebeen; and it was late before they retired, with light and thankful hearts, totake that rest of which, after the doubt and suspense they had recentlyundergone, they stood much in need.
Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usualoccupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. Thebirds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the sweetestwild flowers that could be found, were once more gathered to gladden Rose withtheir beauty. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxiousboy to hang, for days past, over every object, beautiful as all were, wasdispelled by magic. The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the greenleaves; the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itselfto look more blue and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of ourown thoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external objects. Men wholook on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, arein the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundicedeyes and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision.
It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time, thathis morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maylie, after the veryfirst morning when he met Oliver coming laden home, was seized with such apassion for flowers, and displayed such a taste in their arrangement, as lefthis young companion far behind. If Oliver were behindhand in these respects, heknew where the best were to be found; and morning after morning they scouredthe country together, and brought home the fairest that blossomed. The windowof the young lady’s chamber was opened now; for she loved to feel the richsummer air stream in, and revive her with its freshness; but there always stoodin water, just inside the lattice, one particular little bunch, which was madeup with great care, every morning. Oliver could not help noticing that thewithered flowers were never thrown away, although the little vase was regularlyreplenished; nor, could he help observing, that whenever the doctor came intothe garden, he invariably cast his eyes up to that particular corner, andnodded his head most expressively, as he set forth on his morning’s walk.Pending these observations, the days were flying by; and Rose was rapidlyrecovering.
Nor did Oliver’s time hang heavy on his hands, although the young lady had notyet left her chamber, and there were no evening walks, save now and then, for ashort distance, with Mrs. Maylie. He applied himself, with redoubled assiduity,to the instructions of the white-headed old gentleman, and laboured so hardthat his quick progress surprised even himself. It was while he was engaged inthis pursuit, that he was greatly startled and distressed by a most unexpectedoccurrence.
The little room in which he was accustomed to sit, when busy at his books, wason the ground-floor, at the back of the house. It was quite a cottage-room,with a lattice-window: around which were clusters of jessamine and honeysuckle,that crept over the casement, and filled the place with their deliciousperfume. It looked into a garden, whence a wicket-gate opened into a smallpaddock; all beyond, was fine meadow-land and wood. There was no other dwellingnear, in that direction; and the prospect it commanded was very extensive.
One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning tosettle upon the earth, Oliver sat at this window, intent upon his books. He hadbeen poring over them for some time; and, as the day had been uncommonlysultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, it is no disparagement to theauthors, whoever they may have been, to say, that gradually and by slowdegrees, he fell asleep.
There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it holdsthe body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, andenable it to ramble at its pleasure. So far as an overpowering heaviness, aprostration of strength, and an utter inability to control our thoughts orpower of motion, can be called sleep, this is it; and yet, we have aconsciousness of all that is going on about us, and, if we dream at such atime, words which are really spoken, or sounds which really exist at themoment, accommodate themselves with surprising readiness to our visions, untilreality and imagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwardsalmost matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor is this, the moststriking phenomenon incidental to such a state. It is an undoubted fact, thatalthough our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead, yet our sleepingthoughts, and the visionary scenes that pass before us, will be influenced andmaterially influenced, by the mere silent presence of some externalobject; which may not have been near us when we closed our eyes: and of whosevicinity we have had no waking consciousness.
Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that his bookswere lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was stirring among thecreeping plants outside. And yet he was asleep. Suddenly, the scene changed;the air became close and confined; and he thought, with a glow of terror, thathe was in the Jew’s house again. There sat the hideous old man, in hisaccustomed corner, pointing at him, and whispering to another man, with hisface averted, who sat beside him.
“Hush, my dear!” he thought he heard the Jew say; “it is he, sure enough. Comeaway.”
“He!” the other man seemed to answer; “could I mistake him, think you? If acrowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he stoodamongst them, there is something that would tell me how to point him out. Ifyou buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across his grave, I fancy I shouldknow, if there wasn’t a mark above it, that he lay buried there?”
The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke withthe fear, and started up.
Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his heart, anddeprived him of his voice, and of power to move! There—there—at thewindow—close before him—so close, that he could have almost touched him beforehe started back: with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his: therestood the Jew! And beside him, white with rage or fear, or both, were thescowling features of the man who had accosted him in the inn-yard.
It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they were gone.But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look was as firmlyimpressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in stone, and setbefore him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a moment; then, leaping fromthe window into the garden, called loudly for help.
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CHAPTER XXXV. CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER’S ADVENTURE; AND A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE AND ROSE
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When the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver’s cries, hurried to the spotfrom which they proceeded, they found him, pale and agitated, pointing in thedirection of the meadows behind the house, and scarcely able to articulate thewords, “The Jew! the Jew!”
Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant; but Harry Maylie,whose perceptions were something quicker, and who had heard Oliver’s historyfrom his mother, understood it at once.
“What direction did he take?” he asked, catching up a heavy stick which wasstanding in a corner.
“That,” replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; “I missedthem in an instant.”
“Then, they are in the ditch!” said Harry. “Follow! And keep as near me, as youcan.” So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off with a speed whichrendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him.
Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the courseof a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and just thenreturned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up with moreagility than he could have been supposed to possess, struck into the samecourse at no contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, toknow what was the matter.
On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, strikingoff into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search, narrowly,the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time for the remainder of theparty to come up; and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. Losberne thecircumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit.
The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps,to be seen. They stood now, on the summit of a little hill, commanding the openfields in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in thehollow on the left; but, in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliverhad pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground, which it wasimpossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A thick woodskirted the meadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gainedthat covert for the same reason.
“It must have been a dream, Oliver,” said Harry Maylie.
“Oh no, indeed, sir,” replied Oliver, shuddering at the very recollection ofthe old wretch’s countenance; “I saw him too plainly for that. I saw them both,as plainly as I see you now.”
“Who was the other?” inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne, together.
“The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the inn,”said Oliver. “We had our eyes fixed full upon each other; and I could swear tohim.”
“They took this way?” demanded Harry: “are you sure?”
“As I am that the men were at the window,” replied Oliver, pointing down, as hespoke, to the hedge which divided the cottage-garden from the meadow. “The tallman leaped over, just there; and the Jew, running a few paces to the right,crept through that gap.”
The two gentlemen watched Oliver’s earnest face, as he spoke, and looking fromhim to each other, seemed to feel satisfied of the accuracy of what he said.Still, in no direction were there any appearances of the trampling of men inhurried flight. The grass was long; but it was trodden down nowhere, save wheretheir own feet had crushed it. The sides and brinks of the ditches were of dampclay; but in no one place could they discern the print of men’s shoes, or theslightest mark which would indicate that any feet had pressed the ground forhours before.
“This is strange!” said Harry.
“Strange?” echoed the doctor. “Blathers and Duff, themselves, could makenothing of it.”
Notwithstanding the evidently useless nature of their search, they did notdesist until the coming on of night rendered its further prosecution hopeless;and even then, they gave it up with reluctance. Giles was dispatched to thedifferent ale-houses in the village, furnished with the best description Olivercould give of the appearance and dress of the strangers. Of these, the Jew was,at all events, sufficiently remarkable to be remembered, supposing he had beenseen drinking, or loitering about; but Giles returned without any intelligence,calculated to dispel or lessen the mystery.
On the next day, fresh search was made, and the inquiries renewed; but with nobetter success. On the day following, Oliver and Mr. Maylie repaired to themarket-town, in the hope of seeing or hearing something of the men there; butthis effort was equally fruitless. After a few days, the affair began to beforgotten, as most affairs are, when wonder, having no fresh food to supportit, dies away of itself.
Meanwhile, Rose was rapidly recovering. She had left her room: was able to goout; and mixing once more with the family, carried joy into the hearts of all.
But, although this happy change had a visible effect on the little circle; andalthough cheerful voices and merry laughter were once more heard in thecottage; there was at times, an unwonted restraint upon some there: even uponRose herself: which Oliver could not fail to remark. Mrs. Maylie and her sonwere often closeted together for a long time; and more than once Rose appearedwith traces of tears upon her face. After Mr. Losberne had fixed a day for hisdeparture to Chertsey, these symptoms increased; and it became evident thatsomething was in progress which affected the peace of the young lady, and ofsomebody else besides.
At length, one morning, when Rose was alone in the breakfast-parlour, HarryMaylie entered; and, with some hesitation, begged permission to speak with herfor a few moments.
“A few—a very few—will suffice, Rose,” said the young man, drawing his chairtowards her. “What I shall have to say, has already presented itself to yourmind; the most cherished hopes of my heart are not unknown to you, though frommy lips you have not heard them stated.”
Rose had been very pale from the moment of his entrance; but that might havebeen the effect of her recent illness. She merely bowed; and bending over someplants that stood near, waited in silence for him to proceed.
“I—I—ought to have left here, before,” said Harry.
“You should, indeed,” replied Rose. “Forgive me for saying so, but I wish youhad.”
“I was brought here, by the most dreadful and agonising of all apprehensions,”said the young man; “the fear of losing the one dear being on whom my everywish and hope are fixed. You had been dying; trembling between earth andheaven. We know that when the young, the beautiful, and good, are visited withsickness, their pure spirits insensibly turn towards their bright home oflasting rest; we know, Heaven help us! that the best and fairest of our kind,too often fade in blooming.”
There were tears in the eyes of the gentle girl, as these words were spoken;and when one fell upon the flower over which she bent, and glistened brightlyin its cup, making it more beautiful, it seemed as though the outpouring of herfresh young heart, claimed kindred naturally, with the loveliest things innature.
“A creature,” continued the young man, passionately, “a creature as fair andinnocent of guile as one of God’s own angels, fluttered between life and death.Oh! who could hope, when the distant world to which she was akin, half openedto her view, that she would return to the sorrow and calamity of this! Rose,Rose, to know that you were passing away like some soft shadow, which a lightfrom above, casts upon the earth; to have no hope that you would be spared tothose who linger here; hardly to know a reason why you should be; to feel thatyou belonged to that bright sphere whither so many of the fairest and the besthave winged their early flight; and yet to pray, amid all these consolations,that you might be restored to those who loved you—these were distractionsalmost too great to bear. They were mine, by day and night; and with them, camesuch a rushing torrent of fears, and apprehensions, and selfish regrets, lestyou should die, and never know how devotedly I loved you, as almost bore downsense and reason in its course. You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour byhour, some drop of health came back, and mingling with the spent and feeblestream of life which circulated languidly within you, swelled it again to ahigh and rushing tide. I have watched you change almost from death, to life,with eyes that turned blind with their eagerness and deep affection. Do nottell me that you wish I had lost this; for it has softened my heart to allmankind.”
“I did not mean that,” said Rose, weeping; “I only wish you had left here, thatyou might have turned to high and noble pursuits again; to pursuits well worthyof you.”
“There is no pursuit more worthy of me: more worthy of the highest nature thatexists: than the struggle to win such a heart as yours,” said the young man,taking her hand. “Rose, my own dear Rose! For years—for years—I have loved you;hoping to win my way to fame, and then come proudly home and tell you it hadbeen pursued only for you to share; thinking, in my daydreams, how I wouldremind you, in that happy moment, of the many silent tokens I had given of aboy’s attachment, and claim your hand, as in redemption of some old mutecontract that had been sealed between us! That time has not arrived; but here,with not fame won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart so longyour own, and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the offer.”
“Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble.” said Rose, mastering theemotions by which she was agitated. “As you believe that I am not insensible orungrateful, so hear my answer.”
“It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?”
“It is,” replied Rose, “that you must endeavour to forget me; not as your oldand dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply; but, as theobject of your love. Look into the world; think how many hearts you would beproud to gain, are there. Confide some other passion to me, if you will; I willbe the truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you have.”
There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one hand,gave free vent to her tears. Harry still retained the other.
“And your reasons, Rose,” he said, at length, in a low voice; “your reasons forthis decision?”
“You have a right to know them,” rejoined Rose. “You can say nothing to altermy resolution. It is a duty that I must perform. I owe it, alike to others, andto myself.”
“To yourself?”
“Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless, girl, witha blight upon my name, should not give your friends reason to suspect that Ihad sordidly yielded to your first passion, and fastened myself, a clog, on allyour hopes and projects. I owe it to you and yours, to prevent you fromopposing, in the warmth of your generous nature, this great obstacle to yourprogress in the world.”
“If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty—” Harry began.
“They do not,” replied Rose, colouring deeply.
“Then you return my love?” said Harry. “Say but that, dear Rose; say but that;and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!”
“If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I loved,” rejoinedRose, “I could have—”
“Have received this declaration very differently?” said Harry. “Do not concealthat from me, at least, Rose.”
“I could,” said Rose. “Stay!” she added, disengaging her hand, “why should weprolong this painful interview? Most painful to me, and yet productive oflasting happiness, notwithstanding; for it will be happiness to knowthat I once held the high place in your regard which I now occupy, and everytriumph you achieve in life will animate me with new fortitude and firmness.Farewell, Harry! As we have met today, we meet no more; but in other relationsthan those in which this conversation have placed us, we may be long andhappily entwined; and may every blessing that the prayers of a true and earnestheart can call down from the source of all truth and sincerity, cheer andprosper you!”
“Another word, Rose,” said Harry. “Your reason in your own words. From your ownlips, let me hear it!”
“The prospect before you,” answered Rose, firmly, “is a brilliant one. All thehonours to which great talents and powerful connections can help men in publiclife, are in store for you. But those connections are proud; and I will neithermingle with such as may hold in scorn the mother who gave me life; nor bringdisgrace or failure on the son of her who has so well supplied that mother’splace. In a word,” said the young lady, turning away, as her temporary firmnessforsook her, “there is a stain upon my name, which the world visits on innocentheads. I will carry it into no blood but my own; and the reproach shall restalone on me.”
“One word more, Rose. Dearest Rose! one more!” cried Harry, throwing himselfbefore her. “If I had been less—less fortunate, the world would call it—if someobscure and peaceful life had been my destiny—if I had been poor, sick,helpless—would you have turned from me then? Or has my probable advancement toriches and honour, given this scruple birth?”
“Do not press me to reply,” answered Rose. “The question does not arise, andnever will. It is unfair, almost unkind, to urge it.”
“If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is,” retorted Harry, “it willshed a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way, and light the path before me. Itis not an idle thing to do so much, by the utterance of a few brief words, forone who loves you beyond all else. Oh, Rose: in the name of my ardent andenduring attachment; in the name of all I have suffered for you, and all youdoom me to undergo; answer me this one question!”
“Then, if your lot had been differently cast,” rejoined Rose; “if you had beeneven a little, but not so far, above me; if I could have been a help andcomfort to you in any humble scene of peace and retirement, and not a blot anddrawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds; I should have been spared thistrial. I have every reason to be happy, very happy, now; but then, Harry, I ownI should have been happier.”
Busy recollections of old hopes, cherished as a girl, long ago, crowded intothe mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they brought tears with them,as old hopes will when they come back withered; and they relieved her.
“I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger,” said Rose,extending her hand. “I must leave you now, indeed.”
“I ask one promise,” said Harry. “Once, and only once more,—say within a year,but it may be much sooner,—I may speak to you again on this subject, for thelast time.”
“Not to press me to alter my right determination,” replied Rose, with amelancholy smile; “it will be useless.”
“No,” said Harry; “to hear you repeat it, if you will—finally repeat it! I willlay at your feet, whatever of station of fortune I may possess; and if youstill adhere to your present resolution, will not seek, by word or act, tochange it.”
“Then let it be so,” rejoined Rose; “it is but one pang the more, and by thattime I may be enabled to bear it better.”
She extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to his bosom; andimprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from the room.
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CHAPTER XXXVI. IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE IN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS TIME ARRIVES
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“And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?” saidthe doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-table. “Why,you are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!”
“You will tell me a different tale one of these days,” said Harry, colouringwithout any perceptible reason.
“I hope I may have good cause to do so,” replied Mr. Losberne; “though Iconfess I don’t think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind,in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a dutifulson, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going to do me thehonour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at night,you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; theconsequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfastwhen he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds.Too bad, isn’t it, Oliver?”
“I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Mayliewent away, sir,” rejoined Oliver.
“That’s a fine fellow,” said the doctor; “you shall come and see me when youreturn. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the greatnobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?”
“The great nobs,” replied Harry, “under which designation, I presume, youinclude my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since Ihave been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything wouldoccur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them.”
“Well,” said the doctor, “you are a queer fellow. But of course they will getyou into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these suddenshiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There’ssomething in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be forplace, cup, or sweepstakes.”
Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by oneor two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but hecontented himself with saying, “We shall see,” and pursued the subject nofarther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Gilescoming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed.
“Oliver,” said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, “let me speak a word with you.”
Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; muchsurprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his wholebehaviour displayed.
“You can write well now?” said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm.
“I hope so, sir,” replied Oliver.
“I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write tome—say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office inLondon. Will you?”
“Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it,” exclaimed Oliver, greatlydelighted with the commission.
“I should like to know how—how my mother and Miss Maylie are,” said the youngman; “and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and whatyou talk about, and whether she—they, I mean—seem happy and quite well. Youunderstand me?”
“Oh! quite, sir, quite,” replied Oliver.
“I would rather you did not mention it to them,” said Harry, hurrying over hiswords; “because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and itis a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mindyou tell me everything! I depend upon you.”
Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfullypromised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leaveof him, with many assurances of his regard and protection.
The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be leftbehind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in thegarden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, andjumped into the carriage.
“Drive on!” he cried, “hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying willkeep pace with me, today.”
“Halloa!” cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, andshouting to the postillion; “something very short of flying will keep pace withme. Do you hear?”
Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and itsrapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along theroad, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly disappearing, and nowbecoming visible again, as intervening objects, or the intricacies of the way,permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, thatthe gazers dispersed.
And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot wherethe carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away; for, behindthe white curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry raised his eyestowards the window, sat Rose herself.
“He seems in high spirits and happy,” she said, at length. “I feared for a timehe might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad.”
Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed downRose’s face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in the samedirection, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy.
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CHAPTER XXXVII. IN WHICH THE READER MAY PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT UNCOMMON IN MATRIMONIAL CASES
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Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, with his eyes moodily fixed on thecheerless grate, whence, as it was summer time, no brighter gleam proceeded,than the reflection of certain sickly rays of the sun, which were sent backfrom its cold and shining surface. A paper fly-cage dangled from the ceiling,to which he occasionally raised his eyes in gloomy thought; and, as theheedless insects hovered round the gaudy net-work, Mr. Bumble would heave adeep sigh, while a more gloomy shadow overspread his countenance. Mr. Bumblewas meditating; it might be that the insects brought to mind, some painfulpassage in his own past life.
Nor was Mr. Bumble’s gloom the only thing calculated to awaken a pleasingmelancholy in the bosom of a spectator. There were not wanting otherappearances, and those closely connected with his own person, which announcedthat a great change had taken place in the position of his affairs. The lacedcoat, and the cocked hat; where were they? He still wore knee-breeches, anddark cotton stockings on his nether limbs; but they were not thebreeches. The coat was wide-skirted; and in that respect like the coat,but, oh how different! The mighty cocked hat was replaced by a modest roundone. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beadle.
There are some promotions in life, which, independent of the more substantialrewards they offer, require peculiar value and dignity from the coats andwaistcoats connected with them. A field-marshal has his uniform; a bishop hissilk apron; a counsellor his silk gown; a beadle his cocked hat. Strip thebishop of his apron, or the beadle of his hat and lace; what are they? Men.Mere men. Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are more questions of coatand waistcoat than some people imagine.
Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and was master of the workhouse. Anotherbeadle had come into power. On him the cocked hat, gold-laced coat, and staff,had all three descended.
“And tomorrow two months it was done!” said Mr. Bumble, with a sigh. “It seemsa age.”
Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had concentrated a whole existence ofhappiness into the short space of eight weeks; but the sigh—there was a vastdeal of meaning in the sigh.
“I sold myself,” said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same train of reflection, “forsix teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a milk-pot; with a small quantity ofsecond-hand furniture, and twenty pound in money. I went very reasonable.Cheap, dirt cheap!”
“Cheap!” cried a shrill voice in Mr. Bumble’s ear: “you would have been dear atany price; and dear enough I paid for you, Lord above knows that!”
Mr. Bumble turned, and encountered the face of his interesting consort, who,imperfectly comprehending the few words she had overheard of his complaint, hadhazarded the foregoing remark at a venture.
“Mrs. Bumble, ma’am!” said Mr. Bumble, with a sentimental sternness.
“Well!” cried the lady.
“Have the goodness to look at me,” said Mr. Bumble, fixing his eyes upon her.
“If she stands such a eye as that,” said Mr. Bumble to himself, “she can standanything. It is a eye I never knew to fail with paupers. If it fails with her,my power is gone.”
Whether an exceedingly small expansion of eye be sufficient to quell paupers,who, being lightly fed, are in no very high condition; or whether the late Mrs.Corney was particularly proof against eagle glances; are matters of opinion.The matter of fact, is, that the matron was in no way overpowered by Mr.Bumble’s scowl, but, on the contrary, treated it with great disdain, and evenraised a laugh thereat, which sounded as though it were genuine.
On hearing this most unexpected sound, Mr. Bumble looked, first incredulous,and afterwards amazed. He then relapsed into his former state; nor did he rousehimself until his attention was again awakened by the voice of his partner.
“Are you going to sit snoring there, all day?” inquired Mrs. Bumble.
“I am going to sit here, as long as I think proper, ma’am,” rejoined Mr.Bumble; “and although I was not snoring, I shall snore, gape, sneeze,laugh, or cry, as the humour strikes me; such being my prerogative.”
“Your prerogative!” sneered Mrs. Bumble, with ineffable contempt.
“I said the word, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble. “The prerogative of a man is tocommand.”
“And what’s the prerogative of a woman, in the name of Goodness?” cried therelict of Mr. Corney deceased.
“To obey, ma’am,” thundered Mr. Bumble. “Your late unfortunate husband shouldhave taught it you; and then, perhaps, he might have been alive now. I wish hewas, poor man!”
Mrs. Bumble, seeing at a glance, that the decisive moment had now arrived, andthat a blow struck for the mastership on one side or other, must necessarily befinal and conclusive, no sooner heard this allusion to the dead and gone, thanshe dropped into a chair, and with a loud scream that Mr. Bumble was ahard-hearted brute, fell into a paroxysm of tears.
But, tears were not the things to find their way to Mr. Bumble’s soul; hisheart was waterproof. Like washable beaver hats that improve with rain, hisnerves were rendered stouter and more vigorous, by showers of tears, which,being tokens of weakness, and so far tacit admissions of his own power, pleasedand exalted him. He eyed his good lady with looks of great satisfaction, andbegged, in an encouraging manner, that she should cry her hardest: the exercisebeing looked upon, by the faculty, as strongly conducive to health.
“It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and softensdown the temper,” said Mr. Bumble. “So cry away.”
As he discharged himself of this pleasantry, Mr. Bumble took his hat from apeg, and putting it on, rather rakishly, on one side, as a man might, who felthe had asserted his superiority in a becoming manner, thrust his hands into hispockets, and sauntered towards the door, with much ease and waggishnessdepicted in his whole appearance.
Now, Mrs. Corney that was, had tried the tears, because they were lesstroublesome than a manual assault; but, she was quite prepared to make trial ofthe latter mode of proceeding, as Mr. Bumble was not long in discovering.
The first proof he experienced of the fact, was conveyed in a hollow sound,immediately succeeded by the sudden flying off of his hat to the opposite endof the room. This preliminary proceeding laying bare his head, the expert lady,clasping him tightly round the throat with one hand, inflicted a shower ofblows (dealt with singular vigour and dexterity) upon it with the other. Thisdone, she created a little variety by scratching his face, and tearing hishair; and, having, by this time, inflicted as much punishment as she deemednecessary for the offence, she pushed him over a chair, which was luckily wellsituated for the purpose: and defied him to talk about his prerogative again,if he dared.
“Get up!” said Mrs. Bumble, in a voice of command. “And take yourself away fromhere, unless you want me to do something desperate.”
Mr. Bumble rose with a very rueful countenance: wondering much what somethingdesperate might be. Picking up his hat, he looked towards the door.
“Are you going?” demanded Mrs. Bumble.
“Certainly, my dear, certainly,” rejoined Mr. Bumble, making a quicker motiontowards the door. “I didn’t intend to—I’m going, my dear! You are so veryviolent, that really I—”
At this instant, Mrs. Bumble stepped hastily forward to replace the carpet,which had been kicked up in the scuffle. Mr. Bumble immediately darted out ofthe room, without bestowing another thought on his unfinished sentence: leavingthe late Mrs. Corney in full possession of the field.
Mr. Bumble was fairly taken by surprise, and fairly beaten. He had a decidedpropensity for bullying: derived no inconsiderable pleasure from the exerciseof petty cruelty; and, consequently, was (it is needless to say) a coward. Thisis by no means a disparagement to his character; for many official personages,who are held in high respect and admiration, are the victims of similarinfirmities. The remark is made, indeed, rather in his favour than otherwise,and with a view of impressing the reader with a just sense of hisqualifications for office.
But, the measure of his degradation was not yet full. After making a tour ofthe house, and thinking, for the first time, that the poor-laws really were toohard on people; and that men who ran away from their wives, leaving themchargeable to the parish, ought, in justice to be visited with no punishment atall, but rather rewarded as meritorious individuals who had suffered much; Mr.Bumble came to a room where some of the female paupers were usually employed inwashing the parish linen: when the sound of voices in conversation, nowproceeded.
“Hem!” said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. “These women atleast shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo there! What doyou mean by this noise, you hussies?”
With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very fierceand angry manner: which was at once exchanged for a most humiliated andcowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the form of his lady wife.
“My dear,” said Mr. Bumble, “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Didn’t know I was here!” repeated Mrs. Bumble. “What do you do here?”
“I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work properly,my dear,” replied Mr. Bumble: glancing distractedly at a couple of old women atthe wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master’shumility.
“You thought they were talking too much?” said Mrs. Bumble. “Whatbusiness is it of yours?”
“Why, my dear—” urged Mr. Bumble submissively.
“What business is it of yours?” demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.
“It’s very true, you’re matron here, my dear,” submitted Mr. Bumble; “but Ithought you mightn’t be in the way just then.”
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Bumble,” returned his lady. “We don’t want any of yourinterference. You’re a great deal too fond of poking your nose into things thatdon’t concern you, making everybody in the house laugh, the moment your back isturned, and making yourself look like a fool every hour in the day. Be off;come!”
Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two oldpaupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for aninstant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught up a bowl ofsoap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him instantly to depart,on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly person.
What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round, and slunk away; and, ashe reached the door, the titterings of the paupers broke into a shrill chuckleof irrepressible delight. It wanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes; hehad lost caste and station before the very paupers; he had fallen from all theheight and pomp of beadleship, to the lowest depth of the most snubbedhen-peckery.
“All in two months!” said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts. “Two months!No more than two months ago, I was not only my own master, but everybodyelse’s, so far as the porochial workhouse was concerned, and now!—”
It was too much. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who opened the gate forhim (for he had reached the portal in his reverie); and walked, distractedly,into the street.
He walked up one street, and down another, until exercise had abated the firstpassion of his grief; and then the revulsion of feeling made him thirsty. Hepassed a great many public-houses; but, at length paused before one in aby-way, whose parlour, as he gathered from a hasty peep over the blinds, wasdeserted, save by one solitary customer. It began to rain, heavily, at themoment. This determined him. Mr. Bumble stepped in; and ordering something todrink, as he passed the bar, entered the apartment into which he had lookedfrom the street.
The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and wore a large cloak. He hadthe air of a stranger; and seemed, by a certain haggardness in his look, aswell as by the dusty soils on his dress, to have travelled some distance. Heeyed Bumble askance, as he entered, but scarcely deigned to nod his head inacknowledgment of his salutation.
Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two; supposing even that the strangerhad been more familiar: so he drank his gin-and-water in silence, and read thepaper with great show of pomp and circumstance.
It so happened, however: as it will happen very often, when men fall intocompany under such circumstances: that Mr. Bumble felt, every now and then, apowerful inducement, which he could not resist, to steal a look at thestranger: and that whenever he did so, he withdrew his eyes, in some confusion,to find that the stranger was at that moment stealing a look at him. Mr.Bumble’s awkwardness was enhanced by the very remarkable expression of thestranger’s eye, which was keen and bright, but shadowed by a scowl of distrustand suspicion, unlike anything he had ever observed before, and repulsive tobehold.
When they had encountered each other’s glance several times in this way, thestranger, in a harsh, deep voice, broke silence.
“Were you looking for me,” he said, “when you peered in at the window?”
“Not that I am aware of, unless you’re Mr.—” Here Mr. Bumble stopped short; forhe was curious to know the stranger’s name, and thought in his impatience, hemight supply the blank.
“I see you were not,” said the stranger; an expression of quiet sarcasm playingabout his mouth; “or you have known my name. You don’t know it. I wouldrecommend you not to ask for it.”
“I meant no harm, young man,” observed Mr. Bumble, majestically.
“And have done none,” said the stranger.
Another silence succeeded this short dialogue: which was again broken by thestranger.
“I have seen you before, I think?” said he. “You were differently dressed atthat time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should know you again.You were beadle here, once; were you not?”
“I was,” said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise; “porochial beadle.”
“Just so,” rejoined the other, nodding his head. “It was in that character Isaw you. What are you now?”
“Master of the workhouse,” rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively, tocheck any undue familiarity the stranger might otherwise assume. “Master of theworkhouse, young man!”
“You have the same eye to your own interest, that you always had, I doubt not?”resumed the stranger, looking keenly into Mr. Bumble’s eyes, as he raised themin astonishment at the question.
“Don’t scruple to answer freely, man. I know you pretty well, you see.”
“I suppose, a married man,” replied Mr. Bumble, shading his eyes with his hand,and surveying the stranger, from head to foot, in evident perplexity, “is notmore averse to turning an honest penny when he can, than a single one.Porochial officers are not so well paid that they can afford to refuse anylittle extra fee, when it comes to them in a civil and proper manner.”
The stranger smiled, and nodded his head again: as much to say, he had notmistaken his man; then rang the bell.
“Fill this glass again,” he said, handing Mr. Bumble’s empty tumbler to thelandlord. “Let it be strong and hot. You like it so, I suppose?”
“Not too strong,” replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough.
“You understand what that means, landlord!” said the stranger, drily.
The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a steamingjorum: of which, the first gulp brought the water into Mr. Bumble’s eyes.
“Now listen to me,” said the stranger, after closing the door and window. “Icame down to this place, today, to find you out; and, by one of those chanceswhich the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked into thevery room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my mind. I want someinformation from you. I don’t ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is.Put up that, to begin with.”
As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to hiscompanion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should beheard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to see thatthey were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction, in hiswaistcoat-pocket, he went on:
“Carry your memory back—let me see—twelve years, last winter.”
“It’s a long time,” said Mr. Bumble. “Very good. I’ve done it.”
“The scene, the workhouse.”
“Good!”
“And the time, night.”
“Yes.”
“And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabsbrought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves—gave birth topuling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot ’em in thegrave!”
“The lying-in room, I suppose?” said Mr. Bumble, not quite following thestranger’s excited description.
“Yes,” said the stranger. “A boy was born there.”
“A many boys,” observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly.
“A murrain on the young devils!” cried the stranger; “I speak of one; ameek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to acoffin-maker—I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it—and whoafterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed.”
“Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!” said Mr. Bumble; “I remember him, ofcourse. There wasn’t a obstinater young rascal—”
“It’s not of him I want to hear; I’ve heard enough of him,” said the stranger,stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject of poor Oliver’svices. “It’s of a woman; the hag that nursed his mother. Where is she?”
“Where is she?” said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered facetious.“It would be hard to tell. There’s no midwifery there, whichever place she’sgone to; so I suppose she’s out of employment, anyway.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the stranger, sternly.
“That she died last winter,” rejoined Mr. Bumble.
The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and althoughhe did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his gaze graduallybecame vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in thought. For some time, heappeared doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or disappointed by theintelligence; but at length he breathed more freely; and withdrawing his eyes,observed that it was no great matter. With that he rose, as if to depart.
But Mr. Bumble was cunning enough; and he at once saw that an opportunity wasopened, for the lucrative disposal of some secret in the possession of hisbetter half. He well remembered the night of old Sally’s death, which theoccurrences of that day had given him good reason to recollect, as the occasionon which he had proposed to Mrs. Corney; and although that lady had neverconfided to him the disclosure of which she had been the solitary witness, hehad heard enough to know that it related to something that had occurred in theold woman’s attendance, as workhouse nurse, upon the young mother of OliverTwist. Hastily calling this circumstance to mind, he informed the stranger,with an air of mystery, that one woman had been closeted with the old harridanshortly before she died; and that she could, as he had reason to believe, throwsome light on the subject of his inquiry.
“How can I find her?” said the stranger, thrown off his guard; and plainlyshowing that all his fears (whatever they were) were aroused afresh by theintelligence.
“Only through me,” rejoined Mr. Bumble.
“When?” cried the stranger, hastily.
“Tomorrow,” rejoined Bumble.
“At nine in the evening,” said the stranger, producing a scrap of paper, andwriting down upon it, an obscure address by the water-side, in characters thatbetrayed his agitation; “at nine in the evening, bring her to me there. Ineedn’t tell you to be secret. It’s your interest.”
With these words, he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for theliquor that had been drunk. Shortly remarking that their roads were different,he departed, without more ceremony than an emphatic repetition of the hour ofappointment for the following night.
On glancing at the address, the parochial functionary observed that itcontained no name. The stranger had not gone far, so he made after him to askit.
“What do you want?” cried the man, turning quickly round, as Bumble touched himon the arm. “Following me?”
“Only to ask a question,” said the other, pointing to the scrap of paper. “Whatname am I to ask for?”
“Monks!” rejoined the man; and strode hastily away.
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CHAPTER XXXVIII. CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MR. AND MRS. BUMBLE, AND MR. MONKS, AT THEIR NOCTURNAL INTERVIEW
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It was a dull, close, overcast summer evening. The clouds, which had beenthreatening all day, spread out in a dense and sluggish mass of vapour, alreadyyielded large drops of rain, and seemed to presage a violent thunder-storm,when Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, turning out of the main street of the town, directedtheir course towards a scattered little colony of ruinous houses, distant fromit some mile and a-half, or thereabouts, and erected on a low unwholesomeswamp, bordering upon the river.
They were both wrapped in old and shabby outer garments, which might, perhaps,serve the double purpose of protecting their persons from the rain, andsheltering them from observation. The husband carried a lantern, from which,however, no light yet shone; and trudged on, a few paces in front, asthough—the way being dirty—to give his wife the benefit of treading in hisheavy footprints. They went on, in profound silence; every now and then, Mr.Bumble relaxed his pace, and turned his head as if to make sure that hishelpmate was following; then, discovering that she was close at his heels, hemended his rate of walking, and proceeded, at a considerable increase of speed,towards their place of destination.
This was far from being a place of doubtful character; for it had long beenknown as the residence of none but low ruffians, who, under various pretencesof living by their labour, subsisted chiefly on plunder and crime. It was acollection of mere hovels: some, hastily built with loose bricks: others, ofold worm-eaten ship-timber: jumbled together without any attempt at order orarrangement, and planted, for the most part, within a few feet of the river’sbank. A few leaky boats drawn up on the mud, and made fast to the dwarf wallwhich skirted it: and here and there an oar or coil of rope: appeared, atfirst, to indicate that the inhabitants of these miserable cottages pursuedsome avocation on the river; but a glance at the shattered and uselesscondition of the articles thus displayed, would have led a passer-by, withoutmuch difficulty, to the conjecture that they were disposed there, rather forthe preservation of appearances, than with any view to their being actuallyemployed.
In the heart of this cluster of huts; and skirting the river, which its upperstories overhung; stood a large building, formerly used as a manufactory ofsome kind. It had, in its day, probably furnished employment to the inhabitantsof the surrounding tenements. But it had long since gone to ruin. The rat, theworm, and the action of the damp, had weakened and rotted the piles on which itstood; and a considerable portion of the building had already sunk down intothe water; while the remainder, tottering and bending over the dark stream,seemed to wait a favourable opportunity of following its old companion, andinvolving itself in the same fate.
It was before this ruinous building that the worthy couple paused, as the firstpeal of distant thunder reverberated in the air, and the rain commenced pouringviolently down.
“The place should be somewhere here,” said Bumble, consulting a scrap of paperhe held in his hand.
“Halloa there!” cried a voice from above.
Following the sound, Mr. Bumble raised his head and descried a man looking outof a door, breast-high, on the second story.
“Stand still, a minute,” cried the voice; “I’ll be with you directly.” Withwhich the head disappeared, and the door closed.
“Is that the man?” asked Mr. Bumble’s good lady.
Mr. Bumble nodded in the affirmative.
“Then, mind what I told you,” said the matron: “and be careful to say as littleas you can, or you’ll betray us at once.”
Mr. Bumble, who had eyed the building with very rueful looks, was apparentlyabout to express some doubts relative to the advisability of proceeding anyfurther with the enterprise just then, when he was prevented by the appearanceof Monks: who opened a small door, near which they stood, and beckoned theminwards.
“Come in!” he cried impatiently, stamping his foot upon the ground. “Don’t keepme here!”
The woman, who had hesitated at first, walked boldly in, without any otherinvitation. Mr. Bumble, who was ashamed or afraid to lag behind, followed:obviously very ill at ease and with scarcely any of that remarkable dignitywhich was usually his chief characteristic.
“What the devil made you stand lingering there, in the wet?” said Monks,turning round, and addressing Bumble, after he had bolted the door behind them.
“We—we were only cooling ourselves,” stammered Bumble, looking apprehensivelyabout him.
“Cooling yourselves!” retorted Monks. “Not all the rain that ever fell, or everwill fall, will put as much of hell’s fire out, as a man can carry about withhim. You won’t cool yourself so easily; don’t think it!”
With this agreeable speech, Monks turned short upon the matron, and bent hisgaze upon her, till even she, who was not easily cowed, was fain to withdrawher eyes, and turn them towards the ground.
“This is the woman, is it?” demanded Monks.
“Hem! That is the woman,” replied Mr. Bumble, mindful of his wife’s caution.
“You think women never can keep secrets, I suppose?” said the matron,interposing, and returning, as she spoke, the searching look of Monks.
“I know they will always keep one till it’s found out,” said Monks.
“And what may that be?” asked the matron.
“The loss of their own good name,” replied Monks. “So, by the same rule, if awoman’s a party to a secret that might hang or transport her, I’m not afraid ofher telling it to anybody; not I! Do you understand, mistress?”
“No,” rejoined the matron, slightly colouring as she spoke.
“Of course you don’t!” said Monks. “How should you?”
Bestowing something half-way between a smile and a frown upon his twocompanions, and again beckoning them to follow him, the man hastened across theapartment, which was of considerable extent, but low in the roof. He waspreparing to ascend a steep staircase, or rather ladder, leading to anotherfloor of warehouses above: when a bright flash of lightning streamed down theaperture, and a peal of thunder followed, which shook the crazy building to itscentre.
“Hear it!” he cried, shrinking back. “Hear it! Rolling and crashing on as if itechoed through a thousand caverns where the devils were hiding from it. I hatethe sound!”
He remained silent for a few moments; and then, removing his hands suddenlyfrom his face, showed, to the unspeakable discomposure of Mr. Bumble, that itwas much distorted and discoloured.
“These fits come over me, now and then,” said Monks, observing his alarm; “andthunder sometimes brings them on. Don’t mind me now; it’s all over for thisonce.”
Thus speaking, he led the way up the ladder; and hastily closing thewindow-shutter of the room into which it led, lowered a lantern which hung atthe end of a rope and pulley passed through one of the heavy beams in theceiling: and which cast a dim light upon an old table and three chairs thatwere placed beneath it.
“Now,” said Monks, when they had all three seated themselves, “the sooner wecome to our business, the better for all. The woman know what it is, does she?”
The question was addressed to Bumble; but his wife anticipated the reply, byintimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it.
“He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died; and thatshe told you something—”
“About the mother of the boy you named,” replied the matron interrupting him.“Yes.”
“The first question is, of what nature was her communication?” said Monks.
“That’s the second,” observed the woman with much deliberation. “The first is,what may the communication be worth?”
“Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?” asked Monks.
“Nobody better than you, I am persuaded,” answered Mrs. Bumble: who did notwant for spirit, as her yoke-fellow could abundantly testify.
“Humph!” said Monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry; “there maybe money’s worth to get, eh?”
“Perhaps there may,” was the composed reply.
“Something that was taken from her,” said Monks. “Something that she wore.Something that—”
“You had better bid,” interrupted Mrs. Bumble. “I have heard enough, already,to assure me that you are the man I ought to talk to.”
Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted by his better half into any greatershare of the secret than he had originally possessed, listened to this dialoguewith outstretched neck and distended eyes: which he directed towards his wifeand Monks, by turns, in undisguised astonishment; increased, if possible, whenthe latter sternly demanded, what sum was required for the disclosure.
“What’s it worth to you?” asked the woman, as collectedly as before.
“It may be nothing; it may be twenty pounds,” replied Monks. “Speak out, andlet me know which.”
“Add five pounds to the sum you have named; give me five-and-twenty pounds ingold,” said the woman; “and I’ll tell you all I know. Not before.”
“Five-and-twenty pounds!” exclaimed Monks, drawing back.
“I spoke as plainly as I could,” replied Mrs. Bumble. “It’s not a large sum,either.”
“Not a large sum for a paltry secret, that may be nothing when it’s told!”cried Monks impatiently; “and which has been lying dead for twelve years pastor more!”
“Such matters keep well, and, like good wine, often double their value incourse of time,” answered the matron, still preserving the resoluteindifference she had assumed. “As to lying dead, there are those who will liedead for twelve thousand years to come, or twelve million, for anything you orI know, who will tell strange tales at last!”
“What if I pay it for nothing?” asked Monks, hesitating.
“You can easily take it away again,” replied the matron. “I am but a woman;alone here; and unprotected.”
“Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected, neither,” submitted Mr. Bumble, in avoice tremulous with fear: “I am here, my dear. And besides,” said Mr.Bumble, his teeth chattering as he spoke, “Mr. Monks is too much of a gentlemanto attempt any violence on porochial persons. Mr. Monks is aware that I am nota young man, my dear, and also that I am a little run to seed, as I may say;but he has heerd: I say I have no doubt Mr. Monks has heerd, my dear: that I ama very determined officer, with very uncommon strength, if I’m once roused. Ionly want a little rousing; that’s all.”
As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy feint of grasping his lantern withfierce determination; and plainly showed, by the alarmed expression of everyfeature, that he did want a little rousing, and not a little, prior tomaking any very warlike demonstration: unless, indeed, against paupers, orother person or persons trained down for the purpose.
“You are a fool,” said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; “and had better hold yourtongue.”
“He had better have cut it out, before he came, if he can’t speak in a lowertone,” said Monks, grimly. “So! He’s your husband, eh?”
“He my husband!” tittered the matron, parrying the question.
“I thought as much, when you came in,” rejoined Monks, marking the angry glancewhich the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke. “So much the better; I haveless hesitation in dealing with two people, when I find that there’s only onewill between them. I’m in earnest. See here!”
He thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and producing a canvas bag, told outtwenty-five sovereigns on the table, and pushed them over to the woman.
“Now,” he said, “gather them up; and when this cursed peal of thunder, which Ifeel is coming up to break over the house-top, is gone, let’s hear your story.”
The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and to shiver and break almostover their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from the table, bentforward to listen to what the woman should say. The faces of the three nearlytouched, as the two men leant over the small table in their eagerness to hear,and the woman also leant forward to render her whisper audible. The sickly raysof the suspended lantern falling directly upon them, aggravated the palenessand anxiety of their countenances: which, encircled by the deepest gloom anddarkness, looked ghastly in the extreme.
“When this woman, that we called old Sally, died,” the matron began, “she and Iwere alone.”
“Was there no one by?” asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; “No sick wretchor idiot in some other bed? No one who could hear, and might, by possibility,understand?”
“Not a soul,” replied the woman; “we were alone. I stood alone besidethe body when death came over it.”
“Good,” said Monks, regarding her attentively. “Go on.”
“She spoke of a young creature,” resumed the matron, “who had brought a childinto the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in the samebed, in which she then lay dying.”
“Ay?” said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder, “Blood!How things come about!”
“The child was the one you named to him last night,” said the matron, noddingcarelessly towards her husband; “the mother this nurse had robbed.”
“In life?” asked Monks.
“In death,” replied the woman, with something like a shudder. “She stole fromthe corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother hadprayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant’s sake.”
“She sold it,” cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; “did she sell it? Where?When? To whom? How long before?”
“As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this,” said thematron, “she fell back and died.”
“Without saying more?” cried Monks, in a voice which, from its verysuppression, seemed only the more furious. “It’s a lie! I’ll not be playedwith. She said more. I’ll tear the life out of you both, but I’ll know what itwas.”
“She didn’t utter another word,” said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (asMr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man’s violence; “but sheclutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when Isaw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped ascrap of dirty paper.”
“Which contained—” interposed Monks, stretching forward.
“Nothing,” replied the woman; “it was a pawnbroker’s duplicate.”
“For what?” demanded Monks.
“In good time I’ll tell you.” said the woman. “I judge that she had kept thetrinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and thenhad pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker’sinterest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything came ofit, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, shedied with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time wasout in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and soredeemed the pledge.”
“Where is it now?” asked Monks quickly.
“There,” replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, shehastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a Frenchwatch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It containeda little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain goldwedding-ring.
“It has the word ‘Agnes’ engraved on the inside,” said the woman.
“There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which iswithin a year before the child was born. I found out that.”
“And this is all?” said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contentsof the little packet.
“All,” replied the woman.
Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story wasover, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; andnow he took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been trickling over hisnose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous dialogue.
“I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at,” said his wifeaddressing Monks, after a short silence; “and I want to know nothing; for it’ssafer not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?”
“You may ask,” said Monks, with some show of surprise; “but whether I answer ornot is another question.”
“—Which makes three,” observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of facetiousness.
“Is that what you expected to get from me?” demanded the matron.
“It is,” replied Monks. “The other question?”
“What do you propose to do with it? Can it be used against me?”
“Never,” rejoined Monks; “nor against me either. See here! But don’t move astep forward, or your life is not worth a bulrush.”
With these words, he suddenly wheeled the table aside, and pulling an iron ringin the boarding, threw back a large trap-door which opened close at Mr.Bumble’s feet, and caused that gentleman to retire several paces backward, withgreat precipitation.
“Look down,” said Monks, lowering the lantern into the gulf. “Don’t fear me. Icould have let you down, quietly enough, when you were seated over it, if thathad been my game.”
Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink; and even Mr. Bumblehimself, impelled by curiousity, ventured to do the same. The turbid water,swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all other soundswere lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against the green and slimypiles. There had once been a water-mill beneath; the tide foaming and chafinground the few rotten stakes, and fragments of machinery that yet remained,seemed to dart onward, with a new impulse, when freed from the obstacles whichhad unavailingly attempted to stem its headlong course.
“If you flung a man’s body down there, where would it be tomorrow morning?”said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in the dark well.
“Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides,” replied Bumble,recoiling at the thought.
Monks drew the little packet from his breast, where he had hurriedly thrust it;and tying it to a leaden weight, which had formed a part of some pulley, andwas lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream. It fell straight, and trueas a die; clove the water with a scarcely audible splash; and was gone.
The three looking into each other’s faces, seemed to breathe more freely.
“There!” said Monks, closing the trap-door, which fell heavily back into itsformer position. “If the sea ever gives up its dead, as books say it will, itwill keep its gold and silver to itself, and that trash among it. We havenothing more to say, and may break up our pleasant party.”
“By all means,” observed Mr. Bumble, with great alacrity.
“You’ll keep a quiet tongue in your head, will you?” said Monks, with athreatening look. “I am not afraid of your wife.”
“You may depend upon me, young man,” answered Mr. Bumble, bowing himselfgradually towards the ladder, with excessive politeness. “On everybody’saccount, young man; on my own, you know, Mr. Monks.”
“I am glad, for your sake, to hear it,” remarked Monks. “Light your lantern!And get away from here as fast as you can.”
It was fortunate that the conversation terminated at this point, or Mr. Bumble,who had bowed himself to within six inches of the ladder, would infallibly havepitched headlong into the room below. He lighted his lantern from that whichMonks had detached from the rope, and now carried in his hand; and making noeffort to prolong the discourse, descended in silence, followed by his wife.Monks brought up the rear, after pausing on the steps to satisfy himself thatthere were no other sounds to be heard than the beating of the rain without,and the rushing of the water.
They traversed the lower room, slowly, and with caution; for Monks started atevery shadow; and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern a foot above the ground,walked not only with remarkable care, but with a marvellously light step for agentleman of his figure: looking nervously about him for hidden trap-doors. Thegate at which they had entered, was softly unfastened and opened by Monks;merely exchanging a nod with their mysterious acquaintance, the married coupleemerged into the wet and darkness outside.
They were no sooner gone, than Monks, who appeared to entertain an invinciblerepugnance to being left alone, called to a boy who had been hidden somewherebelow. Bidding him go first, and bear the light, he returned to the chamber hehad just quitted.
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CHAPTER XXXIX. INTRODUCES SOME RESPECTABLE CHARACTERS WITH WHOM THE READER IS ALREADY ACQUAINTED, AND SHOWS HOW MONKS AND THE JEW LAID THEIR WORTHY HEADS TOGETHER
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On the evening following that upon which the three worthies mentioned in thelast chapter, disposed of their little matter of business as therein narrated,Mr. William Sikes, awakening from a nap, drowsily growled forth an inquiry whattime of night it was.
The room in which Mr. Sikes propounded this question, was not one of those hehad tenanted, previous to the Chertsey expedition, although it was in the samequarter of the town, and was situated at no great distance from his formerlodgings. It was not, in appearance, so desirable a habitation as his oldquarters: being a mean and badly-furnished apartment, of very limited size;lighted only by one small window in the shelving roof, and abutting on a closeand dirty lane. Nor were there wanting other indications of the goodgentleman’s having gone down in the world of late: for a great scarcity offurniture, and total absence of comfort, together with the disappearance of allsuch small moveables as spare clothes and linen, bespoke a state of extremepoverty; while the meagre and attenuated condition of Mr. Sikes himself wouldhave fully confirmed these symptoms, if they had stood in any need ofcorroboration.
The housebreaker was lying on the bed, wrapped in his white great-coat, by wayof dressing-gown, and displaying a set of features in no degree improved by thecadaverous hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap, and a stiff,black beard of a week’s growth. The dog sat at the bedside: now eyeing hismaster with a wistful look, and now pricking his ears, and uttering a low growlas some noise in the street, or in the lower part of the house, attracted hisattention. Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoatwhich formed a portion of the robber’s ordinary dress, was a female: so paleand reduced with watching and privation, that there would have beenconsiderable difficulty in recognising her as the same Nancy who has alreadyfigured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to Mr. Sikes’squestion.
“Not long gone seven,” said the girl. “How do you feel tonight, Bill?”
“As weak as water,” replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes andlimbs. “Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering bed anyhow.”
Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes’s temper; for, as the girl raised him up andled him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardness, and struckher.
“Whining are you?” said Sikes. “Come! Don’t stand snivelling there. If youcan’t do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D’ye hear me?”
“I hear you,” replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a laugh.“What fancy have you got in your head now?”
“Oh! you’ve thought better of it, have you?” growled Sikes, marking the tearwhich trembled in her eye. “All the better for you, you have.”
“Why, you don’t mean to say, you’d be hard upon me tonight, Bill,” said thegirl, laying her hand upon his shoulder.
“No!” cried Mr. Sikes. “Why not?”
“Such a number of nights,” said the girl, with a touch of woman’s tenderness,which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: “such anumber of nights as I’ve been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, asif you had been a child: and this the first that I’ve seen you like yourself;you wouldn’t have served me as you did just now, if you’d thought of that,would you? Come, come; say you wouldn’t.”
“Well, then,” rejoined Mr. Sikes, “I wouldn’t. Why, damme, now, the girls’swhining again!”
“It’s nothing,” said the girl, throwing herself into a chair. “Don’t you seemto mind me. It’ll soon be over.”
“What’ll be over?” demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. “What foolery are youup to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don’t come over me with yourwoman’s nonsense.”
At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered,would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak andexhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr.Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similaroccasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well,what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss Nancy’s hysterics were usuallyof that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of, withoutmuch assistance; Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode oftreatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance.
“What’s the matter here, my dear?” said Fagin, looking in.
“Lend a hand to the girl, can’t you?” replied Sikes impatiently. “Don’t standchattering and grinning at me!”
With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl’s assistance, whileMr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerablefriend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he wasladen; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who cameclose at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured aportion of its contents down the patient’s throat: previously taking a taste,himself, to prevent mistakes.
“Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley,” said Mr. Dawkins;“and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts.”
These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially thatdepartment consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in theproceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing thedesired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to achair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes toconfront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance.
“Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?” he asked Fagin.
“No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I’vebrought something good with me, that you’ll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear,open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our moneyon, this morning.”
In compliance with Mr. Fagin’s request, the Artful untied this bundle, whichwas of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles itcontained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, withvarious encomiums on their rarity and excellence.
“Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill,” exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to viewa huge pasty; “sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that thewery bones melt in your mouth, and there’s no occasion to pick ’em; half apound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it withbiling water, it’ll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and ahalf of moist sugar that the niggers didn’t work at all at, afore they got itup to sitch a pitch of goodness,—oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of bestfresh; piece of double Glo’ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sortyou ever lushed!”
Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensivepockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at thesame instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle hecarried: which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment’shesitation.
“Ah!” said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. “You’ll do, Bill;you’ll do now.”
“Do!” exclaimed Mr. Sikes; “I might have been done for, twenty times over,afore you’d have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a man inthis state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?”
“Only hear him, boys!” said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. “And us come tobring him all these beau-ti-ful things.”
“The things is well enough in their way,” observed Mr. Sikes: a little soothedas he glanced over the table; “but what have you got to say for yourself, whyyou should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and everythingelse; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that’ere dog.—Drive him down, Charley!”
“I never see such a jolly dog as that,” cried Master Bates, doing as he wasdesired. “Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He’d make hisfortun’ on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drayma besides.”
“Hold your din,” cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: stillgrowling angrily. “What have you got to say for yourself, you withered oldfence, eh?”
“I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant,” replied theJew.
“And what about the other fortnight?” demanded Sikes. “What about the otherfortnight that you’ve left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?”
“I couldn’t help it, Bill. I can’t go into a long explanation before company;but I couldn’t help it, upon my honour.”
“Upon your what?” growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. “Here! Cut me off apiece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth,or it’ll choke me dead.”
“Don’t be out of temper, my dear,” urged Fagin, submissively. “I have neverforgot you, Bill; never once.”
“No! I’ll pound it that you han’t,” replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. “You’vebeen scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering andburning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was todo it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough foryour work. If it hadn’t been for the girl, I might have died.”
“There now, Bill,” remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. “If ithadn’t been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your havingsuch a handy girl about you?”
“He says true enough there!” said Nancy, coming hastily forward. “Let him be;let him be.”
Nancy’s appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receivinga sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which,however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow ofspirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting toregard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing veryheartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to thespirit-bottle, he condescended to make.
“It’s all very well,” said Mr. Sikes; “but I must have some blunt from youtonight.”
“I haven’t a piece of coin about me,” replied the Jew.
“Then you’ve got lots at home,” retorted Sikes; “and I must have some fromthere.”
“Lots!” cried Fagin, holding up his hands. “I haven’t so much as would—”
“I don’t know how much you’ve got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, asit would take a pretty long time to count it,” said Sikes; “but I must havesome tonight; and that’s flat.”
“Well, well,” said Fagin, with a sigh, “I’ll send the Artful round presently.”
“You won’t do nothing of the kind,” rejoined Mr. Sikes. “The Artful’s a dealtoo artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by trapsand so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up to it. Nancyshall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I’ll lie down and havea snooze while she’s gone.”
After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount ofthe required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence:protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would only leave himeighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking that if hecouldn’t get any more he must accompany him home; with the Dodger and MasterBates put the eatables in the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of hisaffectionate friend, returned homeward, attended by Nancy and the boys: Mr.Sikes, meanwhile, flinging himself on the bed, and composing himself to sleepaway the time until the young lady’s return.
In due course, they arrived at Fagin’s abode, where they found Toby Crackit andMr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage, which it is scarcelynecessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his fifteenth and lastsixpence: much to the amusement of his young friends. Mr. Crackit, apparentlysomewhat ashamed at being found relaxing himself with a gentleman so much hisinferior in station and mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes,took up his hat to go.
“Has nobody been, Toby?” asked Fagin.
“Not a living leg,” answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; “it’s been asdull as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin, to recompense mefor keeping house so long. Damme, I’m as flat as a juryman; and should havegone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn’t had the good natur’ to amusethis youngster. Horrid dull, I’m blessed if I an’t!”
With these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr. Toby Crackit swept uphis winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with a haughty air, asthough such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the consideration of aman of his figure; this done, he swaggered out of the room, with so muchelegance and gentility, that Mr. Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glanceson his legs and boots till they were out of sight, assured the company that heconsidered his acquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and thathe didn’t value his losses the snap of his little finger.
“Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!” said Master Bates, highly amused by thisdeclaration.
“Not a bit of it,” replied Mr. Chitling. “Am I, Fagin?”
“A very clever fellow, my dear,” said Fagin, patting him on the shoulder, andwinking to his other pupils.
“And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an’t he, Fagin?” asked Tom.
“No doubt at all of that, my dear.”
“And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an’t it, Fagin?”pursued Tom.
“Very much so, indeed, my dear. They’re only jealous, Tom, because he won’tgive it to them.”
“Ah!” cried Tom, triumphantly, “that’s where it is! He has cleaned me out. ButI can go and earn some more, when I like; can’t I, Fagin?”
“To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up yourloss at once, and don’t lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It’s time you wereon the lay. Come! It’s near ten, and nothing done yet.”
In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, andleft the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, inmany witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is butjustice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch asthere are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a muchhigher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a greatnumber of fine gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who establishedtheir reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit.
“Now,” said Fagin, when they had left the room, “I’ll go and get you that cash,Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few odd thingsthe boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I’ve got none to lock up,my dear—ha! ha! ha!—none to lock up. It’s a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks;but I’m fond of seeing the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear itall. Hush!” he said, hastily concealing the key in his breast; “who’s that?Listen!”
The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in no wayinterested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever he was, cameor went: until the murmur of a man’s voice reached her ears. The instant shecaught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity oflightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediatelyafterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor thatcontrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of thisaction: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towardsher at the time.
“Bah!” he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; “it’s the man Iexpected before; he’s coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he’shere, Nance. He won’t stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear.”
Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to thedoor, as a man’s step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at thesame moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close uponthe girl before he observed her.
It was Monks.
“Only one of my young people,” said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, onbeholding a stranger. “Don’t move, Nancy.”
The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air ofcareless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stoleanother look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there hadbeen any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the twolooks to have proceeded from the same person.
“Any news?” inquired Fagin.
“Great.”
“And—and—good?” asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the otherman by being too sanguine.
“Not bad, any way,” replied Monks with a smile. “I have been prompt enough thistime. Let me have a word with you.”
The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room,although she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps fearingshe might say something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured to get rid ofher: pointed upward, and took Monks out of the room.
“Not that infernal hole we were in before,” she could hear the man say as theywent upstairs. Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did not reach her,seemed, by the creaking of the boards, to lead his companion to the secondstory.
Before the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo through the house, thegirl had slipped off her shoes; and drawing her gown loosely over her head, andmuffling her arms in it, stood at the door, listening with breathless interest.The moment the noise ceased, she glided from the room; ascended the stairs withincredible softness and silence; and was lost in the gloom above.
The room remained deserted for a quarter of an hour or more; the girl glidedback with the same unearthly tread; and, immediately afterwards, the two menwere heard descending. Monks went at once into the street; and the Jew crawledupstairs again for the money. When he returned, the girl was adjusting hershawl and bonnet, as if preparing to be gone.
“Why, Nance!” exclaimed the Jew, starting back as he put down the candle, “howpale you are!”
“Pale!” echoed the girl, shading her eyes with her hands, as if to looksteadily at him.
“Quite horrible. What have you been doing to yourself?”
“Nothing that I know of, except sitting in this close place for I don’t knowhow long and all,” replied the girl carelessly. “Come! Let me get back; that’sa dear.”
With a sigh for every piece of money, Fagin told the amount into her hand. Theyparted without more conversation, merely interchanging a “good-night.”
When the girl got into the open street, she sat down upon a doorstep; andseemed, for a few moments, wholly bewildered and unable to pursue her way.Suddenly she arose; and hurrying on, in a direction quite opposite to that inwhich Sikes was awaiting her return, quickened her pace, until it graduallyresolved into a violent run. After completely exhausting herself, she stoppedto take breath: and, as if suddenly recollecting herself, and deploring herinability to do something she was bent upon, wrung her hands, and burst intotears.
It might be that her tears relieved her, or that she felt the full hopelessnessof her condition; but she turned back; and hurrying with nearly as greatrapidity in the contrary direction; partly to recover lost time, and partly tokeep pace with the violent current of her own thoughts: soon reached thedwelling where she had left the housebreaker.
If she betrayed any agitation, when she presented herself to Mr. Sikes, he didnot observe it; for merely inquiring if she had brought the money, andreceiving a reply in the affirmative, he uttered a growl of satisfaction, andreplacing his head upon the pillow, resumed the slumbers which her arrival hadinterrupted.
It was fortunate for her that the possession of money occasioned him so muchemployment next day in the way of eating and drinking; and withal had sobeneficial an effect in smoothing down the asperities of his temper; that hehad neither time nor inclination to be very critical upon her behaviour anddeportment. That she had all the abstracted and nervous manner of one who is onthe eve of some bold and hazardous step, which it has required no commonstruggle to resolve upon, would have been obvious to the lynx-eyed Fagin, whowould most probably have taken the alarm at once; but Mr. Sikes lacking theniceties of discrimination, and being troubled with no more subtle misgivingsthan those which resolve themselves into a dogged roughness of behaviourtowards everybody; and being, furthermore, in an unusually amiable condition,as has been already observed; saw nothing unusual in her demeanor, and indeed,troubled himself so little about her, that, had her agitation been far moreperceptible than it was, it would have been very unlikely to have awakened hissuspicions.
As that day closed in, the girl’s excitement increased; and, when night cameon, and she sat by, watching until the housebreaker should drink himselfasleep, there was an unusual paleness in her cheek, and a fire in her eye, thateven Sikes observed with astonishment.
Mr. Sikes being weak from the fever, was lying in bed, taking hot water withhis gin to render it less inflammatory; and had pushed his glass towards Nancyto be replenished for the third or fourth time, when these symptoms firststruck him.
“Why, burn my body!” said the man, raising himself on his hands as he staredthe girl in the face. “You look like a corpse come to life again. What’s thematter?”
“Matter!” replied the girl. “Nothing. What do you look at me so hard for?”
“What foolery is this?” demanded Sikes, grasping her by the arm, and shakingher roughly. “What is it? What do you mean? What are you thinking of?”
“Of many things, Bill,” replied the girl, shivering, and as she did so,pressing her hands upon her eyes. “But, Lord! What odds in that?”
The tone of forced gaiety in which the last words were spoken, seemed toproduce a deeper impression on Sikes than the wild and rigid look which hadpreceded them.
“I tell you wot it is,” said Sikes; “if you haven’t caught the fever, and gotit comin’ on, now, there’s something more than usual in the wind, and somethingdangerous too. You’re not a-going to—. No, damme! you wouldn’t do that!”
“Do what?” asked the girl.
“There ain’t,” said Sikes, fixing his eyes upon her, and muttering the words tohimself; “there ain’t a stauncher-hearted gal going, or I’d have cut her throatthree months ago. She’s got the fever coming on; that’s it.”
Fortifying himself with this assurance, Sikes drained the glass to the bottom,and then, with many grumbling oaths, called for his physic. The girl jumped up,with great alacrity; poured it quickly out, but with her back towards him; andheld the vessel to his lips, while he drank off the contents.
“Now,” said the robber, “come and sit aside of me, and put on your own face; orI’ll alter it so, that you won’t know it agin when you do want it.”
The girl obeyed. Sikes, locking her hand in his, fell back upon the pillow:turning his eyes upon her face. They closed; opened again; closed once more;again opened. He shifted his position restlessly; and, after dozing again, andagain, for two or three minutes, and as often springing up with a look ofterror, and gazing vacantly about him, was suddenly stricken, as it were, whilein the very attitude of rising, into a deep and heavy sleep. The grasp of hishand relaxed; the upraised arm fell languidly by his side; and he lay like onein a profound trance.
“The laudanum has taken effect at last,” murmured the girl, as she rose fromthe bedside. “I may be too late, even now.”
She hastily dressed herself in her bonnet and shawl: looking fearfully round,from time to time, as if, despite the sleeping draught, she expected everymoment to feel the pressure of Sikes’s heavy hand upon her shoulder; then,stooping softly over the bed, she kissed the robber’s lips; and then openingand closing the room-door with noiseless touch, hurried from the house.
A watchman was crying half-past nine, down a dark passage through which she hadto pass, in gaining the main thoroughfare.
“Has it long gone the half-hour?” asked the girl.
“It’ll strike the hour in another quarter,” said the man: raising his lanternto her face.
“And I cannot get there in less than an hour or more,” muttered Nancy: brushingswiftly past him, and gliding rapidly down the street.
Many of the shops were already closing in the back lanes and avenues throughwhich she tracked her way, in making from Spitalfields towards the West-End ofLondon. The clock struck ten, increasing her impatience. She tore along thenarrow pavement: elbowing the passengers from side to side; and darting almostunder the horses’ heads, crossed crowded streets, where clusters of personswere eagerly watching their opportunity to do the like.
“The woman is mad!” said the people, turning to look after her as she rushedaway.
When she reached the more wealthy quarter of the town, the streets werecomparatively deserted; and here her headlong progress excited a still greatercuriosity in the stragglers whom she hurried past. Some quickened their pacebehind, as though to see whither she was hastening at such an unusual rate; anda few made head upon her, and looked back, surprised at her undiminished speed;but they fell off one by one; and when she neared her place of destination, shewas alone.
It was a family hotel in a quiet but handsome street near Hyde Park. As thebrilliant light of the lamp which burnt before its door, guided her to thespot, the clock struck eleven. She had loitered for a few paces as thoughirresolute, and making up her mind to advance; but the sound determined her,and she stepped into the hall. The porter’s seat was vacant. She looked roundwith an air of incertitude, and advanced towards the stairs.
“Now, young woman!” said a smartly-dressed female, looking out from a doorbehind her, “who do you want here?”
“A lady who is stopping in this house,” answered the girl.
“A lady!” was the reply, accompanied with a scornful look. “What lady?”
“Miss Maylie,” said Nancy.
The young woman, who had by this time, noted her appearance, replied only by alook of virtuous disdain; and summoned a man to answer her. To him, Nancyrepeated her request.
“What name am I to say?” asked the waiter.
“It’s of no use saying any,” replied Nancy.
“Nor business?” said the man.
“No, nor that neither,” rejoined the girl. “I must see the lady.”
“Come!” said the man, pushing her towards the door. “None of this. Takeyourself off.”
“I shall be carried out if I go!” said the girl violently; “and I can make thata job that two of you won’t like to do. Isn’t there anybody here,” she said,looking round, “that will see a simple message carried for a poor wretch likeme?”
This appeal produced an effect on a good-tempered-faced man-cook, who with someof the other servants was looking on, and who stepped forward to interfere.
“Take it up for her, Joe; can’t you?” said this person.
“What’s the good?” replied the man. “You don’t suppose the young lady will seesuch as her; do you?”
This allusion to Nancy’s doubtful character, raised a vast quantity of chastewrath in the bosoms of four housemaids, who remarked, with great fervour, thatthe creature was a disgrace to her sex; and strongly advocated her beingthrown, ruthlessly, into the kennel.
“Do what you like with me,” said the girl, turning to the men again; “but dowhat I ask you first, and I ask you to give this message for God Almighty’ssake.”
The soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the result was that the manwho had first appeared undertook its delivery.
“What’s it to be?” said the man, with one foot on the stairs.
“That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone,” said Nancy;“and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to say, she willknow whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of doors as animpostor.”
“I say,” said the man, “you’re coming it strong!”
“You give the message,” said the girl firmly; “and let me hear the answer.”
The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listeningwith quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which thechaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so,when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs.
“It’s no good being proper in this world,” said the first housemaid.
“Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire,” said the second.
The third contented herself with wondering “what ladies was made of”; and thefourth took the first in a quartette of “Shameful!” with which the Dianasconcluded.
Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followedthe man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp fromthe ceiling. Here he left her, and retired.
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CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER
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The girl’s life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisomeof the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman’soriginal nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approachingthe door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the widecontrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she feltburdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she couldscarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview.
But struggling with these better feelings was pride,—the vice of the lowest andmost debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserablecompanion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, theassociate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow ofthe gallows itself,—even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeblegleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which aloneconnected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated somany, many traces when a very child.
She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presenteditself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on theground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said:
“It’s a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and goneaway, as many would have done, you’d have been sorry for it one day, and notwithout reason either.”
“I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you,” replied Rose. “Do notthink of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquiredfor.”
The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absenceof any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely bysurprise, and she burst into tears.
“Oh, lady, lady!” she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face,“if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me,—there would—therewould!”
“Sit down,” said Rose, earnestly. “If you are in poverty or affliction I shallbe truly glad to relieve you if I can,—I shall indeed. Sit down.”
“Let me stand, lady,” said the girl, still weeping, “and do not speak to me sokindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is—is—that door shut?”
“Yes,” said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in caseshe should require it. “Why?”
“Because,” said the girl, “I am about to put my life and the lives of others inyour hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin’s on thenight he went out from the house in Pentonville.”
“You!” said Rose Maylie.
“I, lady!” replied the girl. “I am the infamous creature you have heard of,that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I canrecollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any betterlife, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mindshrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look atme, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my wayalong the crowded pavement.”
“What dreadful things are these!” said Rose, involuntarily falling from herstrange companion.
“Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady,” cried the girl, “that you hadfriends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never inthe midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and—and—something worsethan all—as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley andthe gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed.”
“I pity you!” said Rose, in a broken voice. “It wrings my heart to hear you!”
“Heaven bless you for your goodness!” rejoined the girl. “If you knew what I amsometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those whowould surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I haveoverheard. Do you know a man named Monks?”
“No,” said Rose.
“He knows you,” replied the girl; “and knew you were here, for it was byhearing him tell the place that I found you out.”
“I never heard the name,” said Rose.
“Then he goes by some other amongst us,” rejoined the girl, “which I more thanthought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house onthe night of the robbery, I—suspecting this man—listened to a conversation heldbetween him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, thatMonks—the man I asked you about, you know—”
“Yes,” said Rose, “I understand.”
“—That Monks,” pursued the girl, “had seen him accidently with two of our boyson the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same childthat he was watching for, though I couldn’t make out why. A bargain was struckwith Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and hewas to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for somepurpose of his own.”
“For what purpose?” asked Rose.
“He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of findingout,” said the girl; “and there are not many people besides me that could havegot out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him nomore till last night.”
“And what occurred then?”
“I’ll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, andI, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened atthe door. The first words I heard Monks say were these: ‘So the only proofs ofthe boy’s identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag thatreceived them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.’ They laughed, andtalked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, andgetting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil’s money safelynow, he’d rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have beento have brought down the boast of the father’s will, by driving him throughevery jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony which Fagincould easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides.”
“What is all this!” said Rose.
“The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips,” replied the girl. “Then, hesaid, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if hecould gratify his hatred by taking the boy’s life without bringing his own neckin danger, he would; but, as he couldn’t, he’d be upon the watch to meet him atevery turn in life; and if he took advantage of his birth and history, he mightharm him yet. ‘In short, Fagin,’ he says, ‘Jew as you are, you never laid suchsnares as I’ll contrive for my young brother, Oliver.’”
“His brother!” exclaimed Rose.
“Those were his words,” said Nancy, glancing uneasily round, as she hadscarcely ceased to do, since she began to speak, for a vision of Sikes hauntedher perpetually. “And more. When he spoke of you and the other lady, and saidit seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil, against him, that Oliver shouldcome into your hands, he laughed, and said there was some comfort in that too,for how many thousands and hundreds of thousands of pounds would you not give,if you had them, to know who your two-legged spaniel was.”
“You do not mean,” said Rose, turning very pale, “to tell me that this was saidin earnest?”
“He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did,” replied the girl,shaking her head. “He is an earnest man when his hatred is up. I know many whodo worse things; but I’d rather listen to them all a dozen times, than to thatMonks once. It is growing late, and I have to reach home without suspicion ofhaving been on such an errand as this. I must get back quickly.”
“But what can I do?” said Rose. “To what use can I turn this communicationwithout you? Back! Why do you wish to return to companions you paint in suchterrible colors? If you repeat this information to a gentleman whom I cansummon in an instant from the next room, you can be consigned to some place ofsafety without half an hour’s delay.”
“I wish to go back,” said the girl. “I must go back, because—how can I tellsuch things to an innocent lady like you?—because among the men I have told youof, there is one: the most desperate among them all; that I can’t leave: no,not even to be saved from the life I am leading now.”
“Your having interfered in this dear boy’s behalf before,” said Rose; “yourcoming here, at so great a risk, to tell me what you have heard; your manner,which convinces me of the truth of what you say; your evident contrition, andsense of shame; all lead me to believe that you might yet be reclaimed. Oh!”said the earnest girl, folding her hands as the tears coursed down her face,“do not turn a deaf ear to the entreaties of one of your own sex; the first—thefirst, I do believe, who ever appealed to you in the voice of pity andcompassion. Do hear my words, and let me save you yet, for better things.”
“Lady,” cried the girl, sinking on her knees, “dear, sweet, angel lady, youare the first that ever blessed me with such words as these, and if Ihad heard them years ago, they might have turned me from a life of sin andsorrow; but it is too late, it is too late!”
“It is never too late,” said Rose, “for penitence and atonement.”
“It is,” cried the girl, writhing in agony of her mind; “I cannot leave himnow! I could not be his death.”
“Why should you be?” asked Rose.
“Nothing could save him,” cried the girl. “If I told others what I have toldyou, and led to their being taken, he would be sure to die. He is the boldest,and has been so cruel!”
“Is it possible,” cried Rose, “that for such a man as this, you can resignevery future hope, and the certainty of immediate rescue? It is madness.”
“I don’t know what it is,” answered the girl; “I only know that it is so, andnot with me alone, but with hundreds of others as bad and wretched as myself. Imust go back. Whether it is God’s wrath for the wrong I have done, I do notknow; but I am drawn back to him through every suffering and ill usage; and Ishould be, I believe, if I knew that I was to die by his hand at last.”
“What am I to do?” said Rose. “I should not let you depart from me thus.”
“You should, lady, and I know you will,” rejoined the girl, rising. “You willnot stop my going because I have trusted in your goodness, and forced nopromise from you, as I might have done.”
“Of what use, then, is the communication you have made?” said Rose. “Thismystery must be investigated, or how will its disclosure to me, benefit Oliver,whom you are anxious to serve?”
“You must have some kind gentleman about you that will hear it as a secret, andadvise you what to do,” rejoined the girl.
“But where can I find you again when it is necessary?” asked Rose. “I do notseek to know where these dreadful people live, but where will you be walking orpassing at any settled period from this time?”
“Will you promise me that you will have my secret strictly kept, and comealone, or with the only other person that knows it; and that I shall not bewatched or followed?” asked the girl.
“I promise you solemnly,” answered Rose.
“Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes twelve,” said the girlwithout hesitation, “I will walk on London Bridge if I am alive.”
“Stay another moment,” interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly towards thedoor. “Think once again on your own condition, and the opportunity you have ofescaping from it. You have a claim on me: not only as the voluntary bearer ofthis intelligence, but as a woman lost almost beyond redemption. Will youreturn to this gang of robbers, and to this man, when a word can save you? Whatfascination is it that can take you back, and make you cling to wickedness andmisery? Oh! is there no chord in your heart that I can touch! Is there nothingleft, to which I can appeal against this terrible infatuation!”
“When ladies as young, and good, and beautiful as you are,” replied the girlsteadily, “give away your hearts, love will carry you all lengths—even such asyou, who have home, friends, other admirers, everything, to fill them. Whensuch as I, who have no certain roof but the coffinlid, and no friend insickness or death but the hospital nurse, set our rotten hearts on any man, andlet him fill the place that has been a blank through all our wretched lives,who can hope to cure us? Pity us, lady—pity us for having only one feeling ofthe woman left, and for having that turned, by a heavy judgment, from a comfortand a pride, into a new means of violence and suffering.”
“You will,” said Rose, after a pause, “take some money from me, which mayenable you to live without dishonesty—at all events until we meet again?”
“Not a penny,” replied the girl, waving her hand.
“Do not close your heart against all my efforts to help you,” said Rose,stepping gently forward. “I wish to serve you indeed.”
“You would serve me best, lady,” replied the girl, wringing her hands, “if youcould take my life at once; for I have felt more grief to think of what I am,tonight, than I ever did before, and it would be something not to die in thehell in which I have lived. God bless you, sweet lady, and send as muchhappiness on your head as I have brought shame on mine!”
Thus speaking, and sobbing aloud, the unhappy creature turned away; while RoseMaylie, overpowered by this extraordinary interview, which had more thesemblance of a rapid dream than an actual occurrence, sank into a chair, andendeavoured to collect her wandering thoughts.
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CHAPTER XLI. CONTAINING FRESH DISCOVERIES, AND SHOWING THAT SUPRISES, LIKE MISFORTUNES, SELDOM COME ALONE
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Her situation was, indeed, one of no common trial and difficulty. While shefelt the most eager and burning desire to penetrate the mystery in whichOliver’s history was enveloped, she could not but hold sacred the confidencewhich the miserable woman with whom she had just conversed, had reposed in her,as a young and guileless girl. Her words and manner had touched Rose Maylie’sheart; and, mingled with her love for her young charge, and scarcely lessintense in its truth and fervour, was her fond wish to win the outcast back torepentance and hope.
They purposed remaining in London only three days, prior to departing for someweeks to a distant part of the coast. It was now midnight of the first day.What course of action could she determine upon, which could be adopted ineight-and-forty hours? Or how could she postpone the journey without excitingsuspicion?
Mr. Losberne was with them, and would be for the next two days; but Rose wastoo well acquainted with the excellent gentleman’s impetuosity, and foresaw tooclearly the wrath with which, in the first explosion of his indignation, hewould regard the instrument of Oliver’s recapture, to trust him with thesecret, when her representations in the girl’s behalf could be seconded by noexperienced person. These were all reasons for the greatest caution and mostcircumspect behaviour in communicating it to Mrs. Maylie, whose first impulsewould infallibly be to hold a conference with the worthy doctor on the subject.As to resorting to any legal adviser, even if she had known how to do so, itwas scarcely to be thought of, for the same reason. Once the thought occurredto her of seeking assistance from Harry; but this awakened the recollection oftheir last parting, and it seemed unworthy of her to call him back, when—thetears rose to her eyes as she pursued this train of reflection—he might have bythis time learnt to forget her, and to be happier away.
Disturbed by these different reflections; inclining now to one course and thento another, and again recoiling from all, as each successive considerationpresented itself to her mind; Rose passed a sleepless and anxious night. Aftermore communing with herself next day, she arrived at the desperate conclusionof consulting Harry.
“If it be painful to him,” she thought, “to come back here, how painful it willbe to me! But perhaps he will not come; he may write, or he may come himself,and studiously abstain from meeting me—he did when he went away. I hardlythought he would; but it was better for us both.” And here Rose dropped thepen, and turned away, as though the very paper which was to be her messengershould not see her weep.
She had taken up the same pen, and laid it down again fifty times, and hadconsidered and reconsidered the first line of her letter without writing thefirst word, when Oliver, who had been walking in the streets, with Mr. Gilesfor a body-guard, entered the room in such breathless haste and violentagitation, as seemed to betoken some new cause of alarm.
“What makes you look so flurried?” asked Rose, advancing to meet him.
“I hardly know how; I feel as if I should be choked,” replied the boy. “Ohdear! To think that I should see him at last, and you should be able to knowthat I have told you the truth!”
“I never thought you had told us anything but the truth,” said Rose, soothinghim. “But what is this?—of whom do you speak?”
“I have seen the gentleman,” replied Oliver, scarcely able to articulate, “thegentleman who was so good to me—Mr. Brownlow, that we have so often talkedabout.”
“Where?” asked Rose.
“Getting out of a coach,” replied Oliver, shedding tears of delight, “and goinginto a house. I didn’t speak to him—I couldn’t speak to him, for he didn’t seeme, and I trembled so, that I was not able to go up to him. But Giles asked,for me, whether he lived there, and they said he did. Look here,” said Oliver,opening a scrap of paper, “here it is; here’s where he lives—I’m going theredirectly! Oh, dear me, dear me! What shall I do when I come to see him and hearhim speak again!”
With her attention not a little distracted by these and a great many otherincoherent exclamations of joy, Rose read the address, which was Craven Street,in the Strand. She very soon determined upon turning the discovery to account.
“Quick!” she said. “Tell them to fetch a hackney-coach, and be ready to go withme. I will take you there directly, without a minute’s loss of time. I willonly tell my aunt that we are going out for an hour, and be ready as soon asyou are.”
Oliver needed no prompting to despatch, and in little more than five minutesthey were on their way to Craven Street. When they arrived there, Rose leftOliver in the coach, under pretence of preparing the old gentleman to receivehim; and sending up her card by the servant, requested to see Mr. Brownlow onvery pressing business. The servant soon returned, to beg that she would walkupstairs; and following him into an upper room, Miss Maylie was presented to anelderly gentleman of benevolent appearance, in a bottle-green coat. At no greatdistance from whom, was seated another old gentleman, in nankeen breeches andgaiters; who did not look particularly benevolent, and who was sitting with hishands clasped on the top of a thick stick, and his chin propped thereupon.
“Dear me,” said the gentleman, in the bottle-green coat, hastily rising withgreat politeness, “I beg your pardon, young lady—I imagined it was someimportunate person who—I beg you will excuse me. Be seated, pray.”
“Mr. Brownlow, I believe, sir?” said Rose, glancing from the other gentleman tothe one who had spoken.
“That is my name,” said the old gentleman. “This is my friend, Mr. Grimwig.Grimwig, will you leave us for a few minutes?”
“I believe,” interposed Miss Maylie, “that at this period of our interview, Ineed not give that gentleman the trouble of going away. If I am correctlyinformed, he is cognizant of the business on which I wish to speak to you.”
Mr. Brownlow inclined his head. Mr. Grimwig, who had made one very stiff bow,and risen from his chair, made another very stiff bow, and dropped into itagain.
“I shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt,” said Rose, naturallyembarrassed; “but you once showed great benevolence and goodness to a very dearyoung friend of mine, and I am sure you will take an interest in hearing of himagain.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Brownlow.
“Oliver Twist you knew him as,” replied Rose.
The words no sooner escaped her lips, than Mr. Grimwig, who had been affectingto dip into a large book that lay on the table, upset it with a great crash,and falling back in his chair, discharged from his features every expressionbut one of unmitigated wonder, and indulged in a prolonged and vacant stare;then, as if ashamed of having betrayed so much emotion, he jerked himself, asit were, by a convulsion into his former attitude, and looking out straightbefore him emitted a long deep whistle, which seemed, at last, not to bedischarged on empty air, but to die away in the innermost recesses of hisstomach.
Mr. Browlow was no less surprised, although his astonishment was not expressedin the same eccentric manner. He drew his chair nearer to Miss Maylie’s, andsaid,
“Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the questionthat goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which nobody elseknows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any evidence whichwill alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to entertain of thatpoor child, in Heaven’s name put me in possession of it.”
“A bad one! I’ll eat my head if he is not a bad one,” growled Mr. Grimwig,speaking by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle of his face.
“He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart,” said Rose, colouring; “andthat Power which has thought fit to try him beyond his years, has planted inhis breast affections and feelings which would do honour to many who havenumbered his days six times over.”
“I’m only sixty-one,” said Mr. Grimwig, with the same rigid face. “And, as thedevil’s in it if this Oliver is not twelve years old at least, I don’t see theapplication of that remark.”
“Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie,” said Mr. Brownlow; “he does not mean whathe says.”
“Yes, he does,” growled Mr. Grimwig.
“No, he does not,” said Mr. Brownlow, obviously rising in wrath as he spoke.
“He’ll eat his head, if he doesn’t,” growled Mr. Grimwig.
“He would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does,” said Mr. Brownlow.
“And he’d uncommonly like to see any man offer to do it,” responded Mr.Grimwig, knocking his stick upon the floor.
Having gone thus far, the two old gentlemen severally took snuff, andafterwards shook hands, according to their invariable custom.
“Now, Miss Maylie,” said Mr. Brownlow, “to return to the subject in which yourhumanity is so much interested. Will you let me know what intelligence you haveof this poor child: allowing me to promise that I exhausted every means in mypower of discovering him, and that since I have been absent from this country,my first impression that he had imposed upon me, and had been persuaded by hisformer associates to rob me, has been considerably shaken.”
Rose, who had had time to collect her thoughts, at once related, in a fewnatural words, all that had befallen Oliver since he left Mr. Brownlow’s house;reserving Nancy’s information for that gentleman’s private ear, and concludingwith the assurance that his only sorrow, for some months past, had been notbeing able to meet with his former benefactor and friend.
“Thank God!” said the old gentleman. “This is great happiness to me, greathappiness. But you have not told me where he is now, Miss Maylie. You mustpardon my finding fault with you,—but why not have brought him?”
“He is waiting in a coach at the door,” replied Rose.
“At this door!” cried the old gentleman. With which he hurried out of the room,down the stairs, up the coachsteps, and into the coach, without another word.
When the room-door closed behind him, Mr. Grimwig lifted up his head, andconverting one of the hind legs of his chair into a pivot, described threedistinct circles with the assistance of his stick and the table; sitting in itall the time. After performing this evolution, he rose and limped as fast as hecould up and down the room at least a dozen times, and then stopping suddenlybefore Rose, kissed her without the slightest preface.
“Hush!” he said, as the young lady rose in some alarm at this unusualproceeding. “Don’t be afraid. I’m old enough to be your grandfather. You’re asweet girl. I like you. Here they are!”
In fact, as he threw himself at one dexterous dive into his former seat, Mr.Brownlow returned, accompanied by Oliver, whom Mr. Grimwig received verygraciously; and if the gratification of that moment had been the only rewardfor all her anxiety and care in Oliver’s behalf, Rose Maylie would have beenwell repaid.
“There is somebody else who should not be forgotten, by the bye,” said Mr.Brownlow, ringing the bell. “Send Mrs. Bedwin here, if you please.”
The old housekeeper answered the summons with all dispatch; and dropping acurtsey at the door, waited for orders.
“Why, you get blinder every day, Bedwin,” said Mr. Brownlow, rather testily.
“Well, that I do, sir,” replied the old lady. “People’s eyes, at my time oflife, don’t improve with age, sir.”
“I could have told you that,” rejoined Mr. Brownlow; “but put on your glasses,and see if you can’t find out what you were wanted for, will you?”
The old lady began to rummage in her pocket for her spectacles. But Oliver’spatience was not proof against this new trial; and yielding to his firstimpulse, he sprang into her arms.
“God be good to me!” cried the old lady, embracing him; “it is my innocentboy!”
“My dear old nurse!” cried Oliver.
“He would come back—I knew he would,” said the old lady, holding him in herarms. “How well he looks, and how like a gentleman’s son he is dressed again!Where have you been, this long, long while? Ah! the same sweet face, but not sopale; the same soft eye, but not so sad. I have never forgotten them or hisquiet smile, but have seen them every day, side by side with those of my owndear children, dead and gone since I was a lightsome young creature.” Runningon thus, and now holding Oliver from her to mark how he had grown, now claspinghim to her and passing her fingers fondly through his hair, the good soullaughed and wept upon his neck by turns.
Leaving her and Oliver to compare notes at leisure, Mr. Brownlow led the wayinto another room; and there, heard from Rose a full narration of her interviewwith Nancy, which occasioned him no little surprise and perplexity. Rose alsoexplained her reasons for not confiding in her friend Mr. Losberne in the firstinstance. The old gentleman considered that she had acted prudently, andreadily undertook to hold solemn conference with the worthy doctor himself. Toafford him an early opportunity for the execution of this design, it wasarranged that he should call at the hotel at eight o’clock that evening, andthat in the meantime Mrs. Maylie should be cautiously informed of all that hadoccurred. These preliminaries adjusted, Rose and Oliver returned home.
Rose had by no means overrated the measure of the good doctor’s wrath. Nancy’shistory was no sooner unfolded to him, than he poured forth a shower of mingledthreats and execrations; threatened to make her the first victim of thecombined ingenuity of Messrs. Blathers and Duff; and actually put on his hatpreparatory to sallying forth to obtain the assistance of those worthies. And,doubtless, he would, in this first outbreak, have carried the intention intoeffect without a moment’s consideration of the consequences, if he had not beenrestrained, in part, by corresponding violence on the side of Mr. Brownlow, whowas himself of an irascible temperament, and partly by such arguments andrepresentations as seemed best calculated to dissuade him from his hotbrainedpurpose.
“Then what the devil is to be done?” said the impetuous doctor, when they hadrejoined the two ladies. “Are we to pass a vote of thanks to all thesevagabonds, male and female, and beg them to accept a hundred pounds, or so,apiece, as a trifling mark of our esteem, and some slight acknowledgment oftheir kindness to Oliver?”
“Not exactly that,” rejoined Mr. Brownlow, laughing; “but we must proceedgently and with great care.”
“Gentleness and care,” exclaimed the doctor. “I’d send them one and all to—”
“Never mind where,” interposed Mr. Brownlow. “But reflect whether sending themanywhere is likely to attain the object we have in view.”
“What object?” asked the doctor.
“Simply, the discovery of Oliver’s parentage, and regaining for him theinheritance of which, if this story be true, he has been fraudulentlydeprived.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Losberne, cooling himself with his pocket-handkerchief; “Ialmost forgot that.”
“You see,” pursued Mr. Brownlow; “placing this poor girl entirely out of thequestion, and supposing it were possible to bring these scoundrels to justicewithout compromising her safety, what good should we bring about?”
“Hanging a few of them at least, in all probability,” suggested the doctor,“and transporting the rest.”
“Very good,” replied Mr. Brownlow, smiling; “but no doubt they will bring thatabout for themselves in the fulness of time, and if we step in to forestallthem, it seems to me that we shall be performing a very Quixotic act, in directopposition to our own interest—or at least to Oliver’s, which is the samething.”
“How?” inquired the doctor.
“Thus. It is quite clear that we shall have extreme difficulty in getting tothe bottom of this mystery, unless we can bring this man, Monks, upon hisknees. That can only be done by stratagem, and by catching him when he is notsurrounded by these people. For, suppose he were apprehended, we have no proofagainst him. He is not even (so far as we know, or as the facts appear to us)concerned with the gang in any of their robberies. If he were not discharged,it is very unlikely that he could receive any further punishment than beingcommitted to prison as a rogue and vagabond; and of course ever afterwards hismouth would be so obstinately closed that he might as well, for our purposes,be deaf, dumb, blind, and an idiot.”
“Then,” said the doctor impetuously, “I put it to you again, whether you thinkit reasonable that this promise to the girl should be considered binding; apromise made with the best and kindest intentions, but really—”
“Do not discuss the point, my dear young lady, pray,” said Mr. Brownlow,interrupting Rose as she was about to speak. “The promise shall be kept. Idon’t think it will, in the slightest degree, interfere with our proceedings.But, before we can resolve upon any precise course of action, it will benecessary to see the girl; to ascertain from her whether she will point outthis Monks, on the understanding that he is to be dealt with by us, and not bythe law; or, if she will not, or cannot do that, to procure from her such anaccount of his haunts and description of his person, as will enable us toidentify him. She cannot be seen until next Sunday night; this is Tuesday. Iwould suggest that in the meantime, we remain perfectly quiet, and keep thesematters secret even from Oliver himself.”
Although Mr. Losberne received with many wry faces a proposal involving a delayof five whole days, he was fain to admit that no better course occurred to himjust then; and as both Rose and Mrs. Maylie sided very strongly with Mr.Brownlow, that gentleman’s proposition was carried unanimously.
“I should like,” he said, “to call in the aid of my friend Grimwig. He is astrange creature, but a shrewd one, and might prove of material assistance tous; I should say that he was bred a lawyer, and quitted the Bar in disgustbecause he had only one brief and a motion of course, in twenty years, thoughwhether that is recommendation or not, you must determine for yourselves.”
“I have no objection to your calling in your friend if I may call in mine,”said the doctor.
“We must put it to the vote,” replied Mr. Brownlow, “who may he be?”
“That lady’s son, and this young lady’s—very old friend,” said the doctor,motioning towards Mrs. Maylie, and concluding with an expressive glance at herniece.
Rose blushed deeply, but she did not make any audible objection to this motion(possibly she felt in a hopeless minority); and Harry Maylie and Mr. Grimwigwere accordingly added to the committee.
“We stay in town, of course,” said Mrs. Maylie, “while there remains theslightest prospect of prosecuting this inquiry with a chance of success. I willspare neither trouble nor expense in behalf of the object in which we are allso deeply interested, and I am content to remain here, if it be for twelvemonths, so long as you assure me that any hope remains.”
“Good!” rejoined Mr. Brownlow. “And as I see on the faces about me, adisposition to inquire how it happened that I was not in the way to corroborateOliver’s tale, and had so suddenly left the kingdom, let me stipulate that Ishall be asked no questions until such time as I may deem it expedient toforestall them by telling my own story. Believe me, I make this request withgood reason, for I might otherwise excite hopes destined never to be realised,and only increase difficulties and disappointments already quite numerousenough. Come! Supper has been announced, and young Oliver, who is all alone inthe next room, will have begun to think, by this time, that we have wearied ofhis company, and entered into some dark conspiracy to thrust him forth upon theworld.”
With these words, the old gentleman gave his hand to Mrs. Maylie, and escortedher into the supper-room. Mr. Losberne followed, leading Rose; and the councilwas, for the present, effectually broken up.
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CHAPTER XLII. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF OLIVER’S, EXHIBITING DECIDED MARKS OF GENIUS, BECOMES A PUBLIC CHARACTER IN THE METROPOLIS
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Upon the night when Nancy, having lulled Mr. Sikes to sleep, hurried on herself-imposed mission to Rose Maylie, there advanced towards London, by theGreat North Road, two persons, upon whom it is expedient that this historyshould bestow some attention.
They were a man and woman; or perhaps they would be better described as a maleand female: for the former was one of those long-limbed, knock-kneed,shambling, bony people, to whom it is difficult to assign any preciseage,—looking as they do, when they are yet boys, like undergrown men, and whenthey are almost men, like overgrown boys. The woman was young, but of a robustand hardy make, as she need have been to bear the weight of the heavy bundlewhich was strapped to her back. Her companion was not encumbered with muchluggage, as there merely dangled from a stick which he carried over hisshoulder, a small parcel wrapped in a common handkerchief, and apparently lightenough. This circumstance, added to the length of his legs, which were ofunusual extent, enabled him with much ease to keep some half-dozen paces inadvance of his companion, to whom he occasionally turned with an impatient jerkof the head: as if reproaching her tardiness, and urging her to greaterexertion.
Thus, they had toiled along the dusty road, taking little heed of any objectwithin sight, save when they stepped aside to allow a wider passage for themail-coaches which were whirling out of town, until they passed throughHighgate archway; when the foremost traveller stopped and called impatiently tohis companion,
“Come on, can’t yer? What a lazybones yer are, Charlotte.”
“It’s a heavy load, I can tell you,” said the female, coming up, almostbreathless with fatigue.
“Heavy! What are yer talking about? What are yer made for?” rejoined the maletraveller, changing his own little bundle as he spoke, to the other shoulder.“Oh, there yer are, resting again! Well, if yer ain’t enough to tire anybody’spatience out, I don’t know what is!”
“Is it much farther?” asked the woman, resting herself against a bank, andlooking up with the perspiration streaming from her face.
“Much farther! Yer as good as there,” said the long-legged tramper, pointingout before him. “Look there! Those are the lights of London.”
“They’re a good two mile off, at least,” said the woman despondingly.
“Never mind whether they’re two mile off, or twenty,” said Noah Claypole; forhe it was; “but get up and come on, or I’ll kick yer, and so I give yernotice.”
As Noah’s red nose grew redder with anger, and as he crossed the road whilespeaking, as if fully prepared to put his threat into execution, the woman rosewithout any further remark, and trudged onward by his side.
“Where do you mean to stop for the night, Noah?” she asked, after they hadwalked a few hundred yards.
“How should I know?” replied Noah, whose temper had been considerably impairedby walking.
“Near, I hope,” said Charlotte.
“No, not near,” replied Mr. Claypole. “There! Not near; so don’t think it.”
“Why not?”
“When I tell yer that I don’t mean to do a thing, that’s enough, without anywhy or because either,” replied Mr. Claypole with dignity.
“Well, you needn’t be so cross,” said his companion.
“A pretty thing it would be, wouldn’t it to go and stop at the very firstpublic-house outside the town, so that Sowerberry, if he come up after us,might poke in his old nose, and have us taken back in a cart with handcuffson,” said Mr. Claypole in a jeering tone. “No! I shall go and lose myself amongthe narrowest streets I can find, and not stop till we come to the veryout-of-the-wayest house I can set eyes on. Cod, yer may thanks yer stars I’vegot a head; for if we hadn’t gone, at first, the wrong road a purpose, and comeback across country, yer’d have been locked up hard and fast a week ago, mylady. And serve yer right for being a fool.”
“I know I ain’t as cunning as you are,” replied Charlotte; “but don’t put allthe blame on me, and say I should have been locked up. You would have been if Ihad been, any way.”
“Yer took the money from the till, yer know yer did,” said Mr. Claypole.
“I took it for you, Noah, dear,” rejoined Charlotte.
“Did I keep it?” asked Mr. Claypole.
“No; you trusted in me, and let me carry it like a dear, and so you are,” saidthe lady, chucking him under the chin, and drawing her arm through his.
This was indeed the case; but as it was not Mr. Claypole’s habit to repose ablind and foolish confidence in anybody, it should be observed, in justice tothat gentleman, that he had trusted Charlotte to this extent, in order that, ifthey were pursued, the money might be found on her: which would leave him anopportunity of asserting his innocence of any theft, and would greatlyfacilitate his chances of escape. Of course, he entered at this juncture, intono explanation of his motives, and they walked on very lovingly together.
In pursuance of this cautious plan, Mr. Claypole went on, without halting,until he arrived at the Angel at Islington, where he wisely judged, from thecrowd of passengers and numbers of vehicles, that London began in earnest. Justpausing to observe which appeared the most crowded streets, and consequentlythe most to be avoided, he crossed into Saint John’s Road, and was soon deep inthe obscurity of the intricate and dirty ways, which, lying between Gray’s InnLane and Smithfield, render that part of the town one of the lowest and worstthat improvement has left in the midst of London.
Through these streets, Noah Claypole walked, dragging Charlotte after him; nowstepping into the kennel to embrace at a glance the whole external character ofsome small public-house; now jogging on again, as some fancied appearanceinduced him to believe it too public for his purpose. At length, he stopped infront of one, more humble in appearance and more dirty than any he had yetseen; and, having crossed over and surveyed it from the opposite pavement,graciously announced his intention of putting up there, for the night.
“So give us the bundle,” said Noah, unstrapping it from the woman’s shoulders,and slinging it over his own; “and don’t yer speak, except when yer spoke to.What’s the name of the house—t-h-r—three what?”
“Cripples,” said Charlotte.
“Three Cripples,” repeated Noah, “and a very good sign too. Now, then! Keepclose at my heels, and come along.” With these injunctions, he pushed therattling door with his shoulder, and entered the house, followed by hiscompanion.
There was nobody in the bar but a young Jew, who, with his two elbows on thecounter, was reading a dirty newspaper. He stared very hard at Noah, and Noahstared very hard at him.
If Noah had been attired in his charity-boy’s dress, there might have been somereason for the Jew opening his eyes so wide; but as he had discarded the coatand badge, and wore a short smock-frock over his leathers, there seemed noparticular reason for his appearance exciting so much attention in apublic-house.
“Is this the Three Cripples?” asked Noah.
“That is the dabe of this ’ouse,” replied the Jew.
“A gentleman we met on the road, coming up from the country, recommended ushere,” said Noah, nudging Charlotte, perhaps to call her attention to this mostingenious device for attracting respect, and perhaps to warn her to betray nosurprise. “We want to sleep here tonight.”
“I’b dot certaid you cad,” said Barney, who was the attendant sprite; “but I’llidquire.”
“Show us the tap, and give us a bit of cold meat and a drop of beer while yerinquiring, will yer?” said Noah.
Barney complied by ushering them into a small back-room, and setting therequired viands before them; having done which, he informed the travellers thatthey could be lodged that night, and left the amiable couple to theirrefreshment.
Now, this back-room was immediately behind the bar, and some steps lower, sothat any person connected with the house, undrawing a small curtain whichconcealed a single pane of glass fixed in the wall of the last-named apartment,about five feet from its flooring, could not only look down upon any guests inthe back-room without any great hazard of being observed (the glass being in adark angle of the wall, between which and a large upright beam the observer hadto thrust himself), but could, by applying his ear to the partition, ascertainwith tolerable distinctness, their subject of conversation. The landlord of thehouse had not withdrawn his eye from this place of espial for five minutes, andBarney had only just returned from making the communication above related, whenFagin, in the course of his evening’s business, came into the bar to inquireafter some of his young pupils.
“Hush!” said Barney: “stradegers id the next roob.”
“Strangers!” repeated the old man in a whisper.
“Ah! Ad rub uds too,” added Barney. “Frob the cuttry, but subthig in your way,or I’b bistaked.”
Fagin appeared to receive this communication with great interest.
Mounting a stool, he cautiously applied his eye to the pane of glass, fromwhich secret post he could see Mr. Claypole taking cold beef from the dish, andporter from the pot, and administering homeopathic doses of both to Charlotte,who sat patiently by, eating and drinking at his pleasure.
“Aha!” he whispered, looking round to Barney, “I like that fellow’s looks. He’dbe of use to us; he knows how to train the girl already. Don’t make as muchnoise as a mouse, my dear, and let me hear ’em talk—let me hear ’em.”
He again applied his eye to the glass, and turning his ear to the partition,listened attentively: with a subtle and eager look upon his face, that mighthave appertained to some old goblin.
“So I mean to be a gentleman,” said Mr. Claypole, kicking out his legs, andcontinuing a conversation, the commencement of which Fagin had arrived too lateto hear. “No more jolly old coffins, Charlotte, but a gentleman’s life for me:and, if yer like, yer shall be a lady.”
“I should like that well enough, dear,” replied Charlotte; “but tills ain’t tobe emptied every day, and people to get clear off after it.”
“Tills be blowed!” said Mr. Claypole; “there’s more things besides tills to beemptied.”
“What do you mean?” asked his companion.
“Pockets, women’s ridicules, houses, mail-coaches, banks!” said Mr. Claypole,rising with the porter.
“But you can’t do all that, dear,” said Charlotte.
“I shall look out to get into company with them as can,” replied Noah. “They’llbe able to make us useful some way or another. Why, you yourself are worthfifty women; I never see such a precious sly and deceitful creetur as yer canbe when I let yer.”
“Lor, how nice it is to hear yer say so!” exclaimed Charlotte, imprinting akiss upon his ugly face.
“There, that’ll do: don’t yer be too affectionate, in case I’m cross with yer,”said Noah, disengaging himself with great gravity. “I should like to be thecaptain of some band, and have the whopping of ’em, and follering ’em about,unbeknown to themselves. That would suit me, if there was good profit; and ifwe could only get in with some gentleman of this sort, I say it would be cheapat that twenty-pound note you’ve got,—especially as we don’t very well know howto get rid of it ourselves.”
After expressing this opinion, Mr. Claypole looked into the porter-pot with anaspect of deep wisdom; and having well shaken its contents, noddedcondescendingly to Charlotte, and took a draught, wherewith he appeared greatlyrefreshed. He was meditating another, when the sudden opening of the door, andthe appearance of a stranger, interrupted him.
The stranger was Mr. Fagin. And very amiable he looked, and a very low bow hemade, as he advanced, and setting himself down at the nearest table, orderedsomething to drink of the grinning Barney.
“A pleasant night, sir, but cool for the time of year,” said Fagin, rubbing hishands. “From the country, I see, sir?”
“How do yer see that?” asked Noah Claypole.
“We have not so much dust as that in London,” replied Fagin, pointing fromNoah’s shoes to those of his companion, and from them to the two bundles.
“Yer a sharp feller,” said Noah. “Ha! ha! only hear that, Charlotte!”
“Why, one need be sharp in this town, my dear,” replied the Jew, sinking hisvoice to a confidential whisper; “and that’s the truth.”
Fagin followed up this remark by striking the side of his nose with his rightforefinger,—a gesture which Noah attempted to imitate, though not with completesuccess, in consequence of his own nose not being large enough for the purpose.However, Mr. Fagin seemed to interpret the endeavour as expressing a perfectcoincidence with his opinion, and put about the liquor which Barney reappearedwith, in a very friendly manner.
“Good stuff that,” observed Mr. Claypole, smacking his lips.
“Dear!” said Fagin. “A man need be always emptying a till, or a pocket, or awoman’s reticule, or a house, or a mail-coach, or a bank, if he drinks itregularly.”
Mr. Claypole no sooner heard this extract from his own remarks than he fellback in his chair, and looked from the Jew to Charlotte with a countenance ofashy paleness and excessive terror.
“Don’t mind me, my dear,” said Fagin, drawing his chair closer. “Ha! ha! it waslucky it was only me that heard you by chance. It was very lucky it was onlyme.”
“I didn’t take it,” stammered Noah, no longer stretching out his legs like anindependent gentleman, but coiling them up as well as he could under his chair;“it was all her doing; yer’ve got it now, Charlotte, yer know yer have.”
“No matter who’s got it, or who did it, my dear,” replied Fagin, glancing,nevertheless, with a hawk’s eye at the girl and the two bundles. “I’m in thatway myself, and I like you for it.”
“In what way?” asked Mr. Claypole, a little recovering.
“In that way of business,” rejoined Fagin; “and so are the people of the house.You’ve hit the right nail upon the head, and are as safe here as you could be.There is not a safer place in all this town than is the Cripples; that is, whenI like to make it so. And I have taken a fancy to you and the young woman; soI’ve said the word, and you may make your minds easy.”
Noah Claypole’s mind might have been at ease after this assurance, but his bodycertainly was not; for he shuffled and writhed about, into various uncouthpositions: eyeing his new friend meanwhile with mingled fear and suspicion.
“I’ll tell you more,” said Fagin, after he had reassured the girl, by dint offriendly nods and muttered encouragements. “I have got a friend that I thinkcan gratify your darling wish, and put you in the right way, where you can takewhatever department of the business you think will suit you best at first, andbe taught all the others.”
“Yer speak as if yer were in earnest,” replied Noah.
“What advantage would it be to me to be anything else?” inquired Fagin,shrugging his shoulders. “Here! Let me have a word with you outside.”
“There’s no occasion to trouble ourselves to move,” said Noah, getting his legsby gradual degrees abroad again. “She’ll take the luggage upstairs the while.Charlotte, see to them bundles.”
This mandate, which had been delivered with great majesty, was obeyed withoutthe slightest demur; and Charlotte made the best of her way off with thepackages while Noah held the door open and watched her out.
“She’s kept tolerably well under, ain’t she?” he asked as he resumed his seat:in the tone of a keeper who had tamed some wild animal.
“Quite perfect,” rejoined Fagin, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re agenius, my dear.”
“Why, I suppose if I wasn’t, I shouldn’t be here,” replied Noah. “But, I say,she’ll be back if yer lose time.”
“Now, what do you think?” said Fagin. “If you was to like my friend, could youdo better than join him?”
“Is he in a good way of business; that’s where it is!” responded Noah, winkingone of his little eyes.
“The top of the tree; employs a power of hands; has the very best society inthe profession.”
“Regular town-maders?” asked Mr. Claypole.
“Not a countryman among ’em; and I don’t think he’d take you, even on myrecommendation, if he didn’t run rather short of assistants just now,” repliedFagin.
“Should I have to hand over?” said Noah, slapping his breeches-pocket.
“It couldn’t possibly be done without,” replied Fagin, in a most decidedmanner.
“Twenty pound, though—it’s a lot of money!”
“Not when it’s in a note you can’t get rid of,” retorted Fagin. “Number anddate taken, I suppose? Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah! It’s not worth much tohim. It’ll have to go abroad, and he couldn’t sell it for a great deal in themarket.”
“When could I see him?” asked Noah doubtfully.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Um!” said Noah. “What’s the wages?”
“Live like a gentleman—board and lodging, pipes and spirits free—half of allyou earn, and half of all the young woman earns,” replied Mr. Fagin.
Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive,would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly freeagent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of hisrefusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justiceimmediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented,and said he thought that would suit him.
“But, yer see,” observed Noah, “as she will be able to do a good deal, I shouldlike to take something very light.”
“A little fancy work?” suggested Fagin.
“Ah! something of that sort,” replied Noah. “What do you think would suit menow? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, youknow. That’s the sort of thing!”
“I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear,” saidFagin. “My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much.”
“Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn’t mind turning my hand to itsometimes,” rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; “but it wouldn’t pay by itself, youknow.”
“That’s true!” observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate. “No, itmight not.”
“What do you think, then?” asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. “Something inthe sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk thanbeing at home.”
“What do you think of the old ladies?” asked Fagin. “There’s a good deal ofmoney made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner.”
“Don’t they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?” asked Noah, shakinghis head. “I don’t think that would answer my purpose. Ain’t there any otherline open?”
“Stop!” said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah’s knee. “The kinchin lay.”
“What’s that?” demanded Mr. Claypole.
“The kinchins, my dear,” said Fagin, “is the young children that’s sent onerrands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just totake their money away—they’ve always got it ready in their hands,—then knock’em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else thematter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!”
“Ha! ha!” roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. “Lord, that’sthe very thing!”
“To be sure it is,” replied Fagin; “and you can have a few good beats chalkedout in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighbourhoods like that, wherethey’re always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want,any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!”
With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst oflaughter both long and loud.
“Well, that’s all right!” said Noah, when he had recovered himself, andCharlotte had returned. “What time tomorrow shall we say?”
“Will ten do?” asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, “What nameshall I tell my good friend.”
“Mr. Bolter,” replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such emergency. “Mr.Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter.”
“Mrs. Bolter’s humble servant,” said Fagin, bowing with grotesque politeness.“I hope I shall know her better very shortly.”
“Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?” thundered Mr. Claypole.
“Yes, Noah, dear!” replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand.
“She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking,” said Mr. Morris Bolter,late Claypole, turning to Fagin. “You understand?”
“Oh yes, I understand—perfectly,” replied Fagin, telling the truth for once.“Good-night! Good-night!”
With many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Fagin went his way. Noah Claypole,bespeaking his good lady’s attention, proceeded to enlighten her relative tothe arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness and air of superiority,becoming, not only a member of the sterner sex, but a gentleman who appreciatedthe dignity of a special appointment on the kinchin lay, in London and itsvicinity.
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CHAPTER XLIII. WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE
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“And so it was you that was your own friend, was it?” asked Mr. Claypole,otherwise Bolter, when, by virtue of the compact entered into between them, hehad removed next day to Fagin’s house. “Cod, I thought as much last night!”
“Every man’s his own friend, my dear,” replied Fagin, with his most insinuatinggrin. “He hasn’t as good a one as himself anywhere.”
“Except sometimes,” replied Morris Bolter, assuming the air of a man of theworld. “Some people are nobody’s enemies but their own, yer know.”
“Don’t believe that,” said Fagin. “When a man’s his own enemy, it’s onlybecause he’s too much his own friend; not because he’s careful for everybodybut himself. Pooh! pooh! There ain’t such a thing in nature.”
“There oughn’t to be, if there is,” replied Mr. Bolter.
“That stands to reason. Some conjurers say that number three is the magicnumber, and some say number seven. It’s neither, my friend, neither. It’snumber one.”
“Ha! ha!” cried Mr. Bolter. “Number one for ever.”
“In a little community like ours, my dear,” said Fagin, who felt it necessaryto qualify this position, “we have a general number one, without considering metoo as the same, and all the other young people.”
“Oh, the devil!” exclaimed Mr. Bolter.
“You see,” pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, “we are somixed up together, and identified in our interests, that it must be so. Forinstance, it’s your object to take care of number one—meaning yourself.”
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Bolter. “Yer about right there.”
“Well! You can’t take care of yourself, number one, without taking care of me,number one.”
“Number two, you mean,” said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with thequality of selfishness.
“No, I don’t!” retorted Fagin. “I’m of the same importance to you, as you areto yourself.”
“I say,” interrupted Mr. Bolter, “yer a very nice man, and I’m very fond ofyer; but we ain’t quite so thick together, as all that comes to.”
“Only think,” said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders, and stretching out hishands; “only consider. You’ve done what’s a very pretty thing, and what I loveyou for doing; but what at the same time would put the cravat round yourthroat, that’s so very easily tied and so very difficult to unloose—in plainEnglish, the halter!”
Mr. Bolter put his hand to his neckerchief, as if he felt it inconvenientlytight; and murmured an assent, qualified in tone but not in substance.
“The gallows,” continued Fagin, “the gallows, my dear, is an ugly finger-post,which points out a very short and sharp turning that has stopped many a boldfellow’s career on the broad highway. To keep in the easy road, and keep it ata distance, is object number one with you.”
“Of course it is,” replied Mr. Bolter. “What do yer talk about such thingsfor?”
“Only to show you my meaning clearly,” said the Jew, raising his eyebrows. “Tobe able to do that, you depend upon me. To keep my little business all snug, Idepend upon you. The first is your number one, the second my number one. Themore you value your number one, the more careful you must be of mine; so wecome at last to what I told you at first—that a regard for number one holds usall together, and must do so, unless we would all go to pieces in company.”
“That’s true,” rejoined Mr. Bolter, thoughtfully. “Oh! yer a cunning oldcodger!”
Mr. Fagin saw, with delight, that this tribute to his powers was no merecompliment, but that he had really impressed his recruit with a sense of hiswily genius, which it was most important that he should entertain in the outsetof their acquaintance. To strengthen an impression so desirable and useful, hefollowed up the blow by acquainting him, in some detail, with the magnitude andextent of his operations; blending truth and fiction together, as best servedhis purpose; and bringing both to bear, with so much art, that Mr. Bolter’srespect visibly increased, and became tempered, at the same time, with a degreeof wholesome fear, which it was highly desirable to awaken.
“It’s this mutual trust we have in each other that consoles me under heavylosses,” said Fagin. “My best hand was taken from me, yesterday morning.”
“You don’t mean to say he died?” cried Mr. Bolter.
“No, no,” replied Fagin, “not so bad as that. Not quite so bad.”
“What, I suppose he was—”
“Wanted,” interposed Fagin. “Yes, he was wanted.”
“Very particular?” inquired Mr. Bolter.
“No,” replied Fagin, “not very. He was charged with attempting to pick apocket, and they found a silver snuff-box on him,—his own, my dear, his own,for he took snuff himself, and was very fond of it. They remanded him tilltoday, for they thought they knew the owner. Ah! he was worth fifty boxes, andI’d give the price of as many to have him back. You should have known theDodger, my dear; you should have known the Dodger.”
“Well, but I shall know him, I hope; don’t yer think so?” said Mr. Bolter.
“I’m doubtful about it,” replied Fagin, with a sigh. “If they don’t get anyfresh evidence, it’ll only be a summary conviction, and we shall have him backagain after six weeks or so; but, if they do, it’s a case of lagging. They knowwhat a clever lad he is; he’ll be a lifer. They’ll make the Artful nothing lessthan a lifer.”
“What do you mean by lagging and a lifer?” demanded Mr. Bolter. “What’s thegood of talking in that way to me; why don’t yer speak so as I can understandyer?”
Fagin was about to translate these mysterious expressions into the vulgartongue; and, being interpreted, Mr. Bolter would have been informed that theyrepresented that combination of words, “transportation for life,” when thedialogue was cut short by the entry of Master Bates, with his hands in hisbreeches-pockets, and his face twisted into a look of semi-comical woe.
“It’s all up, Fagin,” said Charley, when he and his new companion had been madeknown to each other.
“What do you mean?”
“They’ve found the gentleman as owns the box; two or three more’s a coming to’dentify him; and the Artful’s booked for a passage out,” replied Master Bates.“I must have a full suit of mourning, Fagin, and a hatband, to wisit him in,afore he sets out upon his travels. To think of Jack Dawkins—lummy Jack—theDodger—the Artful Dodger—going abroad for a common twopenny-halfpennysneeze-box! I never thought he’d a done it under a gold watch, chain, andseals, at the lowest. Oh, why didn’t he rob some rich old gentleman of all hiswalables, and go out as a gentleman, and not like a common prig, without nohonour nor glory!”
With this expression of feeling for his unfortunate friend, Master Bates sathimself on the nearest chair with an aspect of chagrin and despondency.
“What do you talk about his having neither honour nor glory for!” exclaimedFagin, darting an angry look at his pupil. “Wasn’t he always the top-sawyeramong you all! Is there one of you that could touch him or come near him on anyscent! Eh?”
“Not one,” replied Master Bates, in a voice rendered husky by regret; “notone.”
“Then what do you talk of?” replied Fagin angrily; “what are you blubberingfor?”
“’Cause it isn’t on the rec-ord, is it?” said Charley, chafed into perfectdefiance of his venerable friend by the current of his regrets; “’cause itcan’t come out in the ’dictment; ’cause nobody will never know half of what hewas. How will he stand in the Newgate Calendar? P’raps not be there at all. Oh,my eye, my eye, wot a blow it is!”
“Ha! ha!” cried Fagin, extending his right hand, and turning to Mr. Bolter in afit of chuckling which shook him as though he had the palsy; “see what a pridethey take in their profession, my dear. Ain’t it beautiful?”
Mr. Bolter nodded assent, and Fagin, after contemplating the grief of CharleyBates for some seconds with evident satisfaction, stepped up to that younggentleman and patted him on the shoulder.
“Never mind, Charley,” said Fagin soothingly; “it’ll come out, it’ll be sure tocome out. They’ll all know what a clever fellow he was; he’ll show it himself,and not disgrace his old pals and teachers. Think how young he is too! What adistinction, Charley, to be lagged at his time of life!”
“Well, it is a honour that is!” said Charley, a little consoled.
“He shall have all he wants,” continued the Jew. “He shall be kept in the StoneJug, Charley, like a gentleman. Like a gentleman! With his beer every day, andmoney in his pocket to pitch and toss with, if he can’t spend it.”
“No, shall he though?” cried Charley Bates.
“Ay, that he shall,” replied Fagin, “and we’ll have a big-wig, Charley: onethat’s got the greatest gift of the gab: to carry on his defence; and he shallmake a speech for himself too, if he likes; and we’ll read it all in thepapers—‘Artful Dodger—shrieks of laughter—here the court was convulsed’—eh,Charley, eh?”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Master Bates, “what a lark that would be, wouldn’t it, Fagin?I say, how the Artful would bother ’em wouldn’t he?”
“Would!” cried Fagin. “He shall—he will!”
“Ah, to be sure, so he will,” repeated Charley, rubbing his hands.
“I think I see him now,” cried the Jew, bending his eyes upon his pupil.
“So do I,” cried Charley Bates. “Ha! ha! ha! so do I. I see it all afore me,upon my soul I do, Fagin. What a game! What a regular game! All the big-wigstrying to look solemn, and Jack Dawkins addressing of ’em as intimate andcomfortable as if he was the judge’s own son making a speech arter dinner—ha!ha! ha!”
In fact, Mr. Fagin had so well humoured his young friend’s eccentricdisposition, that Master Bates, who had at first been disposed to consider theimprisoned Dodger rather in the light of a victim, now looked upon him as thechief actor in a scene of most uncommon and exquisite humour, and felt quiteimpatient for the arrival of the time when his old companion should have sofavourable an opportunity of displaying his abilities.
“We must know how he gets on today, by some handy means or other,” said Fagin.“Let me think.”
“Shall I go?” asked Charley.
“Not for the world,” replied Fagin. “Are you mad, my dear, stark mad, thatyou’d walk into the very place where—No, Charley, no. One is enough to lose ata time.”
“You don’t mean to go yourself, I suppose?” said Charley with a humorous leer.
“That wouldn’t quite fit,” replied Fagin shaking his head.
“Then why don’t you send this new cove?” asked Master Bates, laying his hand onNoah’s arm. “Nobody knows him.”
“Why, if he didn’t mind—” observed Fagin.
“Mind!” interposed Charley. “What should he have to mind?”
“Really nothing, my dear,” said Fagin, turning to Mr. Bolter, “really nothing.”
“Oh, I dare say about that, yer know,” observed Noah, backing towards the door,and shaking his head with a kind of sober alarm. “No, no—none of that. It’s notin my department, that ain’t.”
“Wot department has he got, Fagin?” inquired Master Bates, surveying Noah’slank form with much disgust. “The cutting away when there’s anything wrong, andthe eating all the wittles when there’s everything right; is that his branch?”
“Never mind,” retorted Mr. Bolter; “and don’t yer take liberties with yersuperiors, little boy, or yer’ll find yerself in the wrong shop.”
Master Bates laughed so vehemently at this magnificent threat, that it was sometime before Fagin could interpose, and represent to Mr. Bolter that he incurredno possible danger in visiting the police-office; that, inasmuch as no accountof the little affair in which he had engaged, nor any description of hisperson, had yet been forwarded to the metropolis, it was very probable that hewas not even suspected of having resorted to it for shelter; and that, if hewere properly disguised, it would be as safe a spot for him to visit as any inLondon, inasmuch as it would be, of all places, the very last, to which hecould be supposed likely to resort of his own free will.
Persuaded, in part, by these representations, but overborne in a much greaterdegree by his fear of Fagin, Mr. Bolter at length consented, with a very badgrace, to undertake the expedition. By Fagin’s directions, he immediatelysubstituted for his own attire, a waggoner’s frock, velveteen breeches, andleather leggings: all of which articles the Jew had at hand. He was likewisefurnished with a felt hat well garnished with turnpike tickets; and a carter’swhip. Thus equipped, he was to saunter into the office, as some country fellowfrom Covent Garden market might be supposed to do for the gratification of hiscuriousity; and as he was as awkward, ungainly, and raw-boned a fellow as needbe, Mr. Fagin had no fear but that he would look the part to perfection.
These arrangements completed, he was informed of the necessary signs and tokensby which to recognise the Artful Dodger, and was conveyed by Master Batesthrough dark and winding ways to within a very short distance of Bow Street.Having described the precise situation of the office, and accompanied it withcopious directions how he was to walk straight up the passage, and when he gotinto the side, and pull off his hat as he went into the room, Charley Batesbade him hurry on alone, and promised to bide his return on the spot of theirparting.
Noah Claypole, or Morris Bolter as the reader pleases, punctually followed thedirections he had received, which—Master Bates being pretty well acquaintedwith the locality—were so exact that he was enabled to gain the magisterialpresence without asking any question, or meeting with any interruption by theway.
He found himself jostled among a crowd of people, chiefly women, who werehuddled together in a dirty frowsy room, at the upper end of which was a raisedplatform railed off from the rest, with a dock for the prisoners on the lefthand against the wall, a box for the witnesses in the middle, and a desk forthe magistrates on the right; the awful locality last named, being screened offby a partition which concealed the bench from the common gaze, and left thevulgar to imagine (if they could) the full majesty of justice.
There were only a couple of women in the dock, who were nodding to theiradmiring friends, while the clerk read some depositions to a couple ofpolicemen and a man in plain clothes who leant over the table. A jailer stoodreclining against the dock-rail, tapping his nose listlessly with a large key,except when he repressed an undue tendency to conversation among the idlers, byproclaiming silence; or looked sternly up to bid some woman “Take that babyout,” when the gravity of justice was disturbed by feeble cries, half-smotheredin the mother’s shawl, from some meagre infant. The room smelt close andunwholesome; the walls were dirt-discoloured; and the ceiling blackened. Therewas an old smoky bust over the mantel-shelf, and a dusty clock above thedock—the only thing present, that seemed to go on as it ought; for depravity,or poverty, or an habitual acquaintance with both, had left a taint on all theanimate matter, hardly less unpleasant than the thick greasy scum on everyinanimate object that frowned upon it.
Noah looked eagerly about him for the Dodger; but although there were severalwomen who would have done very well for that distinguished character’s motheror sister, and more than one man who might be supposed to bear a strongresemblance to his father, nobody at all answering the description given him ofMr. Dawkins was to be seen. He waited in a state of much suspense anduncertainty until the women, being committed for trial, went flaunting out; andthen was quickly relieved by the appearance of another prisoner who he felt atonce could be no other than the object of his visit.
It was indeed Mr. Dawkins, who, shuffling into the office with the big coatsleeves tucked up as usual, his left hand in his pocket, and his hat in hisright hand, preceded the jailer, with a rolling gait altogether indescribable,and, taking his place in the dock, requested in an audible voice to know whathe was placed in that ’ere disgraceful sitivation for.
“Hold your tongue, will you?” said the jailer.
“I’m an Englishman, ain’t I?” rejoined the Dodger. “Where are my priwileges?”
“You’ll get your privileges soon enough,” retorted the jailer, “and pepper with’em.”
“We’ll see wot the Secretary of State for the Home Affairs has got to say tothe beaks, if I don’t,” replied Mr. Dawkins. “Now then! Wot is this herebusiness? I shall thank the madg’strates to dispose of this here little affair,and not to keep me while they read the paper, for I’ve got an appointment witha genelman in the City, and as I am a man of my word and wery punctual inbusiness matters, he’ll go away if I ain’t there to my time, and then pr’apsther won’t be an action for damage against them as kep me away. Oh no,certainly not!”
At this point, the Dodger, with a show of being very particular with a view toproceedings to be had thereafter, desired the jailer to communicate “the namesof them two files as was on the bench.” Which so tickled the spectators, thatthey laughed almost as heartily as Master Bates could have done if he had heardthe request.
“Silence there!” cried the jailer.
“What is this?” inquired one of the magistrates.
“A pick-pocketing case, your worship.”
“Has the boy ever been here before?”
“He ought to have been, a many times,” replied the jailer. “He has been prettywell everywhere else. I know him well, your worship.”
“Oh! you know me, do you?” cried the Artful, making a note of the statement.“Wery good. That’s a case of deformation of character, any way.”
Here there was another laugh, and another cry of silence.
“Now then, where are the witnesses?” said the clerk.
“Ah! that’s right,” added the Dodger. “Where are they? I should like to see’em.”
This wish was immediately gratified, for a policeman stepped forward who hadseen the prisoner attempt the pocket of an unknown gentleman in a crowd, andindeed take a handkerchief therefrom, which, being a very old one, hedeliberately put back again, after trying it on his own countenance. For thisreason, he took the Dodger into custody as soon as he could get near him, andthe said Dodger, being searched, had upon his person a silver snuff-box, withthe owner’s name engraved upon the lid. This gentleman had been discovered onreference to the Court Guide, and being then and there present, swore that thesnuff-box was his, and that he had missed it on the previous day, the moment hehad disengaged himself from the crowd before referred to. He had also remarkeda young gentleman in the throng, particularly active in making his way about,and that young gentleman was the prisoner before him.
“Have you anything to ask this witness, boy?” said the magistrate.
“I wouldn’t abase myself by descending to hold no conversation with him,”replied the Dodger.
“Have you anything to say at all?”
“Do you hear his worship ask if you’ve anything to say?” inquired the jailer,nudging the silent Dodger with his elbow.
“I beg your pardon,” said the Dodger, looking up with an air of abstraction.“Did you redress yourself to me, my man?”
“I never see such an out-and-out young wagabond, your worship,” observed theofficer with a grin. “Do you mean to say anything, you young shaver?”
“No,” replied the Dodger, “not here, for this ain’t the shop for justice:besides which, my attorney is a-breakfasting this morning with the WicePresident of the House of Commons; but I shall have something to say elsewhere,and so will he, and so will a wery numerous and ’spectable circle ofacquaintance as’ll make them beaks wish they’d never been born, or that they’dgot their footmen to hang ’em up to their own hat-pegs, afore they let ’em comeout this morning to try it on upon me. I’ll—”
“There! He’s fully committed!” interposed the clerk. “Take him away.”
“Come on,” said the jailer.
“Oh ah! I’ll come on,” replied the Dodger, brushing his hat with the palm ofhis hand. “Ah! (to the Bench) it’s no use your looking frightened; I won’t showyou no mercy, not a ha’porth of it. You’ll pay for this, my finefellers. I wouldn’t be you for something! I wouldn’t go free, now, if you wasto fall down on your knees and ask me. Here, carry me off to prison! Take meaway!”
With these last words, the Dodger suffered himself to be led off by the collar;threatening, till he got into the yard, to make a parliamentary business of it;and then grinning in the officer’s face, with great glee and self-approval.
Having seen him locked up by himself in a little cell, Noah made the best ofhis way back to where he had left Master Bates. After waiting here some time,he was joined by that young gentleman, who had prudently abstained from showinghimself until he had looked carefully abroad from a snug retreat, andascertained that his new friend had not been followed by any impertinentperson.
The two hastened back together, to bear to Mr. Fagin the animating news thatthe Dodger was doing full justice to his bringing-up, and establishing forhimself a glorious reputation.
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CHAPTER XLIV. THE TIME ARRIVES FOR NANCY TO REDEEM HER PLEDGE TO ROSE MAYLIE. SHE FAILS.
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Adept as she was, in all the arts of cunning and dissimulation, the girl Nancycould not wholly conceal the effect which the knowledge of the step she hadtaken, wrought upon her mind. She remembered that both the crafty Jew and thebrutal Sikes had confided to her schemes, which had been hidden from allothers: in the full confidence that she was trustworthy and beyond the reach oftheir suspicion. Vile as those schemes were, desperate as were theiroriginators, and bitter as were her feelings towards Fagin, who had led her,step by step, deeper and deeper down into an abyss of crime and misery, whencewas no escape; still, there were times when, even towards him, she felt somerelenting, lest her disclosure should bring him within the iron grasp he had solong eluded, and he should fall at last—richly as he merited such a fate—by herhand.
But, these were the mere wanderings of a mind unable wholly to detach itselffrom old companions and associations, though enabled to fix itself steadily onone object, and resolved not to be turned aside by any consideration. Her fearsfor Sikes would have been more powerful inducements to recoil while there wasyet time; but she had stipulated that her secret should be rigidly kept, shehad dropped no clue which could lead to his discovery, she had refused, evenfor his sake, a refuge from all the guilt and wretchedness that encompassesher—and what more could she do! She was resolved.
Though all her mental struggles terminated in this conclusion, they forcedthemselves upon her, again and again, and left their traces too. She grew paleand thin, even within a few days. At times, she took no heed of what waspassing before her, or no part in conversations where once, she would have beenthe loudest. At other times, she laughed without merriment, and was noisywithout a moment afterwards—she sat silent and dejected, brooding with her headupon her hands, while the very effort by which she roused herself, told, moreforcibly than even these indications, that she was ill at ease, and that herthoughts were occupied with matters very different and distant from those inthe course of discussion by her companions.
It was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearest church struck the hour. Sikesand the Jew were talking, but they paused to listen. The girl looked up fromthe low seat on which she crouched, and listened too. Eleven.
“An hour this side of midnight,” said Sikes, raising the blind to look out andreturning to his seat. “Dark and heavy it is too. A good night for businessthis.”
“Ah!” replied Fagin. “What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there’s none quite readyto be done.”
“You’re right for once,” replied Sikes gruffly. “It is a pity, for I’m in thehumour too.”
Fagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly.
“We must make up for lost time when we’ve got things into a good train. That’sall I know,” said Sikes.
“That’s the way to talk, my dear,” replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on theshoulder. “It does me good to hear you.”
“Does you good, does it!” cried Sikes. “Well, so be it.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this concession.“You’re like yourself tonight, Bill. Quite like yourself.”
“I don’t feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my shoulder,so take it away,” said Sikes, casting off the Jew’s hand.
“It make you nervous, Bill,—reminds you of being nabbed, does it?” said Fagin,determined not to be offended.
“Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil,” returned Sikes. “There never wasanother man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I supposehe is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you camestraight from the old ’un without any father at all betwixt you; which Ishouldn’t wonder at, a bit.”
Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve,pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoingconversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room.
“Hallo!” cried Sikes. “Nance. Where’s the gal going to at this time of night?”
“Not far.”
“What answer’s that?” retorted Sikes. “Do you hear me?”
“I don’t know where,” replied the girl.
“Then I do,” said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he hadany real objection to the girl going where she listed. “Nowhere. Sit down.”
“I’m not well. I told you that before,” rejoined the girl. “I want a breath ofair.”
“Put your head out of the winder,” replied Sikes.
“There’s not enough there,” said the girl. “I want it in the street.”
“Then you won’t have it,” replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, lockedthe door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it upto the top of an old press. “There,” said the robber. “Now stop quietly whereyou are, will you?”
“It’s not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me,” said the girl turning verypale. “What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Know what I’m—Oh!” cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, “she’s out of her senses,you know, or she daren’t talk to me in that way.”
“You’ll drive me on the something desperate,” muttered the girl placing bothhands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak.“Let me go, will you,—this minute—this instant.”
“No!” said Sikes.
“Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It’ll be better for him. Do youhear me?” cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground.
“Hear you!” repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. “Aye!And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip onyour throat as’ll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you,you jade! Wot is it?”
“Let me go,” said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down onthe floor, before the door, she said, “Bill, let me go; you don’t know what youare doing. You don’t, indeed. For only one hour—do—do!”
“Cut my limbs off one by one!” cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, “IfI don’t think the gal’s stark raving mad. Get up.”
“Not till you let me go—not till you let me go—Never—never!” screamed the girl.Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, and suddenly pinioningher hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him by the way, into asmall room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her into achair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelveo’clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest thepoint any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no moreefforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoinedFagin.
“Whew!” said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. “Wot aprecious strange gal that is!”
“You may say that, Bill,” replied Fagin thoughtfully. “You may say that.”
“Wot did she take it into her head to go out tonight for, do you think?” askedSikes. “Come; you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?”
“Obstinacy; woman’s obstinacy, I suppose, my dear.”
“Well, I suppose it is,” growled Sikes. “I thought I had tamed her, but she’sas bad as ever.”
“Worse,” said Fagin thoughtfully. “I never knew her like this, for such alittle cause.”
“Nor I,” said Sikes. “I think she’s got a touch of that fever in her blood yet,and it won’t come out—eh?”
“Like enough.”
“I’ll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she’s took thatway again,” said Sikes.
Fagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment.
“She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on myback; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof,” saidSikes. “We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or other, it’sworried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made herrestless—eh?”
“That’s it, my dear,” replied the Jew in a whisper. “Hush!”
As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her formerseat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed herhead; and, after a little time, burst out laughing.
“Why, now she’s on the other tack!” exclaimed Sikes, turning a look ofexcessive surprise on his companion.
Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes,the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that therewas no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. Hepaused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebodywould light him down the dark stairs.
“Light him down,” said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. “It’s a pity he shouldbreak his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light.”
Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached thepassage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, ina whisper.
“What is it, Nancy, dear?”
“What do you mean?” replied the girl, in the same tone.
“The reason of all this,” replied Fagin. “If he”—he pointed with hisskinny fore-finger up the stairs—“is so hard with you (he’s a brute, Nance, abrute-beast), why don’t you—”
“Well?” said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her ear,and his eyes looking into hers.
“No matter just now. We’ll talk of this again. You have a friend in me, Nance;a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you wantrevenge on those that treat you like a dog—like a dog! worse than his dog, forhe humours him sometimes—come to me. I say, come to me. He is the mere hound ofa day, but you know me of old, Nance.”
“I know you well,” replied the girl, without manifesting the least emotion.“Good-night.”
She shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on hers, but said good-nightagain, in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look with a nod ofintelligence, closed the door between them.
Fagin walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were workingwithin his brain. He had conceived the idea—not from what had just passedthough that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by degrees—that Nancy,wearied of the housebreaker’s brutality, had conceived an attachment for somenew friend. Her altered manner, her repeated absences from home alone, hercomparative indifference to the interests of the gang for which she had oncebeen so zealous, and, added to these, her desperate impatience to leave homethat night at a particular hour, all favoured the supposition, and rendered it,to him at least, almost matter of certainty. The object of this new liking wasnot among his myrmidons. He would be a valuable acquisition with such anassistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin argued) be secured without delay.
There was another, and a darker object, to be gained. Sikes knew too much, andhis ruffian taunts had not galled Fagin the less, because the wounds werehidden. The girl must know, well, that if she shook him off, she could never besafe from his fury, and that it would be surely wreaked—to the maiming oflimbs, or perhaps the loss of life—on the object of her more recent fancy.
“With a little persuasion,” thought Fagin, “what more likely than that shewould consent to poison him? Women have done such things, and worse, to securethe same object before now. There would be the dangerous villain: the man Ihate: gone; another secured in his place; and my influence over the girl, witha knowledge of this crime to back it, unlimited.”
These things passed through the mind of Fagin, during the short time he satalone, in the housebreaker’s room; and with them uppermost in his thoughts, hehad taken the opportunity afterwards afforded him, of sounding the girl in thebroken hints he threw out at parting. There was no expression of surprise, noassumption of an inability to understand his meaning. The girl clearlycomprehended it. Her glance at parting showed that.
But perhaps she would recoil from a plot to take the life of Sikes, and thatwas one of the chief ends to be attained. “How,” thought Fagin, as he crepthomeward, “can I increase my influence with her? What new power can I acquire?”
Such brains are fertile in expedients. If, without extracting a confession fromherself, he laid a watch, discovered the object of her altered regard, andthreatened to reveal the whole history to Sikes (of whom she stood in no commonfear) unless she entered into his designs, could he not secure her compliance?
“I can,” said Fagin, almost aloud. “She durst not refuse me then. Not for herlife, not for her life! I have it all. The means are ready, and shall be set towork. I shall have you yet!”
He cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of the hand, towards thespot where he had left the bolder villain; and went on his way: busying hisbony hands in the folds of his tattered garment, which he wrenched tightly inhis grasp, as though there were a hated enemy crushed with every motion of hisfingers.
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CHAPTER XLV. NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION
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The old man was up, betimes, next morning, and waited impatiently for theappearance of his new associate, who after a delay that seemed interminable, atlength presented himself, and commenced a voracious assault on the breakfast.
“Bolter,” said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite MorrisBolter.
“Well, here I am,” returned Noah. “What’s the matter? Don’t yer ask me to doanything till I have done eating. That’s a great fault in this place. Yer neverget time enough over yer meals.”
“You can talk as you eat, can’t you?” said Fagin, cursing his dear youngfriend’s greediness from the very bottom of his heart.
“Oh yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk,” said Noah, cutting amonstrous slice of bread. “Where’s Charlotte?”
“Out,” said Fagin. “I sent her out this morning with the other young woman,because I wanted us to be alone.”
“Oh!” said Noah. “I wish yer’d ordered her to make some buttered toast first.Well. Talk away. Yer won’t interrupt me.”
There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he hadevidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business.
“You did well yesterday, my dear,” said Fagin. “Beautiful! Six shillings andninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune toyou.”
“Don’t you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can,” said Mr. Bolter.
“No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-canwas a perfect masterpiece.”
“Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,” remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. “Thepots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outsidea public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yerknow. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!”
Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out,took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread andbutter, and assisted himself to a second.
“I want you, Bolter,” said Fagin, leaning over the table, “to do a piece ofwork for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution.”
“I say,” rejoined Bolter, “don’t yer go shoving me into danger, or sending meany more o’ yer police-offices. That don’t suit me, that don’t; and so I tellyer.”
“That’s not the smallest danger in it—not the very smallest,” said the Jew;“it’s only to dodge a woman.”
“An old woman?” demanded Mr. Bolter.
“A young one,” replied Fagin.
“I can do that pretty well, I know,” said Bolter. “I was a regular cunningsneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to—”
“Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, ifpossible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or thehouse, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the information you can.”
“What’ll yer give me?” asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking hisemployer, eagerly, in the face.
“If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound,” said Fagin, wishing tointerest him in the scent as much as possible. “And that’s what I never gaveyet, for any job of work where there wasn’t valuable consideration to begained.”
“Who is she?” inquired Noah.
“One of us.”
“Oh Lor!” cried Noah, curling up his nose. “Yer doubtful of her, are yer?”
“She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they are,”replied Fagin.
“I see,” said Noah. “Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they’rerespectable people, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I’m your man.”
“I knew you would be,” cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal.
“Of course, of course,” replied Noah. “Where is she? Where am I to wait forher? Where am I to go?”
“All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I’ll point her out at the propertime,” said Fagin. “You keep ready, and leave the rest to me.”
That night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and equippedin his carter’s dress: ready to turn out at a word from Fagin. Six nightspassed—six long weary nights—and on each, Fagin came home with a disappointedface, and briefly intimated that it was not yet time. On the seventh, hereturned earlier, and with an exultation he could not conceal. It was Sunday.
“She goes abroad tonight,” said Fagin, “and on the right errand, I’m sure; forshe has been alone all day, and the man she is afraid of will not be back muchbefore daybreak. Come with me. Quick!”
Noah started up without saying a word; for the Jew was in a state of suchintense excitement that it infected him. They left the house stealthily, andhurrying through a labyrinth of streets, arrived at length before apublic-house, which Noah recognised as the same in which he had slept, on thenight of his arrival in London.
It was past eleven o’clock, and the door was closed. It opened softly on itshinges as Fagin gave a low whistle. They entered, without noise; and the doorwas closed behind them.
Scarcely venturing to whisper, but substituting dumb show for words, Fagin, andthe young Jew who had admitted them, pointed out the pane of glass to Noah, andsigned to him to climb up and observe the person in the adjoining room.
“Is that the woman?” he asked, scarcely above his breath.
Fagin nodded yes.
“I can’t see her face well,” whispered Noah. “She is looking down, and thecandle is behind her.”
“Stay there,” whispered Fagin. He signed to Barney, who withdrew. In aninstant, the lad entered the room adjoining, and, under pretence of snuffingthe candle, moved it in the required position, and, speaking to the girl,caused her to raise her face.
“I see her now,” cried the spy.
“Plainly?”
“I should know her among a thousand.”
He hastily descended, as the room-door opened, and the girl came out. Fagindrew him behind a small partition which was curtained off, and they held theirbreaths as she passed within a few feet of their place of concealment, andemerged by the door at which they had entered.
“Hist!” cried the lad who held the door. “Dow.”
Noah exchanged a look with Fagin, and darted out.
“To the left,” whispered the lad; “take the left had, and keep od the otherside.”
He did so; and, by the light of the lamps, saw the girl’s retreating figure,already at some distance before him. He advanced as near as he consideredprudent, and kept on the opposite side of the street, the better to observe hermotions. She looked nervously round, twice or thrice, and once stopped to lettwo men who were following close behind her, pass on. She seemed to gathercourage as she advanced, and to walk with a steadier and firmer step. The spypreserved the same relative distance between them, and followed: with his eyeupon her.
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CHAPTER XLVI. THE APPOINTMENT KEPT
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The church clocks chimed three quarters past eleven, as two figures emerged onLondon Bridge. One, which advanced with a swift and rapid step, was that of awoman who looked eagerly about her as though in quest of some expected object;the other figure was that of a man, who slunk along in the deepest shadow hecould find, and, at some distance, accommodated his pace to hers: stopping whenshe stopped: and as she moved again, creeping stealthily on: but never allowinghimself, in the ardour of his pursuit, to gain upon her footsteps. Thus, theycrossed the bridge, from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore, when the woman,apparently disappointed in her anxious scrutiny of the foot-passengers, turnedback. The movement was sudden; but he who watched her, was not thrown off hisguard by it; for, shrinking into one of the recesses which surmount the piersof the bridge, and leaning over the parapet the better to conceal his figure,he suffered her to pass on the opposite pavement. When she was about the samedistance in advance as she had been before, he slipped quietly down, andfollowed her again. At nearly the centre of the bridge, she stopped. The manstopped too.
It was a very dark night. The day had been unfavourable, and at that hour andplace there were few people stirring. Such as there were, hurried quickly past:very possibly without seeing, but certainly without noticing, either the woman,or the man who kept her in view. Their appearance was not calculated to attractthe importunate regards of such of London’s destitute population, as chanced totake their way over the bridge that night in search of some cold arch ordoorless hovel wherein to lay their heads; they stood there in silence: neitherspeaking nor spoken to, by any one who passed.
A mist hung over the river, deepening the red glare of the fires that burntupon the small craft moored off the different wharfs, and rendering darker andmore indistinct the murky buildings on the banks. The old smoke-stainedstorehouses on either side, rose heavy and dull from the dense mass of roofsand gables, and frowned sternly upon water too black to reflect even theirlumbering shapes. The tower of old Saint Saviour’s Church, and the spire ofSaint Magnus, so long the giant-warders of the ancient bridge, were visible inthe gloom; but the forest of shipping below bridge, and the thickly scatteredspires of churches above, were nearly all hidden from sight.
The girl had taken a few restless turns to and fro—closely watched meanwhile byher hidden observer—when the heavy bell of St. Paul’s tolled for the death ofanother day. Midnight had come upon the crowded city. The palace, thenight-cellar, the jail, the madhouse: the chambers of birth and death, ofhealth and sickness, the rigid face of the corpse and the calm sleep of thechild: midnight was upon them all.
The hour had not struck two minutes, when a young lady, accompanied by agrey-haired gentleman, alighted from a hackney-carriage within a short distanceof the bridge, and, having dismissed the vehicle, walked straight towards it.They had scarcely set foot upon its pavement, when the girl started, andimmediately made towards them.
They walked onward, looking about them with the air of persons who entertainedsome very slight expectation which had little chance of being realised, whenthey were suddenly joined by this new associate. They halted with anexclamation of surprise, but suppressed it immediately; for a man in thegarments of a countryman came close up—brushed against them, indeed—at thatprecise moment.
“Not here,” said Nancy hurriedly, “I am afraid to speak to you here. Comeaway—out of the public road—down the steps yonder!”
As she uttered these words, and indicated, with her hand, the direction inwhich she wished them to proceed, the countryman looked round, and roughlyasking what they took up the whole pavement for, passed on.
The steps to which the girl had pointed, were those which, on the Surrey bank,and on the same side of the bridge as Saint Saviour’s Church, form alanding-stairs from the river. To this spot, the man bearing the appearance ofa countryman, hastened unobserved; and after a moment’s survey of the place, hebegan to descend.
These stairs are a part of the bridge; they consist of three flights. Justbelow the end of the second, going down, the stone wall on the left terminatesin an ornamental pilaster facing towards the Thames. At this point the lowersteps widen: so that a person turning that angle of the wall, is necessarilyunseen by any others on the stairs who chance to be above him, if only a step.The countryman looked hastily round, when he reached this point; and as thereseemed no better place of concealment, and, the tide being out, there wasplenty of room, he slipped aside, with his back to the pilaster, and therewaited: pretty certain that they would come no lower, and that even if he couldnot hear what was said, he could follow them again, with safety.
So tardily stole the time in this lonely place, and so eager was the spy topenetrate the motives of an interview so different from what he had been led toexpect, that he more than once gave the matter up for lost, and persuadedhimself, either that they had stopped far above, or had resorted to someentirely different spot to hold their mysterious conversation. He was on thepoint of emerging from his hiding-place, and regaining the road above, when heheard the sound of footsteps, and directly afterwards of voices almost close athis ear.
He drew himself straight upright against the wall, and, scarcely breathing,listened attentively.
“This is far enough,” said a voice, which was evidently that of the gentleman.“I will not suffer the young lady to go any farther. Many people would havedistrusted you too much to have come even so far, but you see I am willing tohumour you.”
“To humour me!” cried the voice of the girl whom he had followed. “You’reconsiderate, indeed, sir. To humour me! Well, well, it’s no matter.”
“Why, for what,” said the gentleman in a kinder tone, “for what purpose can youhave brought us to this strange place? Why not have let me speak to you, abovethere, where it is light, and there is something stirring, instead of bringingus to this dark and dismal hole?”
“I told you before,” replied Nancy, “that I was afraid to speak to you there. Idon’t know why it is,” said the girl, shuddering, “but I have such a fear anddread upon me tonight that I can hardly stand.”
“A fear of what?” asked the gentleman, who seemed to pity her.
“I scarcely know of what,” replied the girl. “I wish I did. Horrible thoughtsof death, and shrouds with blood upon them, and a fear that has made me burn asif I was on fire, have been upon me all day. I was reading a book tonight, towile the time away, and the same things came into the print.”
“Imagination,” said the gentleman, soothing her.
“No imagination,” replied the girl in a hoarse voice. “I’ll swear I saw‘coffin’ written in every page of the book in large black letters,—aye, andthey carried one close to me, in the streets tonight.”
“There is nothing unusual in that,” said the gentleman. “They have passed meoften.”
“Real ones,” rejoined the girl. “This was not.”
There was something so uncommon in her manner, that the flesh of the concealedlistener crept as he heard the girl utter these words, and the blood chilledwithin him. He had never experienced a greater relief than in hearing the sweetvoice of the young lady as she begged her to be calm, and not allow herself tobecome the prey of such fearful fancies.
“Speak to her kindly,” said the young lady to her companion. “Poor creature!She seems to need it.”
“Your haughty religious people would have held their heads up to see me as I amtonight, and preached of flames and vengeance,” cried the girl. “Oh, dearlady, why ar’n’t those who claim to be God’s own folks as gentle and as kind tous poor wretches as you, who, having youth, and beauty, and all that they havelost, might be a little proud instead of so much humbler?”
“Ah!” said the gentleman. “A Turk turns his face, after washing it well, to theEast, when he says his prayers; these good people, after giving their facessuch a rub against the World as to take the smiles off, turn with no lessregularity, to the darkest side of Heaven. Between the Mussulman and thePharisee, commend me to the first!”
These words appeared to be addressed to the young lady, and were perhapsuttered with the view of affording Nancy time to recover herself. Thegentleman, shortly afterwards, addressed himself to her.
“You were not here last Sunday night,” he said.
“I couldn’t come,” replied Nancy; “I was kept by force.”
“By whom?”
“Him that I told the young lady of before.”
“You were not suspected of holding any communication with anybody on thesubject which has brought us here tonight, I hope?” asked the old gentleman.
“No,” replied the girl, shaking her head. “It’s not very easy for me to leavehim unless he knows why; I couldn’t give him a drink of laudanum before I cameaway.”
“Did he awake before you returned?” inquired the gentleman.
“No; and neither he nor any of them suspect me.”
“Good,” said the gentleman. “Now listen to me.”
“I am ready,” replied the girl, as he paused for a moment.
“This young lady,” the gentleman began, “has communicated to me, and to someother friends who can be safely trusted, what you told her nearly a fortnightsince. I confess to you that I had doubts, at first, whether you were to beimplicitly relied upon, but now I firmly believe you are.”
“I am,” said the girl earnestly.
“I repeat that I firmly believe it. To prove to you that I am disposed to trustyou, I tell you without reserve, that we propose to extort the secret, whateverit may be, from the fear of this man Monks. But if—if—” said the gentleman, “hecannot be secured, or, if secured, cannot be acted upon as we wish, you mustdeliver up the Jew.”
“Fagin,” cried the girl, recoiling.
“That man must be delivered up by you,” said the gentleman.
“I will not do it! I will never do it!” replied the girl. “Devil that he is,and worse than devil as he has been to me, I will never do that.”
“You will not?” said the gentleman, who seemed fully prepared for this answer.
“Never!” returned the girl.
“Tell me why?”
“For one reason,” rejoined the girl firmly, “for one reason, that the ladyknows and will stand by me in, I know she will, for I have her promise: and forthis other reason, besides, that, bad life as he has led, I have led a bad lifetoo; there are many of us who have kept the same courses together, and I’ll notturn upon them, who might—any of them—have turned upon me, but didn’t, bad asthey are.”
“Then,” said the gentleman, quickly, as if this had been the point he had beenaiming to attain; “put Monks into my hands, and leave him to me to deal with.”
“What if he turns against the others?”
“I promise you that in that case, if the truth is forced from him, there thematter will rest; there must be circumstances in Oliver’s little history whichit would be painful to drag before the public eye, and if the truth is onceelicited, they shall go scot free.”
“And if it is not?” suggested the girl.
“Then,” pursued the gentleman, “this Fagin shall not be brought to justicewithout your consent. In such a case I could show you reasons, I think, whichwould induce you to yield it.”
“Have I the lady’s promise for that?” asked the girl.
“You have,” replied Rose. “My true and faithful pledge.”
“Monks would never learn how you knew what you do?” said the girl, after ashort pause.
“Never,” replied the gentleman. “The intelligence should be brought to bearupon him, that he could never even guess.”
“I have been a liar, and among liars from a little child,” said the girl afteranother interval of silence, “but I will take your words.”
After receiving an assurance from both, that she might safely do so, sheproceeded in a voice so low that it was often difficult for the listener todiscover even the purport of what she said, to describe, by name and situation,the public-house whence she had been followed that night. From the manner inwhich she occasionally paused, it appeared as if the gentleman were making somehasty notes of the information she communicated. When she had thoroughlyexplained the localities of the place, the best position from which to watch itwithout exciting observation, and the night and hour on which Monks was most inthe habit of frequenting it, she seemed to consider for a few moments, for thepurpose of recalling his features and appearances more forcibly to herrecollection.
“He is tall,” said the girl, “and a strongly made man, but not stout; he has alurking walk; and as he walks, constantly looks over his shoulder, first on oneside, and then on the other. Don’t forget that, for his eyes are sunk in hishead so much deeper than any other man’s, that you might almost tell him bythat alone. His face is dark, like his hair and eyes; and, although he can’t bemore than six or eight and twenty, withered and haggard. His lips are oftendiscoloured and disfigured with the marks of teeth; for he has desperate fits,and sometimes even bites his hands and covers them with wounds—why did youstart?” said the girl, stopping suddenly.
The gentleman replied, in a hurried manner, that he was not conscious of havingdone so, and begged her to proceed.
“Part of this,” said the girl, “I have drawn out from other people at the houseI tell you of, for I have only seen him twice, and both times he was covered upin a large cloak. I think that’s all I can give you to know him by. Staythough,” she added. “Upon his throat: so high that you can see a part of itbelow his neckerchief when he turns his face: there is—”
“A broad red mark, like a burn or scald?” cried the gentleman.
“How’s this?” said the girl. “You know him!”
The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments they were sostill that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe.
“I think I do,” said the gentleman, breaking silence. “I should by yourdescription. We shall see. Many people are singularly like each other. It maynot be the same.”
As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he took astep or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell from thedistinctness with which he heard him mutter, “It must be he!”
“Now,” he said, returning: so it seemed by the sound: to the spot where he hadstood before, “you have given us most valuable assistance, young woman, and Iwish you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve you?”
“Nothing,” replied Nancy.
“You will not persist in saying that,” rejoined the gentleman, with a voice andemphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurateheart. “Think now. Tell me.”
“Nothing, sir,” rejoined the girl, weeping. “You can do nothing to help me. Iam past all hope, indeed.”
“You put yourself beyond its pale,” said the gentleman. “The past has been adreary waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent, and such pricelesstreasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never grants again,but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it is in our power tooffer you peace of heart and mind, for that must come as you seek it; but aquiet asylum, either in England, or, if you fear to remain here, in someforeign country, it is not only within the compass of our ability but our mostanxious wish to secure you. Before the dawn of morning, before this river wakesto the first glimpse of day-light, you shall be placed as entirely beyond thereach of your former associates, and leave as utter an absence of all tracebehind you, as if you were to disappear from the earth this moment. Come! Iwould not have you go back to exchange one word with any old companion, or takeone look at any old haunt, or breathe the very air which is pestilence anddeath to you. Quit them all, while there is time and opportunity!”
“She will be persuaded now,” cried the young lady. “She hesitates, I am sure.”
“I fear not, my dear,” said the gentleman.
“No sir, I do not,” replied the girl, after a short struggle. “I am chained tomy old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I must have gonetoo far to turn back,—and yet I don’t know, for if you had spoken to me so,some time ago, I should have laughed it off. But,” she said, looking hastilyround, “this fear comes over me again. I must go home.”
“Home!” repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the word.
“Home, lady,” rejoined the girl. “To such a home as I have raised for myselfwith the work of my whole life. Let us part. I shall be watched or seen. Go!Go! If I have done you any service all I ask is, that you leave me, and let mego my way alone.”
“It is useless,” said the gentleman, with a sigh. “We compromise her safety,perhaps, by staying here. We may have detained her longer than she expectedalready.”
“Yes, yes,” urged the girl. “You have.”
“What,” cried the young lady, “can be the end of this poor creature’s life!”
“What!” repeated the girl. “Look before you, lady. Look at that dark water. Howmany times do you read of such as I who spring into the tide, and leave noliving thing, to care for, or bewail them. It may be years hence, or it may beonly months, but I shall come to that at last.”
“Do not speak thus, pray,” returned the young lady, sobbing.
“It will never reach your ears, dear lady, and God forbid such horrors should!”replied the girl. “Good-night, good-night!”
The gentleman turned away.
“This purse,” cried the young lady. “Take it for my sake, that you may havesome resource in an hour of need and trouble.”
“No!” replied the girl. “I have not done this for money. Let me have that tothink of. And yet—give me something that you have worn: I should like to havesomething—no, no, not a ring—your gloves or handkerchief—anything that I cankeep, as having belonged to you, sweet lady. There. Bless you! God bless you.Good-night, good-night!”
The violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension of some discovery whichwould subject her to ill-usage and violence, seemed to determine the gentlemanto leave her, as she requested.
The sound of retreating footsteps were audible and the voices ceased.
The two figures of the young lady and her companion soon afterwards appearedupon the bridge. They stopped at the summit of the stairs.
“Hark!” cried the young lady, listening. “Did she call! I thought I heard hervoice.”
“No, my love,” replied Mr. Brownlow, looking sadly back. “She has not moved,and will not till we are gone.”
Rose Maylie lingered, but the old gentleman drew her arm through his, and ledher, with gentle force, away. As they disappeared, the girl sunk down nearly ather full length upon one of the stone stairs, and vented the anguish of herheart in bitter tears.
After a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering steps ascended thestreet. The astonished listener remained motionless on his post for someminutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with many cautious glances roundhim, that he was again alone, crept slowly from his hiding-place, and returned,stealthily and in the shade of the wall, in the same manner as he haddescended.
Peeping out, more than once, when he reached the top, to make sure that he wasunobserved, Noah Claypole darted away at his utmost speed, and made for theJew’s house as fast as his legs would carry him.
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CHAPTER XLVII. FATAL CONSEQUENCES
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It was nearly two hours before day-break; that time which in the autumn of theyear, may be truly called the dead of night; when the streets are silent anddeserted; when even sounds appear to slumber, and profligacy and riot havestaggered home to dream; it was at this still and silent hour, that Fagin satwatching in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red andblood-shot, that he looked less like a man, than like some hideous phantom,moist from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit.
He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with hisface turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. Hisright hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he bit his longblack nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few such fangs as shouldhave been a dog’s or rat’s.
Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep. Towardshim the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then broughtthem back again to the candle; which with a long-burnt wick drooping almostdouble, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly showedthat his thoughts were busy elsewhere.
Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme; hatredof the girl who had dared to palter with strangers; and utter distrust of thesincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter disappointment at the loss ofhis revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, and ruin, and death; and a fierceand deadly rage kindled by all; these were the passionate considerations which,following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot throughthe brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working athis heart.
He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take thesmallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a footstepin the street.
“At last,” he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. “At last!”
The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presentlyreturned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle underone arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed theburly frame of Sikes.
“There!” he said, laying the bundle on the table. “Take care of that, and dothe most you can with it. It’s been trouble enough to get; I thought I shouldhave been here, three hours ago.”
Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat downagain without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for aninstant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other,face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently,and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that thehousebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look ofreal affright.
“Wot now?” cried Sikes. “Wot do you look at a man so for?”
Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; buthis passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone.
“Damme!” said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. “He’s gonemad. I must look to myself here.”
“No, no,” rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. “It’s not—you’re not the person,Bill. I’ve no—no fault to find with you.”
“Oh, you haven’t, haven’t you?” said Sikes, looking sternly at him, andostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. “That’slucky—for one of us. Which one that is, don’t matter.”
“I’ve got that to tell you, Bill,” said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, “willmake you worse than me.”
“Aye?” returned the robber with an incredulous air. “Tell away! Look sharp, orNance will think I’m lost.”
“Lost!” cried Fagin. “She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind,already.”
Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew’s face, andreading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coatcollar in his huge hand and shook him soundly.
“Speak, will you!” he said; “or if you don’t, it shall be for want of breath.Open your mouth and say wot you’ve got to say in plain words. Out with it, youthundering old cur, out with it!”
“Suppose that lad that’s laying there—” Fagin began.
Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previouslyobserved him. “Well!” he said, resuming his former position.
“Suppose that lad,” pursued Fagin, “was to peach—to blow upon us all—firstseeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with ’emin the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might knowus by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to doall this, and besides to blow upon a plan we’ve all been in, more or less—ofhis own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and broughtto it on bread and water,—but of his own fancy; to please his own taste;stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peachingto them. Do you hear me?” cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. “Supposehe did all this, what then?”
“What then!” replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. “If he was left alive tillI came, I’d grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grainsas there are hairs upon his head.”
“What if I did it!” cried Fagin almost in a yell. “I, that knows so much, andcould hang so many besides myself!”
“I don’t know,” replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at themere suggestion. “I’d do something in the jail that ’ud get me put in irons;and if I was tried along with you, I’d fall upon you with them in the opencourt, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength,”muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, “that I could smash your head asif a loaded waggon had gone over it.”
“You would?”
“Would I!” said the housebreaker. “Try me.”
“If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or—”
“I don’t care who,” replied Sikes impatiently. “Whoever it was, I’d serve themthe same.”
Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped overthe bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forwardin his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering muchwhat all this questioning and preparation was to end in.
“Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!” said Fagin, looking up with an expression ofdevilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. “He’stired—tired with watching for her so long,—watching for her, Bill.”
“Wot d’ye mean?” asked Sikes, drawing back.
Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into asitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noahrubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him.
“Tell me that again—once again, just for him to hear,” said the Jew, pointingto Sikes as he spoke.
“Tell yer what?” asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly.
“That about— Nancy,” said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if toprevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. “You followed her?”
“Yes.”
“To London Bridge?”
“Yes.”
“Where she met two people.”
“So she did.”
“A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, whoasked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did—and todescribe him, which she did—and to tell her what house it was that we meet at,and go to, which she did—and where it could be best watched from, which shedid—and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. Shetold it all every word without a threat, without a murmur—she did—did she not?”cried Fagin, half mad with fury.
“All right,” replied Noah, scratching his head. “That’s just what it was!”
“What did they say, about last Sunday?”
“About last Sunday!” replied Noah, considering. “Why I told yer that before.”
“Again. Tell it again!” cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, andbrandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.
“They asked her,” said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have adawning perception who Sikes was, “they asked her why she didn’t come, lastSunday, as she promised. She said she couldn’t.”
“Why—why? Tell him that.”
“Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them ofbefore,” replied Noah.
“What more of him?” cried Fagin. “What more of the man she had told them ofbefore? Tell him that, tell him that.”
“Why, that she couldn’t very easily get out of doors unless he knew where shewas going to,” said Noah; “and so the first time she went to see the lady,she—ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did—she gave him adrink of laudanum.”
“Hell’s fire!” cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. “Let me go!”
Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly andfuriously, up the stairs.
“Bill, Bill!” cried Fagin, following him hastily. “A word. Only a word.”
The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable toopen the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when theJew came panting up.
“Let me out,” said Sikes. “Don’t speak to me; it’s not safe. Let me out, Isay!”
“Hear me speak a word,” rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. “Youwon’t be—”
“Well,” replied the other.
“You won’t be—too—violent, Bill?”
The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see eachother’s faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes ofboth, which could not be mistaken.
“I mean,” said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now useless, “nottoo violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold.”
Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned thelock, dashed into the silent streets.
Without one pause, or moment’s consideration; without once turning his head tothe right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering them to theground, but looking straight before him with savage resolution: his teeth sotightly compressed that the strained jaw seemed starting through his skin; therobber held on his headlong course, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle,until he reached his own door. He opened it, softly, with a key; strode lightlyup the stairs; and entering his own room, double-locked the door, and lifting aheavy table against it, drew back the curtain of the bed.
The girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. He had roused her from her sleep,for she raised herself with a hurried and startled look.
“Get up!” said the man.
“It is you, Bill!” said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his return.
“It is,” was the reply. “Get up.”
There was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew it from the candlestick,and hurled it under the grate. Seeing the faint light of early day without, thegirl rose to undraw the curtain.
“Let it be,” said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her. “There’s enough lightfor wot I’ve got to do.”
“Bill,” said the girl, in the low voice of alarm, “why do you look like that atme!”
The robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds, with dilated nostrils andheaving breast; and then, grasping her by the head and throat, dragged her intothe middle of the room, and looking once towards the door, placed his heavyhand upon her mouth.
“Bill, Bill!” gasped the girl, wrestling with the strength of mortal fear,—“I—Iwon’t scream or cry—not once—hear me—speak to me—tell me what I have done!”
“You know, you she devil!” returned the robber, suppressing his breath. “Youwere watched tonight; every word you said was heard.”
“Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I spared yours,” rejoined thegirl, clinging to him. “Bill, dear Bill, you cannot have the heart to kill me.Oh! think of all I have given up, only this one night, for you. Youshall have time to think, and save yourself this crime; I will not loosemy hold, you cannot throw me off. Bill, Bill, for dear God’s sake, for yourown, for mine, stop before you spill my blood! I have been true to you, upon myguilty soul I have!”
The man struggled violently, to release his arms; but those of the girl wereclasped round his, and tear her as he would, he could not tear them away.
“Bill,” cried the girl, striving to lay her head upon his breast, “thegentleman and that dear lady, told me tonight of a home in some foreigncountry where I could end my days in solitude and peace. Let me see them again,and beg them, on my knees, to show the same mercy and goodness to you; and letus both leave this dreadful place, and far apart lead better lives, and forgethow we have lived, except in prayers, and never see each other more. It isnever too late to repent. They told me so—I feel it now—but we must have time—alittle, little time!”
The housebreaker freed one arm, and grasped his pistol. The certainty ofimmediate detection if he fired, flashed across his mind even in the midst ofhis fury; and he beat it twice with all the force he could summon, upon theupturned face that almost touched his own.
She staggered and fell: nearly blinded with the blood that rained down from adeep gash in her forehead; but raising herself, with difficulty, on her knees,drew from her bosom a white handkerchief—Rose Maylie’s own—and holding it up,in her folded hands, as high towards Heaven as her feeble strength would allow,breathed one prayer for mercy to her Maker.
It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The murderer staggering backward to thewall, and shutting out the sight with his hand, seized a heavy club and struckher down.
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CHAPTER XLVIII. THE FLIGHT OF SIKES
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Of all bad deeds that, under cover of the darkness, had been committed withinwide London’s bounds since night hung over it, that was the worst. Of all thehorrors that rose with an ill scent upon the morning air, that was the foulestand most cruel.
The sun—the bright sun, that brings back, not light alone, but new life, andhope, and freshness to man—burst upon the crowded city in clear and radiantglory. Through costly-coloured glass and paper-mended window, through cathedraldome and rotten crevice, it shed its equal ray. It lighted up the room wherethe murdered woman lay. It did. He tried to shut it out, but it would streamin. If the sight had been a ghastly one in the dull morning, what was it, now,in all that brilliant light!
He had not moved; he had been afraid to stir. There had been a moan and motionof the hand; and, with terror added to rage, he had struck and struck again.Once he threw a rug over it; but it was worse to fancy the eyes, and imaginethem moving towards him, than to see them glaring upward, as if watching thereflection of the pool of gore that quivered and danced in the sunlight on theceiling. He had plucked it off again. And there was the body—mere flesh andblood, no more—but such flesh, and so much blood!
He struck a light, kindled a fire, and thrust the club into it. There was hairupon the end, which blazed and shrunk into a light cinder, and, caught by theair, whirled up the chimney. Even that frightened him, sturdy as he was; but heheld the weapon till it broke, and then piled it on the coals to burn away, andsmoulder into ashes. He washed himself, and rubbed his clothes; there werespots that would not be removed, but he cut the pieces out, and burnt them. Howthose stains were dispersed about the room! The very feet of the dog werebloody.
All this time he had, never once, turned his back upon the corpse; no, not fora moment. Such preparations completed, he moved, backward, towards the door:dragging the dog with him, lest he should soil his feet anew and carry out newevidence of the crime into the streets. He shut the door softly, locked it,took the key, and left the house.
He crossed over, and glanced up at the window, to be sure that nothing wasvisible from the outside. There was the curtain still drawn, which she wouldhave opened to admit the light she never saw again. It lay nearly under there.He knew that. God, how the sun poured down upon the very spot!
The glance was instantaneous. It was a relief to have got free of the room. Hewhistled on the dog, and walked rapidly away.
He went through Islington; strode up the hill at Highgate on which stands thestone in honour of Whittington; turned down to Highgate Hill, unsteady ofpurpose, and uncertain where to go; struck off to the right again, almost assoon as he began to descend it; and taking the foot-path across the fields,skirted Caen Wood, and so came on Hampstead Heath. Traversing the hollow by theVale of Heath, he mounted the opposite bank, and crossing the road which joinsthe villages of Hampstead and Highgate, made along the remaining portion of theheath to the fields at North End, in one of which he laid himself down under ahedge, and slept.
Soon he was up again, and away,—not far into the country, but back towardsLondon by the high-road—then back again—then over another part of the sameground as he already traversed—then wandering up and down in fields, and lyingon ditches’ brinks to rest, and starting up to make for some other spot, and dothe same, and ramble on again.
Where could he go, that was near and not too public, to get some meat anddrink? Hendon. That was a good place, not far off, and out of most people’sway. Thither he directed his steps,—running sometimes, and sometimes, with astrange perversity, loitering at a snail’s pace, or stopping altogether andidly breaking the hedges with a stick. But when he got there, all the people hemet—the very children at the doors—seemed to view him with suspicion. Back heturned again, without the courage to purchase bit or drop, though he had tastedno food for many hours; and once more he lingered on the Heath, uncertain whereto go.
He wandered over miles and miles of ground, and still came back to the oldplace. Morning and noon had passed, and the day was on the wane, and still herambled to and fro, and up and down, and round and round, and still lingeredabout the same spot. At last he got away, and shaped his course for Hatfield.
It was nine o’clock at night, when the man, quite tired out, and the dog,limping and lame from the unaccustomed exercise, turned down the hill by thechurch of the quiet village, and plodding along the little street, crept into asmall public-house, whose scanty light had guided them to the spot. There was afire in the tap-room, and some country-labourers were drinking before it.
They made room for the stranger, but he sat down in the furthest corner, andate and drank alone, or rather with his dog: to whom he cast a morsel of foodfrom time to time.
The conversation of the men assembled here, turned upon the neighbouring land,and farmers; and when those topics were exhausted, upon the age of some old manwho had been buried on the previous Sunday; the young men present consideringhim very old, and the old men present declaring him to have been quiteyoung—not older, one white-haired grandfather said, than he was—with ten orfifteen year of life in him at least—if he had taken care; if he had takencare.
There was nothing to attract attention, or excite alarm in this. The robber,after paying his reckoning, sat silent and unnoticed in his corner, and hadalmost dropped asleep, when he was half wakened by the noisy entrance of a newcomer.
This was an antic fellow, half pedlar and half mountebank, who travelled aboutthe country on foot to vend hones, strops, razors, washballs, harness-paste,medicine for dogs and horses, cheap perfumery, cosmetics, and such-like wares,which he carried in a case slung to his back. His entrance was the signal forvarious homely jokes with the countrymen, which slackened not until he had madehis supper, and opened his box of treasures, when he ingeniously contrived tounite business with amusement.
“And what be that stoof? Good to eat, Harry?” asked a grinning countryman,pointing to some composition-cakes in one corner.
“This,” said the fellow, producing one, “this is the infallible and invaluablecomposition for removing all sorts of stain, rust, dirt, mildew, spick, speck,spot, or spatter, from silk, satin, linen, cambric, cloth, crape, stuff,carpet, merino, muslin, bombazeen, or woollen stuff. Wine-stains, fruit-stains,beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, any stains, all come outat one rub with the infallible and invaluable composition. If a lady stains herhonour, she has only need to swallow one cake and she’s cured at once—for it’spoison. If a gentleman wants to prove this, he has only need to bolt one littlesquare, and he has put it beyond question—for it’s quite as satisfactory as apistol-bullet, and a great deal nastier in the flavour, consequently the morecredit in taking it. One penny a square. With all these virtues, one penny asquare!”
There were two buyers directly, and more of the listeners plainly hesitated.The vendor observing this, increased in loquacity.
“It’s all bought up as fast as it can be made,” said the fellow. “There arefourteen water-mills, six steam-engines, and a galvanic battery, alwaysa-working upon it, and they can’t make it fast enough, though the men work sohard that they die off, and the widows is pensioned directly, with twenty pounda-year for each of the children, and a premium of fifty for twins. One penny asquare! Two half-pence is all the same, and four farthings is received withjoy. One penny a square! Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains,paint-stains, pitch-stains, mud-stains, blood-stains! Here is a stain upon thehat of a gentleman in company, that I’ll take clean out, before he can order mea pint of ale.”
“Hah!” cried Sikes starting up. “Give that back.”
“I’ll take it clean out, sir,” replied the man, winking to the company, “beforeyou can come across the room to get it. Gentlemen all, observe the dark stainupon this gentleman’s hat, no wider than a shilling, but thicker than ahalf-crown. Whether it is a wine-stain, fruit-stain, beer-stain, water-stain,paint-stain, pitch-stain, mud-stain, or blood-stain—”
The man got no further, for Sikes with a hideous imprecation overthrew thetable, and tearing the hat from him, burst out of the house.
With the same perversity of feeling and irresolution that had fastened uponhim, despite himself, all day, the murderer, finding that he was not followed,and that they most probably considered him some drunken sullen fellow, turnedback up the town, and getting out of the glare of the lamps of a stage-coachthat was standing in the street, was walking past, when he recognised the mailfrom London, and saw that it was standing at the little post-office. He almostknew what was to come; but he crossed over, and listened.
The guard was standing at the door, waiting for the letter-bag. A man, dressedlike a game-keeper, came up at the moment, and he handed him a basket which layready on the pavement.
“That’s for your people,” said the guard. “Now, look alive in there, will you.Damn that ’ere bag, it warn’t ready night afore last; this won’t do, you know!”
“Anything new up in town, Ben?” asked the game-keeper, drawing back to thewindow-shutters, the better to admire the horses.
“No, nothing that I knows on,” replied the man, pulling on his gloves. “Corn’sup a little. I heerd talk of a murder, too, down Spitalfields way, but I don’treckon much upon it.”
“Oh, that’s quite true,” said a gentleman inside, who was looking out of thewindow. “And a dreadful murder it was.”
“Was it, sir?” rejoined the guard, touching his hat. “Man or woman, pray, sir?”
“A woman,” replied the gentleman. “It is supposed—”
“Now, Ben,” replied the coachman impatiently.
“Damn that ’ere bag,” said the guard; “are you gone to sleep in there?”
“Coming!” cried the office keeper, running out.
“Coming,” growled the guard. “Ah, and so’s the young ’ooman of property that’sgoing to take a fancy to me, but I don’t know when. Here, give hold. Allri—ight!”
The horn sounded a few cheerful notes, and the coach was gone.
Sikes remained standing in the street, apparently unmoved by what he had justheard, and agitated by no stronger feeling than a doubt where to go. At lengthhe went back again, and took the road which leads from Hatfield to St. Albans.
He went on doggedly; but as he left the town behind him, and plunged into thesolitude and darkness of the road, he felt a dread and awe creeping upon himwhich shook him to the core. Every object before him, substance or shadow,still or moving, took the semblance of some fearful thing; but these fears werenothing compared to the sense that haunted him of that morning’s ghastly figurefollowing at his heels. He could trace its shadow in the gloom, supply thesmallest item of the outline, and note how stiff and solemn it seemed to stalkalong. He could hear its garments rustling in the leaves, and every breath ofwind came laden with that last low cry. If he stopped it did the same. If heran, it followed—not running too: that would have been a relief: but like acorpse endowed with the mere machinery of life, and borne on one slowmelancholy wind that never rose or fell.
At times, he turned, with desperate determination, resolved to beat thisphantom off, though it should look him dead; but the hair rose on his head, andhis blood stood still, for it had turned with him and was behind him then. Hehad kept it before him that morning, but it was behind now—always. He leanedhis back against a bank, and felt that it stood above him, visibly out againstthe cold night-sky. He threw himself upon the road—on his back upon the road.At his head it stood, silent, erect, and still—a living grave-stone, with itsepitaph in blood.
Let no man talk of murderers escaping justice, and hint that Providence mustsleep. There were twenty score of violent deaths in one long minute of thatagony of fear.
There was a shed in a field he passed, that offered shelter for the night.Before the door, were three tall poplar trees, which made it very dark within;and the wind moaned through them with a dismal wail. He could not walkon, till daylight came again; and here he stretched himself close to thewall—to undergo new torture.
For now, a vision came before him, as constant and more terrible than that fromwhich he had escaped. Those widely staring eyes, so lustreless and so glassy,that he had better borne to see them than think upon them, appeared in themidst of the darkness: light in themselves, but giving light to nothing. Therewere but two, but they were everywhere. If he shut out the sight, there camethe room with every well-known object—some, indeed, that he would haveforgotten, if he had gone over its contents from memory—each in its accustomedplace. The body was in its place, and its eyes were as he saw them whenhe stole away. He got up, and rushed into the field without. The figure wasbehind him. He re-entered the shed, and shrunk down once more. The eyes werethere, before he had laid himself along.
And here he remained in such terror as none but he can know, trembling in everylimb, and the cold sweat starting from every pore, when suddenly there aroseupon the night-wind the noise of distant shouting, and the roar of voicesmingled in alarm and wonder. Any sound of men in that lonely place, even thoughit conveyed a real cause of alarm, was something to him. He regained hisstrength and energy at the prospect of personal danger; and springing to hisfeet, rushed into the open air.
The broad sky seemed on fire. Rising into the air with showers of sparks, androlling one above the other, were sheets of flame, lighting the atmosphere formiles round, and driving clouds of smoke in the direction where he stood. Theshouts grew louder as new voices swelled the roar, and he could hear the cry ofFire! mingled with the ringing of an alarm-bell, the fall of heavy bodies, andthe crackling of flames as they twined round some new obstacle, and shot aloftas though refreshed by food. The noise increased as he looked. There werepeople there—men and women—light, bustle. It was like new life to him. Hedarted onward—straight, headlong—dashing through brier and brake, and leapinggate and fence as madly as his dog, who careered with loud and sounding barkbefore him.
He came upon the spot. There were half-dressed figures tearing to and fro, someendeavouring to drag the frightened horses from the stables, others driving thecattle from the yard and out-houses, and others coming laden from the burningpile, amidst a shower of falling sparks, and the tumbling down of red-hotbeams. The apertures, where doors and windows stood an hour ago, disclosed amass of raging fire; walls rocked and crumbled into the burning well; themolten lead and iron poured down, white hot, upon the ground. Women andchildren shrieked, and men encouraged each other with noisy shouts and cheers.The clanking of the engine-pumps, and the spirting and hissing of the water asit fell upon the blazing wood, added to the tremendous roar. He shouted, too,till he was hoarse; and flying from memory and himself, plunged into thethickest of the throng. Hither and thither he dived that night: now working atthe pumps, and now hurrying through the smoke and flame, but never ceasing toengage himself wherever noise and men were thickest. Up and down the ladders,upon the roofs of buildings, over floors that quaked and trembled with hisweight, under the lee of falling bricks and stones, in every part of that greatfire was he; but he bore a charmed life, and had neither scratch nor bruise,nor weariness nor thought, till morning dawned again, and only smoke andblackened ruins remained.
This mad excitement over, there returned, with ten-fold force, the dreadfulconsciousness of his crime. He looked suspiciously about him, for the men wereconversing in groups, and he feared to be the subject of their talk. The dogobeyed the significant beck of his finger, and they drew off, stealthily,together. He passed near an engine where some men were seated, and they calledto him to share in their refreshment. He took some bread and meat; and as hedrank a draught of beer, heard the firemen, who were from London, talking aboutthe murder. “He has gone to Birmingham, they say,” said one: “but they’ll havehim yet, for the scouts are out, and by tomorrow night there’ll be a cry allthrough the country.”
He hurried off, and walked till he almost dropped upon the ground; then laydown in a lane, and had a long, but broken and uneasy sleep. He wandered onagain, irresolute and undecided, and oppressed with the fear of anothersolitary night.
Suddenly, he took the desperate resolution to going back to London.
“There’s somebody to speak to there, at all event,” he thought. “A goodhiding-place, too. They’ll never expect to nab me there, after this countryscent. Why can’t I lie by for a week or so, and, forcing blunt from Fagin, getabroad to France? Damme, I’ll risk it.”
He acted upon this impulse without delay, and choosing the least frequentedroads began his journey back, resolved to lie concealed within a short distanceof the metropolis, and, entering it at dusk by a circuitous route, to proceedstraight to that part of it which he had fixed on for his destination.
The dog, though. If any description of him were out, it would not be forgottenthat the dog was missing, and had probably gone with him. This might lead tohis apprehension as he passed along the streets. He resolved to drown him, andwalked on, looking about for a pond: picking up a heavy stone and tying it tohis handkerchief as he went.
The animal looked up into his master’s face while these preparations weremaking; whether his instinct apprehended something of their purpose, or therobber’s sidelong look at him was sterner than ordinary, he skulked a littlefarther in the rear than usual, and cowered as he came more slowly along. Whenhis master halted at the brink of a pool, and looked round to call him, hestopped outright.
“Do you hear me call? Come here!” cried Sikes.
The animal came up from the very force of habit; but as Sikes stooped to attachthe handkerchief to his throat, he uttered a low growl and started back.
“Come back!” said the robber.
The dog wagged his tail, but moved not. Sikes made a running noose and calledhim again.
The dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, and scoured away at his hardestspeed.
The man whistled again and again, and sat down and waited in the expectationthat he would return. But no dog appeared, and at length he resumed hisjourney.
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CHAPTER XLIX. MONKS AND MR. BROWNLOW AT LENGTH MEET. THEIR CONVERSATION, AND THE INTELLIGENCE THAT INTERRUPTS IT
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The twilight was beginning to close in, when Mr. Brownlow alighted from ahackney-coach at his own door, and knocked softly. The door being opened, asturdy man got out of the coach and stationed himself on one side of the steps,while another man, who had been seated on the box, dismounted too, and stoodupon the other side. At a sign from Mr. Brownlow, they helped out a third man,and taking him between them, hurried him into the house. This man was Monks.
They walked in the same manner up the stairs without speaking, and Mr.Brownlow, preceding them, led the way into a back-room. At the door of thisapartment, Monks, who had ascended with evident reluctance, stopped. The twomen looked at the old gentleman as if for instructions.
“He knows the alternative,” said Mr. Browlow. “If he hesitates or moves afinger but as you bid him, drag him into the street, call for the aid of thepolice, and impeach him as a felon in my name.”
“How dare you say this of me?” asked Monks.
“How dare you urge me to it, young man?” replied Mr. Brownlow, confronting himwith a steady look. “Are you mad enough to leave this house? Unhand him. There,sir. You are free to go, and we to follow. But I warn you, by all I hold mostsolemn and most sacred, that instant will have you apprehended on a charge offraud and robbery. I am resolute and immoveable. If you are determined to bethe same, your blood be upon your own head!”
“By what authority am I kidnapped in the street, and brought here by thesedogs?” asked Monks, looking from one to the other of the men who stood besidehim.
“By mine,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “Those persons are indemnified by me. If youcomplain of being deprived of your liberty—you had power and opportunity toretrieve it as you came along, but you deemed it advisable to remain quiet—Isay again, throw yourself for protection on the law. I will appeal to the lawtoo; but when you have gone too far to recede, do not sue to me for leniency,when the power will have passed into other hands; and do not say I plunged youdown the gulf into which you rushed, yourself.”
Monks was plainly disconcerted, and alarmed besides. He hesitated.
“You will decide quickly,” said Mr. Brownlow, with perfect firmness andcomposure. “If you wish me to prefer my charges publicly, and consign you to apunishment the extent of which, although I can, with a shudder, foresee, Icannot control, once more, I say, for you know the way. If not, and you appealto my forbearance, and the mercy of those you have deeply injured, seatyourself, without a word, in that chair. It has waited for you two whole days.”
Monks muttered some unintelligible words, but wavered still.
“You will be prompt,” said Mr. Brownlow. “A word from me, and the alternativehas gone for ever.”
Still the man hesitated.
“I have not the inclination to parley,” said Mr. Brownlow, “and, as I advocatethe dearest interests of others, I have not the right.”
“Is there—” demanded Monks with a faltering tongue,—“is there—no middlecourse?”
“None.”
Monks looked at the old gentleman, with an anxious eye; but, reading in hiscountenance nothing but severity and determination, walked into the room, and,shrugging his shoulders, sat down.
“Lock the door on the outside,” said Mr. Brownlow to the attendants, “and comewhen I ring.”
The men obeyed, and the two were left alone together.
“This is pretty treatment, sir,” said Monks, throwing down his hat and cloak,“from my father’s oldest friend.”
“It is because I was your father’s oldest friend, young man,” returned Mr.Brownlow; “it is because the hopes and wishes of young and happy years werebound up with him, and that fair creature of his blood and kindred who rejoinedher God in youth, and left me here a solitary, lonely man: it is because heknelt with me beside his only sisters’s death-bed when he was yet a boy, on themorning that would—but Heaven willed otherwise—have made her my young wife; itis because my seared heart clung to him, from that time forth, through all histrials and errors, till he died; it is because old recollections andassociations filled my heart, and even the sight of you brings with it oldthoughts of him; it is because of all these things that I am moved to treat yougently now—yes, Edward Leeford, even now—and blush for your unworthiness whobear the name.”
“What has the name to do with it?” asked the other, after contemplating, halfin silence, and half in dogged wonder, the agitation of his companion. “What isthe name to me?”
“Nothing,” replied Mr. Brownlow, “nothing to you. But it was hers, andeven at this distance of time brings back to me, an old man, the glow andthrill which I once felt, only to hear it repeated by a stranger. I am veryglad you have changed it—very—very.”
“This is all mighty fine,” said Monks (to retain his assumed designation) aftera long silence, during which he had jerked himself in sullen defiance to andfro, and Mr. Brownlow had sat, shading his face with his hand. “But what do youwant with me?”
“You have a brother,” said Mr. Brownlow, rousing himself: “a brother, thewhisper of whose name in your ear when I came behind you in the street, was, initself, almost enough to make you accompany me hither, in wonder and alarm.”
“I have no brother,” replied Monks. “You know I was an only child. Why do youtalk to me of brothers? You know that, as well as I.”
“Attend to what I do know, and you may not,” said Mr. Brownlow. “I shallinterest you by and by. I know that of the wretched marriage, into which familypride, and the most sordid and narrowest of all ambition, forced your unhappyfather when a mere boy, you were the sole and most unnatural issue.”
“I don’t care for hard names,” interrupted Monks with a jeering laugh. “Youknow the fact, and that’s enough for me.”
“But I also know,” pursued the old gentleman, “the misery, the slow torture,the protracted anguish of that ill-assorted union. I know how listlessly andwearily each of that wretched pair dragged on their heavy chain through a worldthat was poisoned to them both. I know how cold formalities were succeeded byopen taunts; how indifference gave place to dislike, dislike to hate, and hateto loathing, until at last they wrenched the clanking bond asunder, andretiring a wide space apart, carried each a galling fragment, of which nothingbut death could break the rivets, to hide it in new society beneath the gayestlooks they could assume. Your mother succeeded; she forgot it soon. But itrusted and cankered at your father’s heart for years.”
“Well, they were separated,” said Monks, “and what of that?”
“When they had been separated for some time,” returned Mr. Brownlow, “and yourmother, wholly given up to continental frivolities, had utterly forgotten theyoung husband ten good years her junior, who, with prospects blighted, lingeredon at home, he fell among new friends. This circumstance, at least, you knowalready.”
“Not I,” said Monks, turning away his eyes and beating his foot upon theground, as a man who is determined to deny everything. “Not I.”
“Your manner, no less than your actions, assures me that you have neverforgotten it, or ceased to think of it with bitterness,” returned Mr. Brownlow.“I speak of fifteen years ago, when you were not more than eleven years old,and your father but one-and-thirty—for he was, I repeat, a boy, when hisfather ordered him to marry. Must I go back to events which cast a shade uponthe memory of your parent, or will you spare it, and disclose to me the truth?”
“I have nothing to disclose,” rejoined Monks. “You must talk on if you will.”
“These new friends, then,” said Mr. Brownlow, “were a naval officer retiredfrom active service, whose wife had died some half-a-year before, and left himwith two children—there had been more, but, of all their family, happily buttwo survived. They were both daughters; one a beautiful creature of nineteen,and the other a mere child of two or three years old.”
“What’s this to me?” asked Monks.
“They resided,” said Mr. Brownlow, without seeming to hear the interruption,“in a part of the country to which your father in his wandering had repaired,and where he had taken up his abode. Acquaintance, intimacy, friendship, fastfollowed on each other. Your father was gifted as few men are. He had hissister’s soul and person. As the old officer knew him more and more, he grew tolove him. I would that it had ended there. His daughter did the same.”
The old gentleman paused; Monks was biting his lips, with his eyes fixed uponthe floor; seeing this, he immediately resumed:
“The end of a year found him contracted, solemnly contracted, to that daughter;the object of the first, true, ardent, only passion of a guileless girl.”
“Your tale is of the longest,” observed Monks, moving restlessly in his chair.
“It is a true tale of grief and trial, and sorrow, young man,” returned Mr.Brownlow, “and such tales usually are; if it were one of unmixed joy andhappiness, it would be very brief. At length one of those rich relations tostrengthen whose interest and importance your father had been sacrificed, asothers are often—it is no uncommon case—died, and to repair the misery he hadbeen instrumental in occasioning, left him his panacea for all griefs—Money. Itwas necessary that he should immediately repair to Rome, whither this man hadsped for health, and where he had died, leaving his affairs in great confusion.He went; was seized with mortal illness there; was followed, the moment theintelligence reached Paris, by your mother who carried you with her; he diedthe day after her arrival, leaving no will—no will—so that the wholeproperty fell to her and you.”
At this part of the recital Monks held his breath, and listened with a face ofintense eagerness, though his eyes were not directed towards the speaker. AsMr. Brownlow paused, he changed his position with the air of one who hasexperienced a sudden relief, and wiped his hot face and hands.
“Before he went abroad, and as he passed through London on his way,” said Mr.Brownlow, slowly, and fixing his eyes upon the other’s face, “he came to me.”
“I never heard of that,” interrupted Monks in a tone intended to appearincredulous, but savouring more of disagreeable surprise.
“He came to me, and left with me, among some other things, a picture—a portraitpainted by himself—a likeness of this poor girl—which he did not wish to leavebehind, and could not carry forward on his hasty journey. He was worn byanxiety and remorse almost to a shadow; talked in a wild, distracted way, ofruin and dishonour worked by himself; confided to me his intention to converthis whole property, at any loss, into money, and, having settled on his wifeand you a portion of his recent acquisition, to fly the country—I guessed toowell he would not fly alone—and never see it more. Even from me, his old andearly friend, whose strong attachment had taken root in the earth that coveredone most dear to both—even from me he withheld any more particular confession,promising to write and tell me all, and after that to see me once again, forthe last time on earth. Alas! That was the last time. I had no letter,and I never saw him more.”
“I went,” said Mr. Brownlow, after a short pause, “I went, when all was over,to the scene of his—I will use the term the world would freely use, for worldlyharshness or favour are now alike to him—of his guilty love, resolved that ifmy fears were realised that erring child should find one heart and home toshelter and compassionate her. The family had left that part a week before;they had called in such trifling debts as were outstanding, discharged them,and left the place by night. Why, or whither, none can tell.”
Monks drew his breath yet more freely, and looked round with a smile oftriumph.
“When your brother,” said Mr. Brownlow, drawing nearer to the other’s chair,“When your brother: a feeble, ragged, neglected child: was cast in my way by astronger hand than chance, and rescued by me from a life of vice and infamy—”
“What?” cried Monks.
“By me,” said Mr. Brownlow. “I told you I should interest you before long. Isay by me—I see that your cunning associate suppressed my name, although foraught he knew, it would be quite strange to your ears. When he was rescued byme, then, and lay recovering from sickness in my house, his strong resemblanceto this picture I have spoken of, struck me with astonishment. Even when Ifirst saw him in all his dirt and misery, there was a lingering expression inhis face that came upon me like a glimpse of some old friend flashing on one ina vivid dream. I need not tell you he was snared away before I knew hishistory—”
“Why not?” asked Monks hastily.
“Because you know it well.”
“I!”
“Denial to me is vain,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “I shall show you that I knowmore than that.”
“You—you—can’t prove anything against me,” stammered Monks. “I defy you to doit!”
“We shall see,” returned the old gentleman with a searching glance. “I lost theboy, and no efforts of mine could recover him. Your mother being dead, I knewthat you alone could solve the mystery if anybody could, and as when I had lastheard of you you were on your own estate in the West Indies—whither, as youwell know, you retired upon your mother’s death to escape the consequences ofvicious courses here—I made the voyage. You had left it, months before, andwere supposed to be in London, but no one could tell where. I returned. Youragents had no clue to your residence. You came and went, they said, asstrangely as you had ever done: sometimes for days together and sometimes notfor months: keeping to all appearance the same low haunts and mingling with thesame infamous herd who had been your associates when a fierce ungovernable boy.I wearied them with new applications. I paced the streets by night and day, butuntil two hours ago, all my efforts were fruitless, and I never saw you for aninstant.”
“And now you do see me,” said Monks, rising boldly, “what then? Fraud androbbery are high-sounding words—justified, you think, by a fancied resemblancein some young imp to an idle daub of a dead man’s Brother! You don’t even knowthat a child was born of this maudlin pair; you don’t even know that.”
“I did not,” replied Mr. Brownlow, rising too; “but within the lastfortnight I have learnt it all. You have a brother; you know it, and him. Therewas a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving the secret and the gain to youat her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely to be theresult of this sad connection, which child was born, and accidentallyencountered by you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblanceto your father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existedproofs—proofs long suppressed—of his birth and parentage. Those proofs weredestroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew,‘the only proofs of the boy’s identity lie at the bottom of the river, andthe old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.’Unworthy son, coward, liar,—you, who hold your councils with thieves andmurderers in dark rooms at night,—you, whose plots and wiles have brought aviolent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you,—you, who fromyour cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father’s heart, and in whomall evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in ahideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind—you, EdwardLeeford, do you still brave me!”
“No, no, no!” returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges.
“Every word!” cried the gentleman, “every word that has passed between you andthis detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught yourwhispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child hasturned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes ofvirtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party.”
“No, no,” interposed Monks. “I—I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquirethe truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn’t know the cause. I thoughtit was a common quarrel.”
“It was the partial disclosure of your secrets,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “Willyou disclose the whole?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it beforewitnesses?”
“That I promise too.”
“Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me tosuch a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?”
“If you insist upon that, I’ll do that also,” replied Monks.
“You must do more than that,” said Mr. Brownlow. “Make restitution to aninnocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of aguilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of thewill. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and thengo where you please. In this world you need meet no more.”
While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on thisproposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one handand his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman(Mr. Losberne) entered the room in violent agitation.
“The man will be taken,” he cried. “He will be taken tonight!”
“The murderer?” asked Mr. Brownlow.
“Yes, yes,” replied the other. “His dog has been seen lurking about some oldhaunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be,there, under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in everydirection. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and theytell me he cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed byGovernment tonight.”
“I will give fifty more,” said Mr. Brownlow, “and proclaim it with my own lipsupon the spot, if I can reach it. Where is Mr. Maylie?”
“Harry? As soon as he had seen your friend here, safe in a coach with you, hehurried off to where he heard this,” replied the doctor, “and mounting hishorse sallied forth to join the first party at some place in the outskirtsagreed upon between them.”
“Fagin,” said Mr. Brownlow; “what of him?”
“When I last heard, he had not been taken, but he will be, or is, by this time.They’re sure of him.”
“Have you made up your mind?” asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks.
“Yes,” he replied. “You—you—will be secret with me?”
“I will. Remain here till I return. It is your only hope of safety.”
They left the room, and the door was again locked.
“What have you done?” asked the doctor in a whisper.
“All that I could hope to do, and even more. Coupling the poor girl’sintelligence with my previous knowledge, and the result of our good friend’sinquiries on the spot, I left him no loophole of escape, and laid bare thewhole villainy which by these lights became plain as day. Write and appoint theevening after tomorrow, at seven, for the meeting. We shall be down there, afew hours before, but shall require rest: especially the young lady, whomay have greater need of firmness than either you or I can quite foreseejust now. But my blood boils to avenge this poor murdered creature. Which wayhave they taken?”
“Drive straight to the office and you will be in time,” replied Mr. Losberne.“I will remain here.”
The two gentlemen hastily separated; each in a fever of excitement whollyuncontrollable.
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CHAPTER L. THE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE
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Near to that part of the Thames on which the church at Rotherhithe abuts, wherethe buildings on the banks are dirtiest and the vessels on the river blackestwith the dust of colliers and the smoke of close-built low-roofed houses, thereexists the filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary of the manylocalities that are hidden in London, wholly unknown, even by name, to thegreat mass of its inhabitants.
To reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate through a maze of close,narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by the roughest and poorest of watersidepeople, and devoted to the traffic they may be supposed to occasion. Thecheapest and least delicate provisions are heaped in the shops; the coarsestand commonest articles of wearing apparel dangle at the salesman’s door, andstream from the house-parapet and windows. Jostling with unemployed labourersof the lowest class, ballast-heavers, coal-whippers, brazen women, raggedchildren, and the raff and refuse of the river, he makes his way withdifficulty along, assailed by offensive sights and smells from the narrowalleys which branch off on the right and left, and deafened by the clash ofponderous waggons that bear great piles of merchandise from the stacks ofwarehouses that rise from every corner. Arriving, at length, in streets remoterand less-frequented than those through which he has passed, he walks beneathtottering house-fronts projecting over the pavement, dismantled walls that seemto totter as he passes, chimneys half crushed half hesitating to fall, windowsguarded by rusty iron bars that time and dirt have almost eaten away, everyimaginable sign of desolation and neglect.
In such a neighbourhood, beyond Dockhead in the Borough of Southwark, standsJacob’s Island, surrounded by a muddy ditch, six or eight feet deep and fifteenor twenty wide when the tide is in, once called Mill Pond, but known in thedays of this story as Folly Ditch. It is a creek or inlet from the Thames, andcan always be filled at high water by opening the sluices at the Lead Millsfrom which it took its old name. At such times, a stranger, looking from one ofthe wooden bridges thrown across it at Mill Lane, will see the inhabitants ofthe houses on either side lowering from their back doors and windows, buckets,pails, domestic utensils of all kinds, in which to haul the water up; and whenhis eye is turned from these operations to the houses themselves, his utmostastonishment will be excited by the scene before him. Crazy wooden galleriescommon to the backs of half a dozen houses, with holes from which to look uponthe slime beneath; windows, broken and patched, with poles thrust out, on whichto dry the linen that is never there; rooms so small, so filthy, so confined,that the air would seem too tainted even for the dirt and squalor which theyshelter; wooden chambers thrusting themselves out above the mud, andthreatening to fall into it—as some have done; dirt-besmeared walls anddecaying foundations; every repulsive lineament of poverty, every loathsomeindication of filth, rot, and garbage; all these ornament the banks of FollyDitch.
In Jacob’s Island, the warehouses are roofless and empty; the walls arecrumbling down; the windows are windows no more; the doors are falling into thestreets; the chimneys are blackened, but they yield no smoke. Thirty or fortyyears ago, before losses and chancery suits came upon it, it was a thrivingplace; but now it is a desolate island indeed. The houses have no owners; theyare broken open, and entered upon by those who have the courage; and there theylive, and there they die. They must have powerful motives for a secretresidence, or be reduced to a destitute condition indeed, who seek a refuge inJacob’s Island.
In an upper room of one of these houses—a detached house of fair size, ruinousin other respects, but strongly defended at door and window: of which house theback commanded the ditch in manner already described—there were assembled threemen, who, regarding each other every now and then with looks expressive ofperplexity and expectation, sat for some time in profound and gloomy silence.One of these was Toby Crackit, another Mr. Chitling, and the third a robber offifty years, whose nose had been almost beaten in, in some old scuffle, andwhose face bore a frightful scar which might probably be traced to the sameoccasion. This man was a returned transport, and his name was Kags.
“I wish,” said Toby turning to Mr. Chitling, “that you had picked out someother crib when the two old ones got too warm, and had not come here, my finefeller.”
“Why didn’t you, blunder-head!” said Kags.
“Well, I thought you’d have been a little more glad to see me than this,”replied Mr. Chitling, with a melancholy air.
“Why, look’e, young gentleman,” said Toby, “when a man keeps himself so veryex-clusive as I have done, and by that means has a snug house over his headwith nobody a prying and smelling about it, it’s rather a startling thing tohave the honour of a wisit from a young gentleman (however respectable andpleasant a person he may be to play cards with at conweniency) circumstanced asyou are.”
“Especially, when the exclusive young man has got a friend stopping with him,that’s arrived sooner than was expected from foreign parts, and is too modestto want to be presented to the Judges on his return,” added Mr. Kags.
There was a short silence, after which Toby Crackit, seeming to abandon ashopeless any further effort to maintain his usual devil-may-care swagger,turned to Chitling and said,
“When was Fagin took then?”
“Just at dinner-time—two o’clock this afternoon. Charley and I made our luckyup the wash-us chimney, and Bolter got into the empty water-butt, headdownwards; but his legs were so precious long that they stuck out at the top,and so they took him too.”
“And Bet?”
“Poor Bet! She went to see the Body, to speak to who it was,” replied Chitling,his countenance falling more and more, “and went off mad, screaming and raving,and beating her head against the boards; so they put a strait-weskut on her andtook her to the hospital—and there she is.”
“Wot’s come of young Bates?” demanded Kags.
“He hung about, not to come over here afore dark, but he’ll be here soon,”replied Chitling. “There’s nowhere else to go to now, for the people at theCripples are all in custody, and the bar of the ken—I went up there and see itwith my own eyes—is filled with traps.”
“This is a smash,” observed Toby, biting his lips. “There’s more than one willgo with this.”
“The sessions are on,” said Kags: “if they get the inquest over, and Bolterturns King’s evidence: as of course he will, from what he’s said already: theycan prove Fagin an accessory before the fact, and get the trial on on Friday,and he’ll swing in six days from this, by G—!”
“You should have heard the people groan,” said Chitling; “the officers foughtlike devils, or they’d have torn him away. He was down once, but they made aring round him, and fought their way along. You should have seen how he lookedabout him, all muddy and bleeding, and clung to them as if they were hisdearest friends. I can see ’em now, not able to stand upright with the pressingof the mob, and draggin him along amongst ’em; I can see the people jumping up,one behind another, and snarling with their teeth and making at him; I can seethe blood upon his hair and beard, and hear the cries with which the womenworked themselves into the centre of the crowd at the street corner, and sworethey’d tear his heart out!”
The horror-stricken witness of this scene pressed his hands upon his ears, andwith his eyes closed got up and paced violently to and fro, like onedistracted.
While he was thus engaged, and the two men sat by in silence with their eyesfixed upon the floor, a pattering noise was heard upon the stairs, and Sikes’sdog bounded into the room. They ran to the window, downstairs, and into thestreet. The dog had jumped in at an open window; he made no attempt to followthem, nor was his master to be seen.
“What’s the meaning of this?” said Toby when they had returned. “He can’t becoming here. I—I—hope not.”
“If he was coming here, he’d have come with the dog,” said Kags, stooping downto examine the animal, who lay panting on the floor. “Here! Give us some waterfor him; he has run himself faint.”
“He’s drunk it all up, every drop,” said Chitling after watching the dog sometime in silence. “Covered with mud—lame—half blind—he must have come a longway.”
“Where can he have come from!” exclaimed Toby. “He’s been to the other kens ofcourse, and finding them filled with strangers come on here, where he’s beenmany a time and often. But where can he have come from first, and how comes hehere alone without the other!”
“He”—(none of them called the murderer by his old name)—“He can’t have madeaway with himself. What do you think?” said Chitling.
Toby shook his head.
“If he had,” said Kags, “the dog ’ud want to lead us away to where he did it.No. I think he’s got out of the country, and left the dog behind. He must havegiven him the slip somehow, or he wouldn’t be so easy.”
This solution, appearing the most probable one, was adopted as the right; thedog, creeping under a chair, coiled himself up to sleep, without more noticefrom anybody.
It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed uponthe table. The terrible events of the last two days had made a deep impressionon all three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their own position.They drew their chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They spokelittle, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if theremains of the murdered woman lay in the next room.
They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at thedoor below.
“Young Bates,” said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felthimself.
The knocking came again. No, it wasn’t he. He never knocked like that.
Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There wasno need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was onthe alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.
“We must let him in,” he said, taking up the candle.
“Isn’t there any help for it?” asked the other man in a hoarse voice.
“None. He must come in.”
“Don’t leave us in the dark,” said Kags, taking down a candle from thechimney-piece, and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the knockingwas twice repeated before he had finished.
Crackit went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the lowerpart of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head underhis hat. He drew them slowly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks,beard of three days’ growth, wasted flesh, short thick breath; it was the veryghost of Sikes.
He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room, butshuddering as he was about to drop into it, and seeming to glance over hisshoulder, dragged it back close to the wall—as close as it would go—and groundit against it—and sat down.
Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in silence. If aneye were furtively raised and met his, it was instantly averted. When hishollow voice broke silence, they all three started. They seemed never to haveheard its tones before.
“How came that dog here?” he asked.
“Alone. Three hours ago.”
“Tonight’s paper says that Fagin’s took. Is it true, or a lie?”
“True.”
They were silent again.
“Damn you all!” said Sikes, passing his hand across his forehead. “Have younothing to say to me?”
There was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke.
“You that keep this house,” said Sikes, turning his face to Crackit, “do youmean to sell me, or to let me lie here till this hunt is over?”
“You may stop here, if you think it safe,” returned the person addressed, aftersome hesitation.
Sikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him: rather trying to turn hishead than actually doing it: and said, “Is—it—the body—is it buried?”
They shook their heads.
“Why isn’t it!” he retorted with the same glance behind him. “Wot do they keepsuch ugly things above the ground for?—Who’s that knocking?”
Crackit intimated, by a motion of his hand as he left the room, that there wasnothing to fear; and directly came back with Charley Bates behind him. Sikessat opposite the door, so that the moment the boy entered the room heencountered his figure.
“Toby,” said the boy falling back, as Sikes turned his eyes towards him, “whydidn’t you tell me this, downstairs?”
There had been something so tremendous in the shrinking off of the three, thatthe wretched man was willing to propitiate even this lad. Accordingly henodded, and made as though he would shake hands with him.
“Let me go into some other room,” said the boy, retreating still farther.
“Charley!” said Sikes, stepping forward. “Don’t you—don’t you know me?”
“Don’t come nearer me,” answered the boy, still retreating, and looking, withhorror in his eyes, upon the murderer’s face. “You monster!”
The man stopped half-way, and they looked at each other; but Sikes’s eyes sunkgradually to the ground.
“Witness you three,” cried the boy shaking his clenched fist, and becoming moreand more excited as he spoke. “Witness you three—I’m not afraid of him—if theycome here after him, I’ll give him up; I will. I tell you out at once. He maykill me for it if he likes, or if he dares, but if I am here I’ll give him up.I’d give him up if he was to be boiled alive. Murder! Help! If there’s thepluck of a man among you three, you’ll help me. Murder! Help! Down with him!”
Pouring out these cries, and accompanying them with violent gesticulation, theboy actually threw himself, single-handed, upon the strong man, and in theintensity of his energy and the suddenness of his surprise, brought him heavilyto the ground.
The three spectators seemed quite stupefied. They offered no interference, andthe boy and man rolled on the ground together; the former, heedless of theblows that showered upon him, wrenching his hands tighter and tighter in thegarments about the murderer’s breast, and never ceasing to call for help withall his might.
The contest, however, was too unequal to last long. Sikes had him down, and hisknee was on his throat, when Crackit pulled him back with a look of alarm, andpointed to the window. There were lights gleaming below, voices in loud andearnest conversation, the tramp of hurried footsteps—endless they seemed innumber—crossing the nearest wooden bridge. One man on horseback seemed to beamong the crowd; for there was the noise of hoofs rattling on the unevenpavement. The gleam of lights increased; the footsteps came more thickly andnoisily on. Then, came a loud knocking at the door, and then a hoarse murmurfrom such a multitude of angry voices as would have made the boldest quail.
“Help!” shrieked the boy in a voice that rent the air. “He’s here! Break downthe door!”
“In the King’s name,” cried the voices without; and the hoarse cry arose again,but louder.
“Break down the door!” screamed the boy. “I tell you they’ll never open it. Runstraight to the room where the light is. Break down the door!”
Strokes, thick and heavy, rattled upon the door and lower window-shutters as heceased to speak, and a loud huzzah burst from the crowd; giving the listener,for the first time, some adequate idea of its immense extent.
“Open the door of some place where I can lock this screeching Hell-babe,” criedSikes fiercely; running to and fro, and dragging the boy, now, as easily as ifhe were an empty sack. “That door. Quick!” He flung him in, bolted it, andturned the key. “Is the downstairs door fast?”
“Double-locked and chained,” replied Crackit, who, with the other two men,still remained quite helpless and bewildered.
“The panels—are they strong?”
“Lined with sheet-iron.”
“And the windows too?”
“Yes, and the windows.”
“Damn you!” cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up the sash and menacing thecrowd. “Do your worst! I’ll cheat you yet!”
Of all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears, none could exceed thecry of the infuriated throng. Some shouted to those who were nearest to set thehouse on fire; others roared to the officers to shoot him dead. Among them all,none showed such fury as the man on horseback, who, throwing himself out of thesaddle, and bursting through the crowd as if he were parting water, cried,beneath the window, in a voice that rose above all others, “Twenty guineas tothe man who brings a ladder!”
The nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds echoed it. Some called forladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with torches to and fro as if toseek them, and still came back and roared again; some spent their breath inimpotent curses and execrations; some pressed forward with the ecstasy ofmadmen, and thus impeded the progress of those below; some among the boldestattempted to climb up by the water-spout and crevices in the wall; and allwaved to and fro, in the darkness beneath, like a field of corn moved by anangry wind: and joined from time to time in one loud furious roar.
“The tide,” cried the murderer, as he staggered back into the room, and shutthe faces out, “the tide was in as I came up. Give me a rope, a long rope.They’re all in front. I may drop into the Folly Ditch, and clear off that way.Give me a rope, or I shall do three more murders and kill myself.”
The panic-stricken men pointed to where such articles were kept; the murderer,hastily selecting the longest and strongest cord, hurried up to the house-top.
All the windows in the rear of the house had been long ago bricked up, exceptone small trap in the room where the boy was locked, and that was too smalleven for the passage of his body. But, from this aperture, he had never ceasedto call on those without, to guard the back; and thus, when the murdereremerged at last on the house-top by the door in the roof, a loud shoutproclaimed the fact to those in front, who immediately began to pour round,pressing upon each other in an unbroken stream.
He planted a board, which he had carried up with him for the purpose, so firmlyagainst the door that it must be matter of great difficulty to open it from theinside; and creeping over the tiles, looked over the low parapet.
The water was out, and the ditch a bed of mud.
The crowd had been hushed during these few moments, watching his motions anddoubtful of his purpose, but the instant they perceived it and knew it wasdefeated, they raised a cry of triumphant execration to which all theirprevious shouting had been whispers. Again and again it rose. Those who were attoo great a distance to know its meaning, took up the sound; it echoed andre-echoed; it seemed as though the whole city had poured its population out tocurse him.
On pressed the people from the front—on, on, on, in a strong struggling currentof angry faces, with here and there a glaring torch to lighten them up, andshow them out in all their wrath and passion. The houses on the opposite sideof the ditch had been entered by the mob; sashes were thrown up, or torn bodilyout; there were tiers and tiers of faces in every window; cluster upon clusterof people clinging to every house-top. Each little bridge (and there were threein sight) bent beneath the weight of the crowd upon it. Still the currentpoured on to find some nook or hole from which to vent their shouts, and onlyfor an instant see the wretch.
“They have him now,” cried a man on the nearest bridge. “Hurrah!”
The crowd grew light with uncovered heads; and again the shout uprose.
“I will give fifty pounds,” cried an old gentleman from the same quarter, “tothe man who takes him alive. I will remain here, till he come to ask me forit.”
There was another roar. At this moment the word was passed among the crowd thatthe door was forced at last, and that he who had first called for the ladderhad mounted into the room. The stream abruptly turned, as this intelligence ranfrom mouth to mouth; and the people at the windows, seeing those upon thebridges pouring back, quitted their stations, and running into the street,joined the concourse that now thronged pell-mell to the spot they had left:each man crushing and striving with his neighbour, and all panting withimpatience to get near the door, and look upon the criminal as the officersbrought him out. The cries and shrieks of those who were pressed almost tosuffocation, or trampled down and trodden under foot in the confusion, weredreadful; the narrow ways were completely blocked up; and at this time, betweenthe rush of some to regain the space in front of the house, and the unavailingstruggles of others to extricate themselves from the mass, the immediateattention was distracted from the murderer, although the universal eagernessfor his capture was, if possible, increased.
The man had shrunk down, thoroughly quelled by the ferocity of the crowd, andthe impossibility of escape; but seeing this sudden change with no lessrapidity than it had occurred, he sprang upon his feet, determined to make onelast effort for his life by dropping into the ditch, and, at the risk of beingstifled, endeavouring to creep away in the darkness and confusion.
Roused into new strength and energy, and stimulated by the noise within thehouse which announced that an entrance had really been effected, he set hisfoot against the stack of chimneys, fastened one end of the rope tightly andfirmly round it, and with the other made a strong running noose by the aid ofhis hands and teeth almost in a second. He could let himself down by the cordto within a less distance of the ground than his own height, and had his knifeready in his hand to cut it then and drop.
At the very instant when he brought the loop over his head previous to slippingit beneath his arm-pits, and when the old gentleman before-mentioned (who hadclung so tight to the railing of the bridge as to resist the force of thecrowd, and retain his position) earnestly warned those about him that the manwas about to lower himself down—at that very instant the murderer, lookingbehind him on the roof, threw his arms above his head, and uttered a yell ofterror.
“The eyes again!” he cried in an unearthly screech.
Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over theparapet. The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as abow-string, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet.There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung,with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand.
The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The murdererswung lifeless against the wall; and the boy, thrusting aside the dangling bodywhich obscured his view, called to the people to come and take him out, forGod’s sake.
A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on theparapet with a dismal howl, and collecting himself for a spring, jumped for thedead man’s shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turningcompletely over as he went; and striking his head against a stone, dashed outhis brains.
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CHAPTER LI. AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY
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The events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when Oliverfound himself, at three o’clock in the afternoon, in a travelling-carriagerolling fast towards his native town. Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin,and the good doctor were with him: and Mr. Brownlow followed in a post-chaise,accompanied by one other person whose name had not been mentioned.
They had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of agitationand uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, andalmost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companions,who shared it, in at least an equal degree. He and the two ladies had been verycarefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the nature of the admissionswhich had been forced from Monks; and although they knew that the object oftheir present journey was to complete the work which had been so well begun,still the whole matter was enveloped in enough of doubt and mystery to leavethem in endurance of the most intense suspense.
The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne’s assistance, cautiously stoppedall channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence ofthe dreadful occurrences that had so recently taken place. “It was quite true,” hesaid, “that they must know them before long, but it might be at a better timethan the present, and it could not be at a worse.” So, they travelled on insilence: each busied with reflections on the object which had brought themtogether: and no one disposed to give utterance to the thoughts which crowdedupon all.
But if Oliver, under these influences, had remained silent while they journeyedtowards his birth-place by a road he had never seen, how the whole current ofhis recollections ran back to old times, and what a crowd of emotions werewakened up in his breast, when they turned into that which he had traversed onfoot: a poor houseless, wandering boy, without a friend to help him, or a roofto shelter his head.
“See there, there!” cried Oliver, eagerly clasping the hand of Rose, andpointing out at the carriage window; “that’s the stile I came over; there arethe hedges I crept behind, for fear any one should overtake me and force meback! Yonder is the path across the fields, leading to the old house where Iwas a little child! Oh Dick, Dick, my dear old friend, if I could only see younow!”
“You will see him soon,” replied Rose, gently taking his folded hands betweenher own. “You shall tell him how happy you are, and how rich you have grown,and that in all your happiness you have none so great as the coming back tomake him happy too.”
“Yes, yes,” said Oliver, “and we’ll—we’ll take him away from here, and have himclothed and taught, and send him to some quiet country place where he may growstrong and well,—shall we?”
Rose nodded “yes,” for the boy was smiling through such happy tears that shecould not speak.
“You will be kind and good to him, for you are to every one,” said Oliver. “Itwill make you cry, I know, to hear what he can tell; but never mind, nevermind, it will be all over, and you will smile again—I know that too—to thinkhow changed he is; you did the same with me. He said ‘God bless you’ to me whenI ran away,” cried the boy with a burst of affectionate emotion; “and I willsay ‘God bless you’ now, and show him how I love him for it!”
As they approached the town, and at length drove through its narrow streets, itbecame matter of no small difficulty to restrain the boy within reasonablebounds. There was Sowerberry’s the undertaker’s just as it used to be, onlysmaller and less imposing in appearance than he remembered it—there were allthe well-known shops and houses, with almost every one of which he had someslight incident connected—there was Gamfield’s cart, the very cart he used tohave, standing at the old public-house door—there was the workhouse, the drearyprison of his youthful days, with its dismal windows frowning on thestreet—there was the same lean porter standing at the gate, at sight of whomOliver involuntarily shrunk back, and then laughed at himself for being sofoolish, then cried, then laughed again—there were scores of faces at the doorsand windows that he knew quite well—there was nearly everything as if he hadleft it but yesterday, and all his recent life had been but a happy dream.
But it was pure, earnest, joyful reality. They drove straight to the door ofthe chief hotel (which Oliver used to stare up at, with awe, and think a mightypalace, but which had somehow fallen off in grandeur and size); and here wasMr. Grimwig all ready to receive them, kissing the young lady, and the old onetoo, when they got out of the coach, as if he were the grandfather of the wholeparty, all smiles and kindness, and not offering to eat his head—no, not once;not even when he contradicted a very old postboy about the nearest road toLondon, and maintained he knew it best, though he had only come that way once,and that time fast asleep. There was dinner prepared, and there were bedroomsready, and everything was arranged as if by magic.
Notwithstanding all this, when the hurry of the first half-hour was over, thesame silence and constraint prevailed that had marked their journey down. Mr.Brownlow did not join them at dinner, but remained in a separate room. The twoother gentlemen hurried in and out with anxious faces, and, during the shortintervals when they were present, conversed apart. Once, Mrs. Maylie was calledaway, and after being absent for nearly an hour, returned with eyes swollenwith weeping. All these things made Rose and Oliver, who were not in any newsecrets, nervous and uncomfortable. They sat wondering, in silence; or, if theyexchanged a few words, spoke in whispers, as if they were afraid to hear thesound of their own voices.
At length, when nine o’clock had come, and they began to think they were tohear no more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig entered the room,followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked with surprise tosee; for they told him it was his brother, and it was the same man he had metat the market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his littleroom. Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, atthe astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers inhis hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated.
“This is a painful task,” said he, “but these declarations, which have beensigned in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. Iwould have spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your own lipsbefore we part, and you know why.”
“Go on,” said the person addressed, turning away his face. “Quick. I havealmost done enough, I think. Don’t keep me here.”
“This child,” said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his handupon his head, “is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, mydear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving himbirth.”
“Yes,” said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart hemight have heard. “That is the bastard child.”
“The term you use,” said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, “is a reproach to those longsince passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on noone living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town.”
“In the workhouse of this town,” was the sullen reply. “You have the storythere.” He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke.
“I must have it here, too,” said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon thelisteners.
“Listen then! You!” returned Monks. “His father being taken ill at Rome, wasjoined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who wentfrom Paris and took me with her—to look after his property, for what I know,for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us,for his senses were gone, and he slumbered on till next day, when he died.Among the papers in his desk, were two, dated on the night his illness firstcame on, directed to yourself”; he addressed himself to Mr. Brownlow; “andenclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of thepackage that it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead. One of thesepapers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the other a will.”
“What of the letter?” asked Mr. Brownlow.
“The letter?—A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitentconfession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale on the girlthat some secret mystery—to be explained one day—prevented his marrying herjust then; and so she had gone on, trusting patiently to him, until she trustedtoo far, and lost what none could ever give her back. She was, at that time,within a few months of her confinement. He told her all he had meant to do, tohide her shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse hismemory, or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on her or theiryoung child; for all the guilt was his. He reminded her of the day he had givenher the little locket and the ring with her christian name engraved upon it,and a blank left for that which he hoped one day to have bestowed uponher—prayed her yet to keep it, and wear it next her heart, as she had donebefore—and then ran on, wildly, in the same words, over and over again, as ifhe had gone distracted. I believe he had.”
“The will,” said Mr. Brownlow, as Oliver’s tears fell fast.
Monks was silent.
“The will,” said Mr. Brownlow, speaking for him, “was in the same spirit as theletter. He talked of miseries which his wife had brought upon him; of therebellious disposition, vice, malice, and premature bad passions of you hisonly son, who had been trained to hate him; and left you, and your mother, eachan annuity of eight hundred pounds. The bulk of his property he divided intotwo equal portions—one for Agnes Fleming, and the other for their child, if itshould be born alive, and ever come of age. If it were a girl, it was toinherit the money unconditionally; but if a boy, only on the stipulation thatin his minority he should never have stained his name with any public act ofdishonour, meanness, cowardice, or wrong. He did this, he said, to mark hisconfidence in the mother, and his conviction—only strengthened by approachingdeath—that the child would share her gentle heart, and noble nature. If he weredisappointed in this expectation, then the money was to come to you: for then,and not till then, when both children were equal, would he recognise your priorclaim upon his purse, who had none upon his heart, but had, from an infant,repulsed him with coldness and aversion.”
“My mother,” said Monks, in a louder tone, “did what a woman should have done.She burnt this will. The letter never reached its destination; but that, andother proofs, she kept, in case they ever tried to lie away the blot. Thegirl’s father had the truth from her with every aggravation that her violenthate—I love her for it now—could add. Goaded by shame and dishonour he fledwith his children into a remote corner of Wales, changing his very name thathis friends might never know of his retreat; and here, no great whileafterwards, he was found dead in his bed. The girl had left her home, insecret, some weeks before; he had searched for her, on foot, in every town andvillage near; it was on the night when he returned home, assured that she haddestroyed herself, to hide her shame and his, that his old heart broke.”
There was a short silence here, until Mr. Brownlow took up the thread of thenarrative.
“Years after this,” he said, “this man’s—Edward Leeford’s—mother came to me. Hehad left her, when only eighteen; robbed her of jewels and money; gambled,squandered, forged, and fled to London: where for two years he had associatedwith the lowest outcasts. She was sinking under a painful and incurabledisease, and wished to recover him before she died. Inquiries were set on foot,and strict searches made. They were unavailing for a long time, but ultimatelysuccessful; and he went back with her to France.”
“There she died,” said Monks, “after a lingering illness; and, on herdeath-bed, she bequeathed these secrets to me, together with her unquenchableand deadly hatred of all whom they involved—though she need not have left methat, for I had inherited it long before. She would not believe that the girlhad destroyed herself, and the child too, but was filled with the impressionthat a male child had been born, and was alive. I swore to her, if ever itcrossed my path, to hunt it down; never to let it rest; to pursue it with thebitterest and most unrelenting animosity; to vent upon it the hatred that Ideeply felt, and to spit upon the empty vaunt of that insulting will bydragging it, if I could, to the very gallows-foot. She was right. He came in myway at last. I began well; and, but for babbling drabs, I would have finishedas I began!”
As the villain folded his arms tight together, and muttered curses on himselfin the impotence of baffled malice, Mr. Brownlow turned to the terrified groupbeside him, and explained that the Jew, who had been his old accomplice andconfidant, had a large reward for keeping Oliver ensnared: of which some partwas to be given up, in the event of his being rescued: and that a dispute onthis head had led to their visit to the country house for the purpose ofidentifying him.
“The locket and ring?” said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Monks.
“I bought them from the man and woman I told you of, who stole them from thenurse, who stole them from the corpse,” answered Monks without raising hiseyes. “You know what became of them.”
Mr. Brownlow merely nodded to Mr. Grimwig, who disappearing with greatalacrity, shortly returned, pushing in Mrs. Bumble, and dragging her unwillingconsort after him.
“Do my hi’s deceive me!” cried Mr. Bumble, with ill-feigned enthusiasm, “or isthat little Oliver? Oh O-li-ver, if you know’d how I’ve been a-grieving foryou—”
“Hold your tongue, fool,” murmured Mrs. Bumble.
“Isn’t natur, natur, Mrs. Bumble?” remonstrated the workhouse master. “Can’t Ibe supposed to feel—I as brought him up porochially—when I see hima-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of the very affablest description! Ialways loved that boy as if he’d been my—my—my own grandfather,” said Mr.Bumble, halting for an appropriate comparison. “Master Oliver, my dear, youremember the blessed gentleman in the white waistcoat? Ah! he went to heavenlast week, in a oak coffin with plated handles, Oliver.”
“Come, sir,” said Mr. Grimwig, tartly; “suppress your feelings.”
“I will do my endeavours, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble. “How do you do, sir? I hopeyou are very well.”
This salutation was addressed to Mr. Brownlow, who had stepped up to within ashort distance of the respectable couple. He inquired, as he pointed to Monks,
“Do you know that person?”
“No,” replied Mrs. Bumble flatly.
“Perhaps you don’t?” said Mr. Brownlow, addressing her spouse.
“I never saw him in all my life,” said Mr. Bumble.
“Nor sold him anything, perhaps?”
“No,” replied Mrs. Bumble.
“You never had, perhaps, a certain gold locket and ring?” said Mr. Brownlow.
“Certainly not,” replied the matron. “Why are we brought here to answer to suchnonsense as this?”
Again Mr. Brownlow nodded to Mr. Grimwig; and again that gentleman limped awaywith extraordinary readiness. But not again did he return with a stout man andwife; for this time, he led in two palsied women, who shook and tottered asthey walked.
“You shut the door the night old Sally died,” said the foremost one, raisingher shrivelled hand, “but you couldn’t shut out the sound, nor stop thechinks.”
“No, no,” said the other, looking round her and wagging her toothless jaws.“No, no, no.”
“We heard her try to tell you what she’d done, and saw you take a paper fromher hand, and watched you too, next day, to the pawnbroker’s shop,” said thefirst.
“Yes,” added the second, “and it was a ‘locket and gold ring.’ We found outthat, and saw it given you. We were by. Oh! we were by.”
“And we know more than that,” resumed the first, “for she told us often, longago, that the young mother had told her that, feeling she should never get overit, she was on her way, at the time that she was taken ill, to die near thegrave of the father of the child.”
“Would you like to see the pawnbroker himself?” asked Mr. Grimwig with a motiontowards the door.
“No,” replied the woman; “if he”—she pointed to Monks—“has been coward enoughto confess, as I see he has, and you have sounded all these hags till you havefound the right ones, I have nothing more to say. I did sell them, andthey’re where you’ll never get them. What then?”
“Nothing,” replied Mr. Brownlow, “except that it remains for us to take carethat neither of you is employed in a situation of trust again. You may leavethe room.”
“I hope,” said Mr. Bumble, looking about him with great ruefulness, as Mr.Grimwig disappeared with the two old women: “I hope that this unfortunatelittle circumstance will not deprive me of my porochial office?”
“Indeed it will,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “You may make up your mind to that, andthink yourself well off besides.”
“It was all Mrs. Bumble. She would do it,” urged Mr. Bumble; firstlooking round to ascertain that his partner had left the room.
“That is no excuse,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “You were present on the occasion ofthe destruction of these trinkets, and indeed are the more guilty of the two,in the eye of the law; for the law supposes that your wife acts under yourdirection.”
“If the law supposes that,” said Mr. Bumble, squeezing his hat emphatically inboth hands, “the law is a ass—a idiot. If that’s the eye of the law, the law isa bachelor; and the worst I wish the law is, that his eye may be opened byexperience—by experience.”
Laying great stress on the repetition of these two words, Mr. Bumble fixed hishat on very tight, and putting his hands in his pockets, followed his helpmatedownstairs.
“Young lady,” said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Rose, “give me your hand. Do nottremble. You need not fear to hear the few remaining words we have to say.”
“If they have—I do not know how they can, but if they have—any reference tome,” said Rose, “pray let me hear them at some other time. I have not strengthor spirits now.”
“Nay,” returned the old gentleman, drawing her arm through his; “you have morefortitude than this, I am sure. Do you know this young lady, sir?”
“Yes,” replied Monks.
“I never saw you before,” said Rose faintly.
“I have seen you often,” returned Monks.
“The father of the unhappy Agnes had two daughters,” said Mr. Brownlow.“What was the fate of the other—the child?”
“The child,” replied Monks, “when her father died in a strange place, in astrange name, without a letter, book, or scrap of paper that yielded thefaintest clue by which his friends or relatives could be traced—the child wastaken by some wretched cottagers, who reared it as their own.”
“Go on,” said Mr. Brownlow, signing to Mrs. Maylie to approach. “Go on!”
“You couldn’t find the spot to which these people had repaired,” said Monks,“but where friendship fails, hatred will often force a way. My mother found it,after a year of cunning search—ay, and found the child.”
“She took it, did she?”
“No. The people were poor and began to sicken—at least the man did—of theirfine humanity; so she left it with them, giving them a small present of moneywhich would not last long, and promised more, which she never meant to send.She didn’t quite rely, however, on their discontent and poverty for the child’sunhappiness, but told the history of the sister’s shame, with such alterationsas suited her; bade them take good heed of the child, for she came of badblood; and told them she was illegitimate, and sure to go wrong at one time orother. The circumstances countenanced all this; the people believed it; andthere the child dragged on an existence, miserable enough even to satisfy us,until a widow lady, residing, then, at Chester, saw the girl by chance, pitiedher, and took her home. There was some cursed spell, I think, against us; forin spite of all our efforts she remained there and was happy. I lost sight ofher, two or three years ago, and saw her no more until a few months back.”
“Do you see her now?”
“Yes. Leaning on your arm.”
“But not the less my niece,” cried Mrs. Maylie, folding the fainting girl inher arms; “not the less my dearest child. I would not lose her now, for all thetreasures of the world. My sweet companion, my own dear girl!”
“The only friend I ever had,” cried Rose, clinging to her. “The kindest, bestof friends. My heart will burst. I cannot bear all this.”
“You have borne more, and have been, through all, the best and gentlestcreature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew,” said Mrs. Maylie,embracing her tenderly. “Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits toclasp you in his arms, poor child! See here—look, look, my dear!”
“Not aunt,” cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck; “I’ll never callher aunt—sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love sodearly from the first! Rose, dear, darling Rose!”
Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the longclose embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother,were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in thecup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief itself arose so softened,and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemnpleasure, and lost all character of pain.
They were a long, long time alone. A soft tap at the door, at length announcedthat some one was without. Oliver opened it, glided away, and gave place toHarry Maylie.
“I know it all,” he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. “Dear Rose, Iknow it all.”
“I am not here by accident,” he added after a lengthened silence; “nor have Iheard all this tonight, for I knew it yesterday—only yesterday. Do you guessthat I have come to remind you of a promise?”
“Stay,” said Rose. “You do know all.”
“All. You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the subject of ourlast discourse.”
“I did.”
“Not to press you to alter your determination,” pursued the young man, “but tohear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune Imight possess at your feet, and if you still adhered to your formerdetermination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to change it.”
“The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me now,” said Rosefirmly. “If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whose goodness saved mefrom a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it, as I shouldtonight? It is a struggle,” said Rose, “but one I am proud to make; it is apang, but one my heart shall bear.”
“The disclosure of tonight,”—Harry began.
“The disclosure of tonight,” replied Rose softly, “leaves me in the sameposition, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before.”
“You harden your heart against me, Rose,” urged her lover.
“Oh Harry, Harry,” said the young lady, bursting into tears; “I wish I could,and spare myself this pain.”
“Then why inflict it on yourself?” said Harry, taking her hand. “Think, dearRose, think what you have heard tonight.”
“And what have I heard! What have I heard!” cried Rose. “That a sense of hisdeep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all—there, we havesaid enough, Harry, we have said enough.”
“Not yet, not yet,” said the young man, detaining her as she rose. “My hopes,my wishes, prospects, feeling: every thought in life except my love for you:have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustlingcrowd; no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood iscalled into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home—aheart and home—yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have tooffer.”
“What do you mean!” she faltered.
“I mean but this—that when I left you last, I left you with a firmdetermination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolvedthat if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride ofbirth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. This I have done.Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and provedyou so far right. Such power and patronage: such relatives of influence andrank: as smiled upon me then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields andwaving trees in England’s richest county; and by one village church—mine, Rose,my own!—there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of, thanall the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank andstation now, and here I lay it down!”
“It’s a trying thing waiting supper for lovers,” said Mr. Grimwig, waking up,and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head.
Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. NeitherMrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a wordin extenuation.
“I had serious thoughts of eating my head tonight,” said Mr. Grimwig, “for Ibegan to think I should get nothing else. I’ll take the liberty, if you’llallow me, of saluting the bride that is to be.”
Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushinggirl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the doctor andMr. Brownlow: some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it,originally, in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider thisdownright scandal: he being young and a clergyman.
“Oliver, my child,” said Mrs. Maylie, “where have you been, and why do you lookso sad? There are tears stealing down your face at this moment. What is thematter?”
It is a world of disappointment: often to the hopes we most cherish, and hopesthat do our nature the greatest honour.
Poor Dick was dead!
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CHAPTER LII. FAGIN’S LAST NIGHT ALIVE
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The court was paved, from floor to roof, with human faces. Inquisitive andeager eyes peered from every inch of space. From the rail before the dock, awayinto the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all looks werefixed upon one man—Fagin. Before him and behind: above, below, on the right andon the left: he seemed to stand surrounded by a firmament, all bright withgleaming eyes.
He stood there, in all this glare of living light, with one hand resting on thewooden slab before him, the other held to his ear, and his head thrust forwardto enable him to catch with greater distinctness every word that fell from thepresiding judge, who was delivering his charge to the jury. At times, he turnedhis eyes sharply upon them to observe the effect of the slightest featherweightin his favour; and when the points against him were stated with terribledistinctness, looked towards his counsel, in mute appeal that he would, eventhen, urge something in his behalf. Beyond these manifestations of anxiety, hestirred not hand or foot. He had scarcely moved since the trial began; and nowthat the judge ceased to speak, he still remained in the same strained attitudeof close attention, with his gaze bent on him, as though he listened still.
A slight bustle in the court, recalled him to himself. Looking round, he sawthat the jurymen had turned together, to consider their verdict. As his eyeswandered to the gallery, he could see the people rising above each other to seehis face: some hastily applying their glasses to their eyes: and otherswhispering their neighbours with looks expressive of abhorrence. A few therewere, who seemed unmindful of him, and looked only to the jury, in impatientwonder how they could delay. But in no one face—not even among the women, ofwhom there were many there—could he read the faintest sympathy with himself, orany feeling but one of all-absorbing interest that he should be condemned.
As he saw all this in one bewildered glance, the deathlike stillness cameagain, and looking back he saw that the jurymen had turned towards the judge.Hush!
They only sought permission to retire.
He looked, wistfully, into their faces, one by one when they passed out, asthough to see which way the greater number leant; but that was fruitless. Thejailer touched him on the shoulder. He followed mechanically to the end of thedock, and sat down on a chair. The man pointed it out, or he would not haveseen it.
He looked up into the gallery again. Some of the people were eating, and somefanning themselves with handkerchiefs; for the crowded place was very hot.There was one young man sketching his face in a little note-book. He wonderedwhether it was like, and looked on when the artist broke his pencil-point, andmade another with his knife, as any idle spectator might have done.
In the same way, when he turned his eyes towards the judge, his mind began tobusy itself with the fashion of his dress, and what it cost, and how he put iton. There was an old fat gentleman on the bench, too, who had gone out, somehalf an hour before, and now come back. He wondered within himself whether thisman had been to get his dinner, what he had had, and where he had had it; andpursued this train of careless thought until some new object caught his eye androused another.
Not that, all this time, his mind was, for an instant, free from one oppressiveoverwhelming sense of the grave that opened at his feet; it was ever present tohim, but in a vague and general way, and he could not fix his thoughts upon it.Thus, even while he trembled, and turned burning hot at the idea of speedydeath, he fell to counting the iron spikes before him, and wondering how thehead of one had been broken off, and whether they would mend it, or leave it asit was. Then, he thought of all the horrors of the gallows and the scaffold—andstopped to watch a man sprinkling the floor to cool it—and then went on tothink again.
At length there was a cry of silence, and a breathless look from all towardsthe door. The jury returned, and passed him close. He could glean nothing fromtheir faces; they might as well have been of stone. Perfect stillnessensued—not a rustle—not a breath—Guilty.
The building rang with a tremendous shout, and another, and another, and thenit echoed loud groans, that gathered strength as they swelled out, like angrythunder. It was a peal of joy from the populace outside, greeting the news thathe would die on Monday.
The noise subsided, and he was asked if he had anything to say why sentence ofdeath should not be passed upon him. He had resumed his listening attitude, andlooked intently at his questioner while the demand was made; but it was twicerepeated before he seemed to hear it, and then he only muttered that he was anold man—an old man—and so, dropping into a whisper, was silent again.
The judge assumed the black cap, and the prisoner still stood with the same airand gesture. A woman in the gallery, uttered some exclamation, called forth bythis dread solemnity; he looked hastily up as if angry at the interruption, andbent forward yet more attentively. The address was solemn and impressive; thesentence fearful to hear. But he stood, like a marble figure, without themotion of a nerve. His haggard face was still thrust forward, his under-jawhanging down, and his eyes staring out before him, when the jailer put his handupon his arm, and beckoned him away. He gazed stupidly about him for aninstant, and obeyed.
They led him through a paved room under the court, where some prisoners werewaiting till their turns came, and others were talking to their friends, whocrowded round a grate which looked into the open yard. There was nobody thereto speak to him; but, as he passed, the prisoners fell back to renderhim more visible to the people who were clinging to the bars: and they assailedhim with opprobrious names, and screeched and hissed. He shook his fist, andwould have spat upon them; but his conductors hurried him on, through a gloomypassage lighted by a few dim lamps, into the interior of the prison.
Here, he was searched, that he might not have about him the means ofanticipating the law; this ceremony performed, they led him to one of thecondemned cells, and left him there—alone.
He sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, which served for seat andbedstead; and casting his blood-shot eyes upon the ground, tried to collect histhoughts. After awhile, he began to remember a few disjointed fragments of whatthe judge had said: though it had seemed to him, at the time, that he could nothear a word. These gradually fell into their proper places, and by degreessuggested more: so that in a little time he had the whole, almost as it wasdelivered. To be hanged by the neck, till he was dead—that was the end. To behanged by the neck till he was dead.
As it came on very dark, he began to think of all the men he had known who haddied upon the scaffold; some of them through his means. They rose up, in suchquick succession, that he could hardly count them. He had seen some of themdie,—and had joked too, because they died with prayers upon their lips. Withwhat a rattling noise the drop went down; and how suddenly they changed, fromstrong and vigorous men to dangling heaps of clothes!
Some of them might have inhabited that very cell—sat upon that very spot. Itwas very dark; why didn’t they bring a light? The cell had been built for manyyears. Scores of men must have passed their last hours there. It was likesitting in a vault strewn with dead bodies—the cap, the noose, the pinionedarms, the faces that he knew, even beneath that hideous veil.—Light, light!
At length, when his hands were raw with beating against the heavy door andwalls, two men appeared: one bearing a candle, which he thrust into an ironcandlestick fixed against the wall: the other dragging in a mattress on whichto pass the night; for the prisoner was to be left alone no more.
Then came the night—dark, dismal, silent night. Other watchers are glad to hearthis church-clock strike, for they tell of life and coming day. To him theybrought despair. The boom of every iron bell came laden with the one, deep,hollow sound—Death. What availed the noise and bustle of cheerful morning,which penetrated even there, to him? It was another form of knell, with mockeryadded to the warning.
The day passed off. Day? There was no day; it was gone as soon as come—andnight came on again; night so long, and yet so short; long in its dreadfulsilence, and short in its fleeting hours. At one time he raved and blasphemed;and at another howled and tore his hair. Venerable men of his own persuasionhad come to pray beside him, but he had driven them away with curses. Theyrenewed their charitable efforts, and he beat them off.
Saturday night. He had only one night more to live. And as he thought of this,the day broke—Sunday.
It was not until the night of this last awful day, that a withering sense ofhis helpless, desperate state came in its full intensity upon his blightedsoul; not that he had ever held any defined or positive hope of mercy, but thathe had never been able to consider more than the dim probability of dying sosoon. He had spoken little to either of the two men, who relieved each other intheir attendance upon him; and they, for their parts, made no effort to rousehis attention. He had sat there, awake, but dreaming. Now, he started up, everyminute, and with gasping mouth and burning skin, hurried to and fro, in such aparoxysm of fear and wrath that even they—used to such sights—recoiled from himwith horror. He grew so terrible, at last, in all the tortures of his evilconscience, that one man could not bear to sit there, eyeing him alone; and sothe two kept watch together.
He cowered down upon his stone bed, and thought of the past. He had beenwounded with some missiles from the crowd on the day of his capture, and hishead was bandaged with a linen cloth. His red hair hung down upon his bloodlessface; his beard was torn, and twisted into knots; his eyes shone with aterrible light; his unwashed flesh crackled with the fever that burnt him up.Eight—nine—then. If it was not a trick to frighten him, and those were the realhours treading on each other’s heels, where would he be, when they came roundagain! Eleven! Another struck, before the voice of the previous hour had ceasedto vibrate. At eight, he would be the only mourner in his own funeral train; ateleven—
Those dreadful walls of Newgate, which have hidden so much misery and suchunspeakable anguish, not only from the eyes, but, too often, and too long, fromthe thoughts, of men, never held so dread a spectacle as that. The few wholingered as they passed, and wondered what the man was doing who was to behanged tomorrow, would have slept but ill that night, if they could have seenhim.
From early in the evening until nearly midnight, little groups of two and threepresented themselves at the lodge-gate, and inquired, with anxious faces,whether any reprieve had been received. These being answered in the negative,communicated the welcome intelligence to clusters in the street, who pointedout to one another the door from which he must come out, and showed where thescaffold would be built, and, walking with unwilling steps away, turned back toconjure up the scene. By degrees they fell off, one by one; and, for an hour,in the dead of night, the street was left to solitude and darkness.
The space before the prison was cleared, and a few strong barriers, paintedblack, had been already thrown across the road to break the pressure of theexpected crowd, when Mr. Brownlow and Oliver appeared at the wicket, andpresented an order of admission to the prisoner, signed by one of the sheriffs.They were immediately admitted into the lodge.
“Is the young gentleman to come too, sir?” said the man whose duty it was toconduct them. “It’s not a sight for children, sir.”
“It is not indeed, my friend,” rejoined Mr. Brownlow; “but my business withthis man is intimately connected with him; and as this child has seen him inthe full career of his success and villainy, I think it as well—even at thecost of some pain and fear—that he should see him now.”
These few words had been said apart, so as to be inaudible to Oliver. The mantouched his hat; and glancing at Oliver with some curiousity, opened anothergate, opposite to that by which they had entered, and led them on, through darkand winding ways, towards the cells.
“This,” said the man, stopping in a gloomy passage where a couple of workmenwere making some preparations in profound silence—“this is the place he passesthrough. If you step this way, you can see the door he goes out at.”
He led them into a stone kitchen, fitted with coppers for dressing the prisonfood, and pointed to a door. There was an open grating above it, through whichcame the sound of men’s voices, mingled with the noise of hammering, and thethrowing down of boards. They were putting up the scaffold.
From this place, they passed through several strong gates, opened by otherturnkeys from the inner side; and, having entered an open yard, ascended aflight of narrow steps, and came into a passage with a row of strong doors onthe left hand. Motioning them to remain where they were, the turnkey knocked atone of these with his bunch of keys. The two attendants, after a littlewhispering, came out into the passage, stretching themselves as if glad of thetemporary relief, and motioned the visitors to follow the jailer into the cell.They did so.
The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side toside, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the face of aman. His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued tomutter, without appearing conscious of their presence otherwise than as a partof his vision.
“Good boy, Charley—well done—” he mumbled. “Oliver, too, ha! ha! ha! Olivertoo—quite the gentleman now—quite the—take that boy away to bed!”
The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver; and, whispering him not to bealarmed, looked on without speaking.
“Take him away to bed!” cried Fagin. “Do you hear me, some of you? He has beenthe—the—somehow the cause of all this. It’s worth the money to bring him up toit—Bolter’s throat, Bill; never mind the girl—Bolter’s throat as deep as youcan cut. Saw his head off!”
“Fagin,” said the jailer.
“That’s me!” cried the Jew, falling instantly, into the attitude of listeninghe had assumed upon his trial. “An old man, my Lord; a very old, old man!”
“Here,” said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him down.“Here’s somebody wants to see you, to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin,Fagin! Are you a man?”
“I shan’t be one long,” he replied, looking up with a face retaining no humanexpression but rage and terror. “Strike them all dead! What right have they tobutcher me?”
As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to thefurthest corner of the seat, he demanded to know what they wanted there.
“Steady,” said the turnkey, still holding him down. “Now, sir, tell him whatyou want. Quick, if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets on.”
“You have some papers,” said Mr. Brownlow advancing, “which were placed in yourhands, for better security, by a man called Monks.”
“It’s all a lie together,” replied Fagin. “I haven’t one—not one.”
“For the love of God,” said Mr. Brownlow solemnly, “do not say that now, uponthe very verge of death; but tell me where they are. You know that Sikes isdead; that Monks has confessed; that there is no hope of any further gain.Where are those papers?”
“Oliver,” cried Fagin, beckoning to him. “Here, here! Let me whisper to you.”
“I am not afraid,” said Oliver in a low voice, as he relinquished Mr.Brownlow’s hand.
“The papers,” said Fagin, drawing Oliver towards him, “are in a canvas bag, ina hole a little way up the chimney in the top front-room. I want to talk toyou, my dear. I want to talk to you.”
“Yes, yes,” returned Oliver. “Let me say a prayer. Do! Let me say one prayer.Say only one, upon your knees, with me, and we will talk till morning.”
“Outside, outside,” replied Fagin, pushing the boy before him towards the door,and looking vacantly over his head. “Say I’ve gone to sleep—they’ll believeyou. You can get me out, if you take me so. Now then, now then!”
“Oh! God forgive this wretched man!” cried the boy with a burst of tears.
“That’s right, that’s right,” said Fagin. “That’ll help us on. This door first.If I shake and tremble, as we pass the gallows, don’t you mind, but hurry on.Now, now, now!”
“Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?” inquired the turnkey.
“No other question,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “If I hoped we could recall him to asense of his position—”
“Nothing will do that, sir,” replied the man, shaking his head. “You had betterleave him.”
The door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned.
“Press on, press on,” cried Fagin. “Softly, but not so slow. Faster, faster!”
The men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held himback. He struggled with the power of desperation, for an instant; and then sentup cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls, and rang in theirears until they reached the open yard.
It was some time before they left the prison. Oliver nearly swooned after thisfrightful scene, and was so weak that for an hour or more, he had not thestrength to walk.
Day was dawning when they again emerged. A great multitude had alreadyassembled; the windows were filled with people, smoking and playing cards tobeguile the time; the crowd were pushing, quarrelling, joking. Everything toldof life and animation, but one dark cluster of objects in the centre of all—theblack stage, the cross-beam, the rope, and all the hideous apparatus of death.
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CHAPTER LIII. AND LAST
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The fortunes of those who have figured in this tale are nearly closed. Thelittle that remains to their historian to relate, is told in few and simplewords.
Before three months had passed, Rose Fleming and Harry Maylie were married inthe village church which was henceforth to be the scene of the youngclergyman’s labours; on the same day they entered into possession of their newand happy home.
Mrs. Maylie took up her abode with her son and daughter-in-law, to enjoy,during the tranquil remainder of her days, the greatest felicity that age andworth can know—the contemplation of the happiness of those on whom the warmestaffections and tenderest cares of a well-spent life, have been unceasinglybestowed.
It appeared, on full and careful investigation, that if the wreck of propertyremaining in the custody of Monks (which had never prospered either in hishands or in those of his mother) were equally divided between himself andOliver, it would yield, to each, little more than three thousand pounds. By theprovisions of his father’s will, Oliver would have been entitled to the whole;but Mr. Brownlow, unwilling to deprive the elder son of the opportunity ofretrieving his former vices and pursuing an honest career, proposed this modeof distribution, to which his young charge joyfully acceded.
Monks, still bearing that assumed name, retired with his portion to a distantpart of the New World; where, having quickly squandered it, he once more fellinto his old courses, and, after undergoing a long confinement for some freshact of fraud and knavery, at length sunk under an attack of his old disorder,and died in prison. As far from home, died the chief remaining members of hisfriend Fagin’s gang.
Mr. Brownlow adopted Oliver as his son. Removing with him and the oldhousekeeper to within a mile of the parsonage-house, where his dear friendsresided, he gratified the only remaining wish of Oliver’s warm and earnestheart, and thus linked together a little society, whose condition approached asnearly to one of perfect happiness as can ever be known in this changing world.
Soon after the marriage of the young people, the worthy doctor returned toChertsey, where, bereft of the presence of his old friends, he would have beendiscontented if his temperament had admitted of such a feeling; and would haveturned quite peevish if he had known how. For two or three months, he contentedhimself with hinting that he feared the air began to disagree with him; then,finding that the place really no longer was, to him, what it had been, hesettled his business on his assistant, took a bachelor’s cottage outside thevillage of which his young friend was pastor, and instantaneously recovered.Here he took to gardening, planting, fishing, carpentering, and various otherpursuits of a similar kind: all undertaken with his characteristic impetuosity.In each and all he has since become famous throughout the neighbourhood, as amost profound authority.
Before his removal, he had managed to contract a strong friendship for Mr.Grimwig, which that eccentric gentleman cordially reciprocated. He isaccordingly visited by Mr. Grimwig a great many times in the course of theyear. On all such occasions, Mr. Grimwig plants, fishes, and carpenters, withgreat ardour; doing everything in a very singular and unprecedented manner, butalways maintaining with his favourite asseveration, that his mode is the rightone. On Sundays, he never fails to criticise the sermon to the youngclergyman’s face: always informing Mr. Losberne, in strict confidenceafterwards, that he considers it an excellent performance, but deems it as wellnot to say so. It is a standing and very favourite joke, for Mr. Brownlow torally him on his old prophecy concerning Oliver, and to remind him of the nighton which they sat with the watch between them, waiting his return; but Mr.Grimwig contends that he was right in the main, and, in proof thereof, remarksthat Oliver did not come back after all; which always calls forth a laugh onhis side, and increases his good humour.
Mr. Noah Claypole: receiving a free pardon from the Crown in consequence ofbeing admitted approver against Fagin: and considering his profession notaltogether as safe a one as he could wish: was, for some little time, at a lossfor the means of a livelihood, not burdened with too much work. After someconsideration, he went into business as an informer, in which calling herealises a genteel subsistence. His plan is, to walk out once a week duringchurch time attended by Charlotte in respectable attire. The lady faints awayat the doors of charitable publicans, and the gentleman being accommodated withthree-penny worth of brandy to restore her, lays an information next day, andpockets half the penalty. Sometimes Mr. Claypole faints himself, but the resultis the same.
Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, deprived of their situations, were gradually reduced togreat indigence and misery, and finally became paupers in that very sameworkhouse in which they had once lorded it over others. Mr. Bumble has beenheard to say, that in this reverse and degradation, he has not even spirits tobe thankful for being separated from his wife.
As to Mr. Giles and Brittles, they still remain in their old posts, althoughthe former is bald, and the last-named boy quite grey. They sleep at theparsonage, but divide their attentions so equally among its inmates, and Oliverand Mr. Brownlow, and Mr. Losberne, that to this day the villagers have neverbeen able to discover to which establishment they properly belong.
Master Charles Bates, appalled by Sikes’s crime, fell into a train ofreflection whether an honest life was not, after all, the best. Arriving at theconclusion that it certainly was, he turned his back upon the scenes of thepast, resolved to amend it in some new sphere of action. He struggled hard, andsuffered much, for some time; but, having a contented disposition, and a goodpurpose, succeeded in the end; and, from being a farmer’s drudge, and acarrier’s lad, he is now the merriest young grazier in all Northamptonshire.
And now, the hand that traces these words, falters, as it approaches theconclusion of its task; and would weave, for a little longer space, the threadof these adventures.
I would fain linger yet with a few of those among whom I have so long moved,and share their happiness by endeavouring to depict it. I would show RoseMaylie in all the bloom and grace of early womanhood, shedding on her secludedpath in life soft and gentle light, that fell on all who trod it with her, andshone into their hearts. I would paint her the life and joy of the fire-sidecircle and the lively summer group; I would follow her through the sultryfields at noon, and hear the low tones of her sweet voice in the moonlitevening walk; I would watch her in all her goodness and charity abroad, and thesmiling untiring discharge of domestic duties at home; I would paint her andher dead sister’s child happy in their love for one another, and passing wholehours together in picturing the friends whom they had so sadly lost; I wouldsummon before me, once again, those joyous little faces that clustered roundher knee, and listen to their merry prattle; I would recall the tones of thatclear laugh, and conjure up the sympathising tear that glistened in the softblue eye. These, and a thousand looks and smiles, and turns of thought andspeech—I would fain recall them every one.
How Mr. Brownlow went on, from day to day, filling the mind of his adoptedchild with stores of knowledge, and becoming attached to him, more and more, ashis nature developed itself, and showed the thriving seeds of all he wished himto become—how he traced in him new traits of his early friend, that awakened inhis own bosom old remembrances, melancholy and yet sweet and soothing—how thetwo orphans, tried by adversity, remembered its lessons in mercy to others, andmutual love, and fervent thanks to Him who had protected and preservedthem—these are all matters which need not to be told. I have said that theywere truly happy; and without strong affection and humanity of heart, andgratitude to that Being whose code is Mercy, and whose great attribute isBenevolence to all things that breathe, happiness can never be attained.
Within the altar of the old village church there stands a white marble tablet,which bears as yet but one word: “AGNES.” There is no coffin in that tomb; andmay it be many, many years, before another name is placed above it! But, if thespirits of the Dead ever come back to earth, to visit spots hallowed by thelove—the love beyond the grave—of those whom they knew in life, I believe thatthe shade of Agnes sometimes hovers round that solemn nook. I believe it nonethe less because that nook is in a Church, and she was weak and erring.
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I
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One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himselftransformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back,and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domedand divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to coverit and seemed ready to slide off any moment. His many legs, pitifully thincompared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked.
“What’s happened to me?” he thought. It wasn’t a dream.His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefullybetween its four familiar walls. A collection of textile samples lay spread outon the table—Samsa was a travelling salesman—and above it therehung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine andhoused in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat andfur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of herlower arm towards the viewer.
Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather. Drops of raincould be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel quite sad. “Howabout if I sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense”, hethought, but that was something he was unable to do because he was used tosleeping on his right, and in his present state couldn’t get into thatposition. However hard he threw himself onto his right, he always rolled backto where he was. He must have tried it a hundred times, shut his eyes so thathe wouldn’t have to look at the floundering legs, and only stopped whenhe began to feel a mild, dull pain there that he had never felt before.
“Oh, God”, he thought, “what a strenuous career it is thatI’ve chosen! Travelling day in and day out. Doing business like thistakes much more effort than doing your own business at home, and on top of thatthere’s the curse of travelling, worries about making train connections,bad and irregular food, contact with different people all the time so that youcan never get to know anyone or become friendly with them. It can all go toHell!” He felt a slight itch up on his belly; pushed himself slowly up onhis back towards the headboard so that he could lift his head better; foundwhere the itch was, and saw that it was covered with lots of little white spotswhich he didn’t know what to make of; and when he tried to feel the placewith one of his legs he drew it quickly back because as soon as he touched ithe was overcome by a cold shudder.
He slid back into his former position. “Getting up early all thetime”, he thought, “it makes you stupid. You’ve got to getenough sleep. Other travelling salesmen live a life of luxury. For instance,whenever I go back to the guest house during the morning to copy out thecontract, these gentlemen are always still sitting there eating theirbreakfasts. I ought to just try that with my boss; I’d get kicked out onthe spot. But who knows, maybe that would be the best thing for me. If Ididn’t have my parents to think about I’d have given in my notice along time ago, I’d have gone up to the boss and told him just what Ithink, tell him everything I would, let him know just what I feel. He’dfall right off his desk! And it’s a funny sort of business to be sittingup there at your desk, talking down at your subordinates from up there,especially when you have to go right up close because the boss is hard ofhearing. Well, there’s still some hope; once I’ve got the moneytogether to pay off my parents’ debt to him—another five or sixyears I suppose—that’s definitely what I’ll do. That’swhen I’ll make the big change. First of all though, I’ve got to getup, my train leaves at five.”
And he looked over at the alarm clock, ticking on the chest of drawers.“God in Heaven!” he thought. It was half past six and the handswere quietly moving forwards, it was even later than half past, more likequarter to seven. Had the alarm clock not rung? He could see from the bed thatit had been set for four o’clock as it should have been; it certainlymust have rung. Yes, but was it possible to quietly sleep through thatfurniture-rattling noise? True, he had not slept peacefully, but probably allthe more deeply because of that. What should he do now? The next train went atseven; if he were to catch that he would have to rush like mad and thecollection of samples was still not packed, and he did not at all feelparticularly fresh and lively. And even if he did catch the train he would notavoid his boss’s anger as the office assistant would have been there tosee the five o’clock train go, he would have put in his report aboutGregor’s not being there a long time ago. The office assistant was theboss’s man, spineless, and with no understanding. What about if hereported sick? But that would be extremely strained and suspicious as infive years of service Gregor had never once yet been ill. His boss wouldcertainly come round with the doctor from the medical insurance company, accusehis parents of having a lazy son, and accept the doctor’s recommendationnot to make any claim as the doctor believed that no-one was ever ill but thatmany were workshy. And what’s more, would he have been entirely wrong inthis case? Gregor did in fact, apart from excessive sleepiness after sleepingfor so long, feel completely well and even felt much hungrier than usual.
He was still hurriedly thinking all this through, unable to decide to get outof the bed, when the clock struck quarter to seven. There was a cautious knockat the door near his head. “Gregor”, somebody called—it washis mother—“it’s quarter to seven. Didn’t you want togo somewhere?” That gentle voice! Gregor was shocked when he heard hisown voice answering, it could hardly be recognised as the voice he had hadbefore. As if from deep inside him, there was a painful and uncontrollablesqueaking mixed in with it, the words could be made out at first but then therewas a sort of echo which made them unclear, leaving the hearer unsure whetherhe had heard properly or not. Gregor had wanted to give a full answer andexplain everything, but in the circumstances contented himself with saying:“Yes, mother, yes, thank-you, I’m getting up now.” The changein Gregor’s voice probably could not be noticed outside through thewooden door, as his mother was satisfied with this explanation and shuffledaway. But this short conversation made the other members of the family awarethat Gregor, against their expectations was still at home, and soon his fathercame knocking at one of the side doors, gently, but with his fist.“Gregor, Gregor”, he called, “what’s wrong?” Andafter a short while he called again with a warning deepness in his voice:“Gregor! Gregor!” At the other side door his sister cameplaintively: “Gregor? Aren’t you well? Do you need anything?”Gregor answered to both sides: “I’m ready, now”, making aneffort to remove all the strangeness from his voice by enunciating verycarefully and putting long pauses between each, individual word. His fatherwent back to his breakfast, but his sister whispered: “Gregor, open thedoor, I beg of you.” Gregor, however, had no thought of opening the door,and instead congratulated himself for his cautious habit, acquired from histravelling, of locking all doors at night even when he was at home.
The first thing he wanted to do was to get up in peace without being disturbed,to get dressed, and most of all to have his breakfast. Only then would heconsider what to do next, as he was well aware that he would not bring histhoughts to any sensible conclusions by lying in bed. He remembered that he hadoften felt a slight pain in bed, perhaps caused by lying awkwardly, but thathad always turned out to be pure imagination and he wondered how his imaginingswould slowly resolve themselves today. He did not have the slightest doubt thatthe change in his voice was nothing more than the first sign of a serious cold,which was an occupational hazard for travelling salesmen.
It was a simple matter to throw off the covers; he only had to blow himself upa little and they fell off by themselves. But it became difficult after that,especially as he was so exceptionally broad. He would have used his arms andhis hands to push himself up; but instead of them he only had all those littlelegs continuously moving in different directions, and which he was moreoverunable to control. If he wanted to bend one of them, then that was the firstone that would stretch itself out; and if he finally managed to do what hewanted with that leg, all the others seemed to be set free and would move aboutpainfully. “This is something that can’t be done in bed”,Gregor said to himself, “so don’t keep trying to do it”.
The first thing he wanted to do was get the lower part of his body out of thebed, but he had never seen this lower part, and could not imagine what itlooked like; it turned out to be too hard to move; it went so slowly; andfinally, almost in a frenzy, when he carelessly shoved himself forwards withall the force he could gather, he chose the wrong direction, hit hard againstthe lower bedpost, and learned from the burning pain he felt that the lowerpart of his body might well, at present, be the most sensitive.
So then he tried to get the top part of his body out of the bed first,carefully turning his head to the side. This he managed quite easily, anddespite its breadth and its weight, the bulk of his body eventually followedslowly in the direction of the head. But when he had at last got his head outof the bed and into the fresh air it occurred to him that if he let himselffall it would be a miracle if his head were not injured, so he became afraid tocarry on pushing himself forward the same way. And he could not knock himselfout now at any price; better to stay in bed than lose consciousness.
It took just as much effort to get back to where he had been earlier, but whenhe lay there sighing, and was once more watching his legs as they struggledagainst each other even harder than before, if that was possible, he couldthink of no way of bringing peace and order to this chaos. He told himself oncemore that it was not possible for him to stay in bed and that the most sensiblething to do would be to get free of it in whatever way he could at whateversacrifice. At the same time, though, he did not forget to remind himself thatcalm consideration was much better than rushing to desperate conclusions. Attimes like this he would direct his eyes to the window and look out as clearlyas he could, but unfortunately, even the other side of the narrow street wasenveloped in morning fog and the view had little confidence or cheer to offerhim. “Seven o’clock, already”, he said to himself when theclock struck again, “seven o’clock, and there’s still a foglike this.” And he lay there quietly a while longer, breathing lightly asif he perhaps expected the total stillness to bring things back to their realand natural state.
But then he said to himself: “Before it strikes quarter past sevenI’ll definitely have to have got properly out of bed. And by thensomebody will have come round from work to ask what’s happened to me aswell, as they open up at work before seven o’clock.” And so he sethimself to the task of swinging the entire length of his body out of the bedall at the same time. If he succeeded in falling out of bed in this way andkept his head raised as he did so he could probably avoid injuring it. His backseemed to be quite hard, and probably nothing would happen to it falling ontothe carpet. His main concern was for the loud noise he was bound to make, andwhich even through all the doors would probably raise concern if not alarm. Butit was something that had to be risked.
When Gregor was already sticking half way out of the bed—the new methodwas more of a game than an effort, all he had to do was rock back andforth—it occurred to him how simple everything would be if somebody cameto help him. Two strong people—he had his father and the maid inmind—would have been more than enough; they would only have to push theirarms under the dome of his back, peel him away from the bed, bend down with theload and then be patient and careful as he swang over onto the floor, where,hopefully, the little legs would find a use. Should he really call for helpthough, even apart from the fact that all the doors were locked? Despite allthe difficulty he was in, he could not suppress a smile at this thought.
After a while he had already moved so far across that it would have been hardfor him to keep his balance if he rocked too hard. The time was now ten pastseven and he would have to make a final decision very soon. Then there was aring at the door of the flat. “That’ll be someone from work”,he said to himself, and froze very still, although his little legs only becameall the more lively as they danced around. For a moment everything remainedquiet. “They’re not opening the door”, Gregor said tohimself, caught in some nonsensical hope. But then of course, the maid’sfirm steps went to the door as ever and opened it. Gregor only needed to hearthe visitor’s first words of greeting and he knew who it was—thechief clerk himself. Why did Gregor have to be the only one condemned to workfor a company where they immediately became highly suspicious at the slightestshortcoming? Were all employees, every one of them, louts, was there not one ofthem who was faithful and devoted who would go so mad with pangs of consciencethat he couldn’t get out of bed if he didn’t spend at least acouple of hours in the morning on company business? Was it really not enough tolet one of the trainees make enquiries—assuming enquiries were evennecessary—did the chief clerk have to come himself, and did they have toshow the whole, innocent family that this was so suspicious that only the chiefclerk could be trusted to have the wisdom to investigate it? And more becausethese thoughts had made him upset than through any proper decision, he swanghimself with all his force out of the bed. There was a loud thump, but itwasn’t really a loud noise. His fall was softened a little by the carpet,and Gregor’s back was also more elastic than he had thought, which madethe sound muffled and not too noticeable. He had not held his head carefullyenough, though, and hit it as he fell; annoyed and in pain, he turned it andrubbed it against the carpet.
“Something’s fallen down in there”, said the chief clerk inthe room on the left. Gregor tried to imagine whether something of the sortthat had happened to him today could ever happen to the chief clerk too; youhad to concede that it was possible. But as if in gruff reply to this question,the chief clerk’s firm footsteps in his highly polished boots could nowbe heard in the adjoining room. From the room on his right, Gregor’ssister whispered to him to let him know: “Gregor, the chief clerk ishere.” “Yes, I know”, said Gregor to himself; but withoutdaring to raise his voice loud enough for his sister to hear him.
“Gregor”, said his father now from the room to his left, “thechief clerk has come round and wants to know why you didn’t leave on theearly train. We don’t know what to say to him. And anyway, he wants tospeak to you personally. So please open up this door. I’m surehe’ll be good enough to forgive the untidiness of your room.” Thenthe chief clerk called “Good morning, Mr. Samsa”. “Heisn’t well”, said his mother to the chief clerk, while his fathercontinued to speak through the door. “He isn’t well, please believeme. Why else would Gregor have missed a train! The lad only ever thinks aboutthe business. It nearly makes me cross the way he never goes out in theevenings; he’s been in town for a week now but stayed home every evening.He sits with us in the kitchen and just reads the paper or studies traintimetables. His idea of relaxation is working with his fretsaw. He’s madea little frame, for instance, it only took him two or three evenings,you’ll be amazed how nice it is; it’s hanging up in his room;you’ll see it as soon as Gregor opens the door. Anyway, I’m gladyou’re here; we wouldn’t have been able to get Gregor to open thedoor by ourselves; he’s so stubborn; and I’m sure he isn’twell, he said this morning that he is, but he isn’t.”“I’ll be there in a moment”, said Gregor slowly andthoughtfully, but without moving so that he would not miss any word of theconversation. “Well I can’t think of any other way of explainingit, Mrs. Samsa”, said the chief clerk, “I hope it’s nothingserious. But on the other hand, I must say that if we people in commerce everbecome slightly unwell then, fortunately or unfortunately as you like, wesimply have to overcome it because of business considerations.”“Can the chief clerk come in to see you now then?”, asked hisfather impatiently, knocking at the door again. “No”, said Gregor.In the room on his right there followed a painful silence; in the room on hisleft his sister began to cry.
So why did his sister not go and join the others? She had probably only justgot up and had not even begun to get dressed. And why was she crying? Was itbecause he had not got up, and had not let the chief clerk in, because he wasin danger of losing his job and if that happened his boss would once morepursue their parents with the same demands as before? There was no need toworry about things like that yet. Gregor was still there and had not theslightest intention of abandoning his family. For the time being he just laythere on the carpet, and no-one who knew the condition he was in wouldseriously have expected him to let the chief clerk in. It was only a minordiscourtesy, and a suitable excuse could easily be found for it later on, itwas not something for which Gregor could be sacked on the spot. And it seemedto Gregor much more sensible to leave him now in peace instead of disturbinghim with talking at him and crying. But the others didn’t know what washappening, they were worried, that would excuse their behaviour.
The chief clerk now raised his voice, “Mr. Samsa”, he called tohim, “what is wrong? You barricade yourself in your room, give us no morethan yes or no for an answer, you are causing serious and unnecessary concernto your parents and you fail—and I mention this just by the way—youfail to carry out your business duties in a way that is quite unheard of.I’m speaking here on behalf of your parents and of your employer, andreally must request a clear and immediate explanation. I am astonished, quiteastonished. I thought I knew you as a calm and sensible person, and now yousuddenly seem to be showing off with peculiar whims. This morning, youremployer did suggest a possible reason for your failure to appear, it’strue—it had to do with the money that was recently entrusted toyou—but I came near to giving him my word of honour that that could notbe the right explanation. But now that I see your incomprehensible stubbornnessI no longer feel any wish whatsoever to intercede on your behalf. And nor isyour position all that secure. I had originally intended to say all this to youin private, but since you cause me to waste my time here for no good reason Idon’t see why your parents should not also learn of it. Your turnover hasbeen very unsatisfactory of late; I grant you that it’s not the time ofyear to do especially good business, we recognise that; but there simply is notime of year to do no business at all, Mr. Samsa, we cannot allow there tobe.”
“But Sir”, called Gregor, beside himself and forgetting all else inthe excitement, “I’ll open up immediately, just a moment. I’mslightly unwell, an attack of dizziness, I haven’t been able to get up.I’m still in bed now. I’m quite fresh again now, though. I’mjust getting out of bed. Just a moment. Be patient! It’s not quite aseasy as I’d thought. I’m quite alright now, though. It’sshocking, what can suddenly happen to a person! I was quite alright last night,my parents know about it, perhaps better than me, I had a small symptom of itlast night already. They must have noticed it. I don’t know why Ididn’t let you know at work! But you always think you can get over anillness without staying at home. Please, don’t make my parents suffer!There’s no basis for any of the accusations you’re making;nobody’s ever said a word to me about any of these things. Maybe youhaven’t read the latest contracts I sent in. I’ll set off with theeight o’clock train, as well, these few hours of rest have given mestrength. You don’t need to wait, sir; I’ll be in the office soonafter you, and please be so good as to tell that to the boss and recommend meto him!”
And while Gregor gushed out these words, hardly knowing what he was saying, hemade his way over to the chest of drawers—this was easily done, probablybecause of the practise he had already had in bed—where he now tried toget himself upright. He really did want to open the door, really did want tolet them see him and to speak with the chief clerk; the others were being soinsistent, and he was curious to learn what they would say when they caughtsight of him. If they were shocked then it would no longer be Gregor’sresponsibility and he could rest. If, however, they took everything calmly hewould still have no reason to be upset, and if he hurried he really could be atthe station for eight o’clock. The first few times he tried to climb upon the smooth chest of drawers he just slid down again, but he finally gavehimself one last swing and stood there upright; the lower part of his body wasin serious pain but he no longer gave any attention to it. Now he let himselffall against the back of a nearby chair and held tightly to the edges of itwith his little legs. By now he had also calmed down, and kept quiet so that hecould listen to what the chief clerk was saying.
“Did you understand a word of all that?” the chief clerk asked hisparents, “surely he’s not trying to make fools of us”.“Oh, God!” called his mother, who was already in tears, “hecould be seriously ill and we’re making him suffer. Grete! Grete!”she then cried. “Mother?” his sister called from the other side.They communicated across Gregor’s room. “You’ll have to gofor the doctor straight away. Gregor is ill. Quick, get the doctor. Did youhear the way Gregor spoke just now?” “That was the voice of ananimal”, said the chief clerk, with a calmness that was in contrast withhis mother’s screams. “Anna! Anna!” his father called intothe kitchen through the entrance hall, clapping his hands, “get alocksmith here, now!” And the two girls, their skirts swishing,immediately ran out through the hall, wrenching open the front door of the flatas they went. How had his sister managed to get dressed so quickly? There wasno sound of the door banging shut again; they must have left it open; peopleoften do in homes where something awful has happened.
Gregor, in contrast, had become much calmer. So they couldn’t understandhis words any more, although they seemed clear enough to him, clearer thanbefore—perhaps his ears had become used to the sound. They had realised,though, that there was something wrong with him, and were ready to help. Thefirst response to his situation had been confident and wise, and that made himfeel better. He felt that he had been drawn back in among people, and from thedoctor and the locksmith he expected great and surprisingachievements—although he did not really distinguish one from the other.Whatever was said next would be crucial, so, in order to make his voice asclear as possible, he coughed a little, but taking care to do this not tooloudly as even this might well sound different from the way that a human coughsand he was no longer sure he could judge this for himself. Meanwhile, it hadbecome very quiet in the next room. Perhaps his parents were sat at the tablewhispering with the chief clerk, or perhaps they were all pressed against thedoor and listening.
Gregor slowly pushed his way over to the door with the chair. Once there he letgo of it and threw himself onto the door, holding himself upright against itusing the adhesive on the tips of his legs. He rested there a little while torecover from the effort involved and then set himself to the task of turningthe key in the lock with his mouth. He seemed, unfortunately, to have no properteeth—how was he, then, to grasp the key?—but the lack of teethwas, of course, made up for with a very strong jaw; using the jaw, he reallywas able to start the key turning, ignoring the fact that he must have beencausing some kind of damage as a brown fluid came from his mouth, flowed overthe key and dripped onto the floor. “Listen”, said the chief clerkin the next room, “he’s turning the key.” Gregor was greatlyencouraged by this; but they all should have been calling to him, his fatherand his mother too: “Well done, Gregor”, they should have cried,“keep at it, keep hold of the lock!” And with the idea that theywere all excitedly following his efforts, he bit on the key with all hisstrength, paying no attention to the pain he was causing himself. As the keyturned round he turned around the lock with it, only holding himself uprightwith his mouth, and hung onto the key or pushed it down again with the wholeweight of his body as needed. The clear sound of the lock as it snapped backwas Gregor’s sign that he could break his concentration, and as heregained his breath he said to himself: “So, I didn’t need thelocksmith after all”. Then he lay his head on the handle of the door toopen it completely.
Because he had to open the door in this way, it was already wide open before hecould be seen. He had first to slowly turn himself around one of the doubledoors, and he had to do it very carefully if he did not want to fall flat onhis back before entering the room. He was still occupied with this difficultmovement, unable to pay attention to anything else, when he heard the chiefclerk exclaim a loud “Oh!”, which sounded like the soughing of thewind. Now he also saw him—he was the nearest to the door—his handpressed against his open mouth and slowly retreating as if driven by a steadyand invisible force. Gregor’s mother, her hair still dishevelled from beddespite the chief clerk’s being there, looked at his father. Then sheunfolded her arms, took two steps forward towards Gregor and sank down onto thefloor into her skirts that spread themselves out around her as her headdisappeared down onto her breast. His father looked hostile, and clenched hisfists as if wanting to knock Gregor back into his room. Then he lookeduncertainly round the living room, covered his eyes with his hands and wept sothat his powerful chest shook.
So Gregor did not go into the room, but leant against the inside of the otherdoor which was still held bolted in place. In this way only half of his bodycould be seen, along with his head above it which he leant over to one side ashe peered out at the others. Meanwhile the day had become much lighter; part ofthe endless, grey-black building on the other side of the street—whichwas a hospital—could be seen quite clearly with the austere and regularline of windows piercing its façade; the rain was still falling, now throwingdown large, individual droplets which hit the ground one at a time. The washingup from breakfast lay on the table; there was so much of it because, forGregor’s father, breakfast was the most important meal of the day and hewould stretch it out for several hours as he sat reading a number of differentnewspapers. On the wall exactly opposite there was photograph of Gregor when hewas a lieutenant in the army, his sword in his hand and a carefree smile on hisface as he called forth respect for his uniform and bearing. The door to theentrance hall was open and as the front door of the flat was also open he couldsee onto the landing and the stairs where they began their way down below.
“Now, then”, said Gregor, well aware that he was the only one tohave kept calm, “I’ll get dressed straight away now, pack up mysamples and set off. Will you please just let me leave? You can see”, hesaid to the chief clerk, “that I’m not stubborn and I like to do myjob; being a commercial traveller is arduous but without travelling Icouldn’t earn my living. So where are you going, in to the office? Yes?Will you report everything accurately, then? It’s quite possible forsomeone to be temporarily unable to work, but that’s just the right timeto remember what’s been achieved in the past and consider that later on,once the difficulty has been removed, he will certainly work with all the morediligence and concentration. You’re well aware that I’m seriouslyin debt to our employer as well as having to look after my parents and mysister, so that I’m trapped in a difficult situation, but I will work myway out of it again. Please don’t make things any harder for me than theyare already, and don’t take sides against me at the office. I know thatnobody likes the travellers. They think we earn an enormous wage as well ashaving a soft time of it. That’s just prejudice but they have noparticular reason to think better of it. But you, sir, you have a betteroverview than the rest of the staff, in fact, if I can say this in confidence,a better overview than the boss himself—it’s very easy for abusinessman like him to make mistakes about his employees and judge them moreharshly than he should. And you’re also well aware that we travellersspend almost the whole year away from the office, so that we can very easilyfall victim to gossip and chance and groundless complaints, and it’salmost impossible to defend yourself from that sort of thing, we don’tusually even hear about them, or if at all it’s when we arrive back homeexhausted from a trip, and that’s when we feel the harmful effects ofwhat’s been going on without even knowing what caused them. Please,don’t go away, at least first say something to show that you grant thatI’m at least partly right!”
But the chief clerk had turned away as soon as Gregor had started to speak,and, with protruding lips, only stared back at him over his trembling shouldersas he left. He did not keep still for a moment while Gregor was speaking, butmoved steadily towards the door without taking his eyes off him. He moved verygradually, as if there had been some secret prohibition on leaving the room. Itwas only when he had reached the entrance hall that he made a sudden movement,drew his foot from the living room, and rushed forward in a panic. In the hall,he stretched his right hand far out towards the stairway as if out there, therewere some supernatural force waiting to save him.
Gregor realised that it was out of the question to let the chief clerk go awayin this mood if his position in the firm was not to be put into extreme danger.That was something his parents did not understand very well; over the years,they had become convinced that this job would provide for Gregor for his entirelife, and besides, they had so much to worry about at present that they hadlost sight of any thought for the future. Gregor, though, did think about thefuture. The chief clerk had to be held back, calmed down, convinced and finallywon over; the future of Gregor and his family depended on it! If only hissister were here! She was clever; she was already in tears while Gregor wasstill lying peacefully on his back. And the chief clerk was a lover of women,surely she could persuade him; she would close the front door in the entrancehall and talk him out of his shocked state. But his sister was not there,Gregor would have to do the job himself. And without considering that he stillwas not familiar with how well he could move about in his present state, orthat his speech still might not—or probably would not—beunderstood, he let go of the door; pushed himself through the opening; tried toreach the chief clerk on the landing who, ridiculously, was holding on to thebanister with both hands; but Gregor fell immediately over and, with a littlescream as he sought something to hold onto, landed on his numerous little legs.Hardly had that happened than, for the first time that day, he began to feelalright with his body; the little legs had the solid ground under them; to hispleasure, they did exactly as he told them; they were even making the effort tocarry him where he wanted to go; and he was soon believing that all his sorrowswould soon be finally at an end. He held back the urge to move but swayed fromside to side as he crouched there on the floor. His mother was not far away infront of him and seemed, at first, quite engrossed in herself, but then shesuddenly jumped up with her arms outstretched and her fingers spread shouting:“Help, for pity’s sake, Help!” The way she held her headsuggested she wanted to see Gregor better, but the unthinking way she washurrying backwards showed that she did not; she had forgotten that the tablewas behind her with all the breakfast things on it; when she reached the tableshe sat quickly down on it without knowing what she was doing; without evenseeming to notice that the coffee pot had been knocked over and a gush ofcoffee was pouring down onto the carpet.
“Mother, mother”, said Gregor gently, looking up at her. He hadcompletely forgotten the chief clerk for the moment, but could not help himselfsnapping in the air with his jaws at the sight of the flow of coffee. That sethis mother screaming anew, she fled from the table and into the arms of hisfather as he rushed towards her. Gregor, though, had no time to spare for hisparents now; the chief clerk had already reached the stairs; with his chin onthe banister, he looked back for the last time. Gregor made a run for him; hewanted to be sure of reaching him; the chief clerk must have expectedsomething, as he leapt down several steps at once and disappeared; his shoutsresounding all around the staircase. The flight of the chief clerk seemed,unfortunately, to put Gregor’s father into a panic as well. Until then hehad been relatively self controlled, but now, instead of running after thechief clerk himself, or at least not impeding Gregor as he ran after him,Gregor’s father seized the chief clerk’s stick in his right hand(the chief clerk had left it behind on a chair, along with his hat andovercoat), picked up a large newspaper from the table with his left, and usedthem to drive Gregor back into his room, stamping his foot at him as he went.Gregor’s appeals to his father were of no help, his appeals were simplynot understood, however much he humbly turned his head his father merelystamped his foot all the harder. Across the room, despite the chilly weather,Gregor’s mother had pulled open a window, leant far out of it and pressedher hands to her face. A strong draught of air flew in from the street towardsthe stairway, the curtains flew up, the newspapers on the table fluttered andsome of them were blown onto the floor. Nothing would stop Gregor’sfather as he drove him back, making hissing noises at him like a wild man.Gregor had never had any practice in moving backwards and was only able to govery slowly. If Gregor had only been allowed to turn round he would have beenback in his room straight away, but he was afraid that if he took the time todo that his father would become impatient, and there was the threat of a lethalblow to his back or head from the stick in his father’s hand any moment.Eventually, though, Gregor realised that he had no choice as he saw, to hisdisgust, that he was quite incapable of going backwards in a straight line; sohe began, as quickly as possible and with frequent anxious glances at hisfather, to turn himself round. It went very slowly, but perhaps his father wasable to see his good intentions as he did nothing to hinder him, in fact nowand then he used the tip of his stick to give directions from a distance as towhich way to turn. If only his father would stop that unbearable hissing! Itwas making Gregor quite confused. When he had nearly finished turning round,still listening to that hissing, he made a mistake and turned himself back alittle the way he had just come. He was pleased when he finally had his head infront of the doorway, but then saw that it was too narrow, and his body was toobroad to get through it without further difficulty. In his present mood, itobviously did not occur to his father to open the other of the double doors sothat Gregor would have enough space to get through. He was merely fixed on theidea that Gregor should be got back into his room as quickly as possible. Norwould he ever have allowed Gregor the time to get himself upright aspreparation for getting through the doorway. What he did, making more noisethan ever, was to drive Gregor forwards all the harder as if there had beennothing in the way; it sounded to Gregor as if there was now more than onefather behind him; it was not a pleasant experience, and Gregor pushed himselfinto the doorway without regard for what might happen. One side of his bodylifted itself, he lay at an angle in the doorway, one flank scraped on thewhite door and was painfully injured, leaving vile brown flecks on it, soon hewas stuck fast and would not have been able to move at all by himself, thelittle legs along one side hung quivering in the air while those on the otherside were pressed painfully against the ground. Then his father gave him ahefty shove from behind which released him from where he was held and sent himflying, and heavily bleeding, deep into his room. The door was slammed shutwith the stick, then, finally, all was quiet.
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II
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It was not until it was getting dark that evening that Gregor awoke from hisdeep and coma-like sleep. He would have woken soon afterwards anyway even if hehadn’t been disturbed, as he had had enough sleep and felt fully rested.But he had the impression that some hurried steps and the sound of the doorleading into the front room being carefully shut had woken him. The light fromthe electric street lamps shone palely here and there onto the ceiling and topsof the furniture, but down below, where Gregor was, it was dark. He pushedhimself over to the door, feeling his way clumsily with his antennae—ofwhich he was now beginning to learn the value—in order to see what hadbeen happening there. The whole of his left side seemed like one, painfullystretched scar, and he limped badly on his two rows of legs. One of the legshad been badly injured in the events of that morning—it was nearly amiracle that only one of them had been—and dragged along lifelessly.
It was only when he had reached the door that he realised what it actually wasthat had drawn him over to it; it was the smell of something to eat. By thedoor there was a dish filled with sweetened milk with little pieces of whitebread floating in it. He was so pleased he almost laughed, as he was evenhungrier than he had been that morning, and immediately dipped his head intothe milk, nearly covering his eyes with it. But he soon drew his head backagain in disappointment; not only did the pain in his tender left side make itdifficult to eat the food—he was only able to eat if his whole bodyworked together as a snuffling whole—but the milk did not taste at allnice. Milk like this was normally his favourite drink, and his sister hadcertainly left it there for him because of that, but he turned, almost againsthis own will, away from the dish and crawled back into the centre of the room.
Through the crack in the door, Gregor could see that the gas had been lit inthe living room. His father at this time would normally be sat with his eveningpaper, reading it out in a loud voice to Gregor’s mother, and sometimesto his sister, but there was now not a sound to be heard. Gregor’s sisterwould often write and tell him about this reading, but maybe his father hadlost the habit in recent times. It was so quiet all around too, even thoughthere must have been somebody in the flat. “What a quiet life it is thefamily lead”, said Gregor to himself, and, gazing into the darkness, felta great pride that he was able to provide a life like that in such a nice homefor his sister and parents. But what now, if all this peace and wealth andcomfort should come to a horrible and frightening end? That was something thatGregor did not want to think about too much, so he started to move about,crawling up and down the room.
Once during that long evening, the door on one side of the room was opened veryslightly and hurriedly closed again; later on the door on the other side didthe same; it seemed that someone needed to enter the room but thought better ofit. Gregor went and waited immediately by the door, resolved either to bringthe timorous visitor into the room in some way or at least to find out who itwas; but the door was opened no more that night and Gregor waited in vain. Theprevious morning while the doors were locked everyone had wanted to get inthere to him, but now, now that he had opened up one of the doors and the otherhad clearly been unlocked some time during the day, no-one came, and the keyswere in the other sides.
It was not until late at night that the gaslight in the living room was putout, and now it was easy to see that his parents and sister had stayed awakeall that time, as they all could be distinctly heard as they went away togetheron tip-toe. It was clear that no-one would come into Gregor’s room anymore until morning; that gave him plenty of time to think undisturbed about howhe would have to re-arrange his life. For some reason, the tall, empty roomwhere he was forced to remain made him feel uneasy as he lay there flat on thefloor, even though he had been living in it for five years. Hardly aware ofwhat he was doing other than a slight feeling of shame, he hurried under thecouch. It pressed down on his back a little, and he was no longer able to lifthis head, but he nonetheless felt immediately at ease and his only regret wasthat his body was too broad to get it all underneath.
He spent the whole night there. Some of the time he passed in a light sleep,although he frequently woke from it in alarm because of his hunger, and some ofthe time was spent in worries and vague hopes which, however, always led to thesame conclusion: for the time being he must remain calm, he must show patienceand the greatest consideration so that his family could bear the unpleasantnessthat he, in his present condition, was forced to impose on them.
Gregor soon had the opportunity to test the strength of his decisions, as earlythe next morning, almost before the night had ended, his sister, nearly fullydressed, opened the door from the front room and looked anxiously in. She didnot see him straight away, but when she did notice him under the couch—hehad to be somewhere, for God’s sake, he couldn’t have flownaway—she was so shocked that she lost control of herself and slammed thedoor shut again from outside. But she seemed to regret her behaviour, as sheopened the door again straight away and came in on tip-toe as if entering theroom of someone seriously ill or even of a stranger. Gregor had pushed his headforward, right to the edge of the couch, and watched her. Would she notice thathe had left the milk as it was, realise that it was not from any lack of hungerand bring him in some other food that was more suitable? If she didn’t doit herself he would rather go hungry than draw her attention to it, although hedid feel a terrible urge to rush forward from under the couch, throw himself athis sister’s feet and beg her for something good to eat. However, hissister noticed the full dish immediately and looked at it and the few drops ofmilk splashed around it with some surprise. She immediately picked itup—using a rag, not her bare hands—and carried it out. Gregor wasextremely curious as to what she would bring in its place, imagining thewildest possibilities, but he never could have guessed what his sister, in hergoodness, actually did bring. In order to test his taste, she brought him awhole selection of things, all spread out on an old newspaper. There were old,half-rotten vegetables; bones from the evening meal, covered in white saucethat had gone hard; a few raisins and almonds; some cheese that Gregor haddeclared inedible two days before; a dry roll and some bread spread with butterand salt. As well as all that she had poured some water into the dish, whichhad probably been permanently set aside for Gregor’s use, and placed itbeside them. Then, out of consideration for Gregor’s feelings, as sheknew that he would not eat in front of her, she hurried out again and eventurned the key in the lock so that Gregor would know he could make things ascomfortable for himself as he liked. Gregor’s little legs whirred, atlast he could eat. What’s more, his injuries must already have completelyhealed as he found no difficulty in moving. This amazed him, as more than amonth earlier he had cut his finger slightly with a knife, he thought of howhis finger had still hurt the day before yesterday. “Am I less sensitivethan I used to be, then?”, he thought, and was already sucking greedilyat the cheese which had immediately, almost compellingly, attracted him muchmore than the other foods on the newspaper. Quickly one after another, his eyeswatering with pleasure, he consumed the cheese, the vegetables and the sauce;the fresh foods, on the other hand, he didn’t like at all, and evendragged the things he did want to eat a little way away from them because hecouldn’t stand the smell. Long after he had finished eating and laylethargic in the same place, his sister slowly turned the key in the lock as asign to him that he should withdraw. He was immediately startled, although hehad been half asleep, and he hurried back under the couch. But he needed greatself-control to stay there even for the short time that his sister was in theroom, as eating so much food had rounded out his body a little and he couldhardly breathe in that narrow space. Half suffocating, he watched with bulgingeyes as his sister unselfconsciously took a broom and swept up the left-overs,mixing them in with the food he had not even touched at all as if it could notbe used any more. She quickly dropped it all into a bin, closed it with itswooden lid, and carried everything out. She had hardly turned her back beforeGregor came out again from under the couch and stretched himself.
This was how Gregor received his food each day now, once in the morning whilehis parents and the maid were still asleep, and the second time after everyonehad eaten their meal at midday as his parents would sleep for a little whilethen as well, and Gregor’s sister would send the maid away on someerrand. Gregor’s father and mother certainly did not want him to starveeither, but perhaps it would have been more than they could stand to have anymore experience of his feeding than being told about it, and perhaps his sisterwanted to spare them what distress she could as they were indeed sufferingenough.
It was impossible for Gregor to find out what they had told the doctor and thelocksmith that first morning to get them out of the flat. As nobody couldunderstand him, nobody, not even his sister, thought that he could understandthem, so he had to be content to hear his sister’s sighs and appeals tothe saints as she moved about his room. It was only later, when she had becomea little more used to everything—there was, of course, no question of herever becoming fully used to the situation—that Gregor would sometimescatch a friendly comment, or at least a comment that could be construed asfriendly. “He’s enjoyed his dinner today”, she might say whenhe had diligently cleared away all the food left for him, or if he left most ofit, which slowly became more and more frequent, she would often say, sadly,“now everything’s just been left there again”.
Although Gregor wasn’t able to hear any news directly he did listen tomuch of what was said in the next rooms, and whenever he heard anyone speakinghe would scurry straight to the appropriate door and press his whole bodyagainst it. There was seldom any conversation, especially at first, that wasnot about him in some way, even if only in secret. For two whole days, all thetalk at every mealtime was about what they should do now; but even betweenmeals they spoke about the same subject as there were always at least twomembers of the family at home—nobody wanted to be at home by themselvesand it was out of the question to leave the flat entirely empty. And on thevery first day the maid had fallen to her knees and begged Gregor’smother to let her go without delay. It was not very clear how much she knew ofwhat had happened but she left within a quarter of an hour, tearfully thankingGregor’s mother for her dismissal as if she had done her an enormousservice. She even swore emphatically not to tell anyone the slightest aboutwhat had happened, even though no-one had asked that of her.
Now Gregor’s sister also had to help his mother with the cooking;although that was not so much bother as no-one ate very much. Gregor oftenheard how one of them would unsuccessfully urge another to eat, and receive nomore answer than “no thanks, I’ve had enough” or somethingsimilar. No-one drank very much either. His sister would sometimes ask hisfather whether he would like a beer, hoping for the chance to go and fetch itherself. When his father then said nothing she would add, so that he would notfeel selfish, that she could send the housekeeper for it, but then his fatherwould close the matter with a big, loud “No”, and no more would besaid.
Even before the first day had come to an end, his father had explained toGregor’s mother and sister what their finances and prospects were. Nowand then he stood up from the table and took some receipt or document from thelittle cash box he had saved from his business when it had collapsed five yearsearlier. Gregor heard how he opened the complicated lock and then closed itagain after he had taken the item he wanted. What he heard his father say wassome of the first good news that Gregor heard since he had first beenincarcerated in his room. He had thought that nothing at all remained from hisfather’s business, at least he had never told him anything different, andGregor had never asked him about it anyway. Their business misfortune hadreduced the family to a state of total despair, and Gregor’s only concernat that time had been to arrange things so that they could all forget about itas quickly as possible. So then he started working especially hard, with afiery vigour that raised him from a junior salesman to a travellingrepresentative almost overnight, bringing with it the chance to earn money inquite different ways. Gregor converted his success at work straight into cashthat he could lay on the table at home for the benefit of his astonished anddelighted family. They had been good times and they had never come again, atleast not with the same splendour, even though Gregor had later earned so muchthat he was in a position to bear the costs of the whole family, and did bearthem. They had even got used to it, both Gregor and the family, they took themoney with gratitude and he was glad to provide it, although there was nolonger much warm affection given in return. Gregor only remained close to hissister now. Unlike him, she was very fond of music and a gifted and expressiveviolinist, it was his secret plan to send her to the conservatory next yeareven though it would cause great expense that would have to be made up for insome other way. During Gregor’s short periods in town, conversation withhis sister would often turn to the conservatory but it was only ever mentionedas a lovely dream that could never be realised. Their parents did not like tohear this innocent talk, but Gregor thought about it quite hard and decided hewould let them know what he planned with a grand announcement of it onChristmas day.
That was the sort of totally pointless thing that went through his mind in hispresent state, pressed upright against the door and listening. There were timeswhen he simply became too tired to continue listening, when his head would fallwearily against the door and he would pull it up again with a start, as eventhe slightest noise he caused would be heard next door and they would all gosilent. “What’s that he’s doing now”, his father wouldsay after a while, clearly having gone over to the door, and only then wouldthe interrupted conversation slowly be taken up again.
When explaining things, his father repeated himself several times, partlybecause it was a long time since he had been occupied with these mattershimself and partly because Gregor’s mother did not understand everythingthe first time. From these repeated explanations Gregor learned, to hispleasure, that despite all their misfortunes there was still some moneyavailable from the old days. It was not a lot, but it had not been touched inthe meantime and some interest had accumulated. Besides that, they had not beenusing up all the money that Gregor had been bringing home every month, keepingonly a little for himself, so that that, too, had been accumulating. Behind thedoor, Gregor nodded with enthusiasm in his pleasure at this unexpected thriftand caution. He could actually have used this surplus money to reduce hisfather’s debt to his boss, and the day when he could have freed himselffrom that job would have come much closer, but now it was certainly better theway his father had done things.
This money, however, was certainly not enough to enable the family to live offthe interest; it was enough to maintain them for, perhaps, one or two years, nomore. That’s to say, it was money that should not really be touched butset aside for emergencies; money to live on had to be earned. His father washealthy but old, and lacking in self confidence. During the five years that hehad not been working—the first holiday in a life that had been full ofstrain and no success—he had put on a lot of weight and become very slowand clumsy. Would Gregor’s elderly mother now have to go and earn money?She suffered from asthma and it was a strain for her just to move about thehome, every other day would be spent struggling for breath on the sofa by theopen window. Would his sister have to go and earn money? She was still a childof seventeen, her life up till then had been very enviable, consisting ofwearing nice clothes, sleeping late, helping out in the business, joining inwith a few modest pleasures and most of all playing the violin. Whenever theybegan to talk of the need to earn money, Gregor would always first let go ofthe door and then throw himself onto the cool, leather sofa next to it, as hebecame quite hot with shame and regret.
He would often lie there the whole night through, not sleeping a wink butscratching at the leather for hours on end. Or he might go to all the effort ofpushing a chair to the window, climbing up onto the sill and, propped up in thechair, leaning on the window to stare out of it. He had used to feel a greatsense of freedom from doing this, but doing it now was obviously something moreremembered than experienced, as what he actually saw in this way was becomingless distinct every day, even things that were quite near; he had used to cursethe ever-present view of the hospital across the street, but now he could notsee it at all, and if he had not known that he lived in Charlottenstrasse,which was a quiet street despite being in the middle of the city, he could havethought that he was looking out the window at a barren waste where the grey skyand the grey earth mingled inseparably. His observant sister only needed tonotice the chair twice before she would always push it back to its exactposition by the window after she had tidied up the room, and even left theinner pane of the window open from then on.
If Gregor had only been able to speak to his sister and thank her for all thatshe had to do for him it would have been easier for him to bear it; but as itwas it caused him pain. His sister, naturally, tried as far as possible topretend there was nothing burdensome about it, and the longer it went on, ofcourse, the better she was able to do so, but as time went by Gregor was alsoable to see through it all so much better. It had even become very unpleasantfor him, now, whenever she entered the room. No sooner had she come in than shewould quickly close the door as a precaution so that no-one would have tosuffer the view into Gregor’s room, then she would go straight to thewindow and pull it hurriedly open almost as if she were suffocating. Even if itwas cold, she would stay at the window breathing deeply for a little while. Shewould alarm Gregor twice a day with this running about and noise making; hewould stay under the couch shivering the whole while, knowing full well thatshe would certainly have liked to spare him this ordeal, but it was impossiblefor her to be in the same room with him with the windows closed.
One day, about a month after Gregor’s transformation when his sister nolonger had any particular reason to be shocked at his appearance, she came intothe room a little earlier than usual and found him still staring out thewindow, motionless, and just where he would be most horrible. In itself, hissister’s not coming into the room would have been no surprise for Gregoras it would have been difficult for her to immediately open the window while hewas still there, but not only did she not come in, she went straight back andclosed the door behind her, a stranger would have thought he had threatened herand tried to bite her. Gregor went straight to hide himself under the couch, ofcourse, but he had to wait until midday before his sister came back and sheseemed much more uneasy than usual. It made him realise that she still foundhis appearance unbearable and would continue to do so, she probably even had toovercome the urge to flee when she saw the little bit of him that protrudedfrom under the couch. One day, in order to spare her even this sight, he spentfour hours carrying the bedsheet over to the couch on his back and arranged itso that he was completely covered and his sister would not be able to see himeven if she bent down. If she did not think this sheet was necessary then allshe had to do was take it off again, as it was clear enough that it was nopleasure for Gregor to cut himself off so completely. She left the sheet whereit was. Gregor even thought he glimpsed a look of gratitude one time when hecarefully looked out from under the sheet to see how his sister liked the newarrangement.
For the first fourteen days, Gregor’s parents could not bring themselvesto come into the room to see him. He would often hear them say how theyappreciated all the new work his sister was doing even though, before, they hadseen her as a girl who was somewhat useless and frequently been annoyed withher. But now the two of them, father and mother, would often both wait outsidethe door of Gregor’s room while his sister tidied up in there, and assoon as she went out again she would have to tell them exactly how everythinglooked, what Gregor had eaten, how he had behaved this time and whether,perhaps, any slight improvement could be seen. His mother also wanted to go inand visit Gregor relatively soon but his father and sister at first persuadedher against it. Gregor listened very closely to all this, and approved fully.Later, though, she had to be held back by force, which made her call out:“Let me go and see Gregor, he is my unfortunate son! Can’t youunderstand I have to see him?”, and Gregor would think to himself thatmaybe it would be better if his mother came in, not every day of course, butone day a week, perhaps; she could understand everything much better than hissister who, for all her courage, was still just a child after all, and reallymight not have had an adult’s appreciation of the burdensome job she hadtaken on.
Gregor’s wish to see his mother was soon realised. Out of considerationfor his parents, Gregor wanted to avoid being seen at the window during theday, the few square meters of the floor did not give him much room to crawlabout, it was hard to just lie quietly through the night, his food soon stoppedgiving him any pleasure at all, and so, to entertain himself, he got into thehabit of crawling up and down the walls and ceiling. He was especially fond ofhanging from the ceiling; it was quite different from lying on the floor; hecould breathe more freely; his body had a light swing to it; and up there,relaxed and almost happy, it might happen that he would surprise even himselfby letting go of the ceiling and landing on the floor with a crash. But now, ofcourse, he had far better control of his body than before and, even with a fallas great as that, caused himself no damage. Very soon his sister noticedGregor’s new way of entertaining himself—he had, after all, lefttraces of the adhesive from his feet as he crawled about—and got it intoher head to make it as easy as possible for him by removing the furniture thatgot in his way, especially the chest of drawers and the desk. Now, this was notsomething that she would be able to do by herself; she did not dare to ask forhelp from her father; the sixteen year old maid had carried on bravely sincethe cook had left but she certainly would not have helped in this, she had evenasked to be allowed to keep the kitchen locked at all times and never to haveto open the door unless it was especially important; so his sister had nochoice but to choose some time when Gregor’s father was not there andfetch his mother to help her. As she approached the room, Gregor could hear hismother express her joy, but once at the door she went silent. First, of course,his sister came in and looked round to see that everything in the room wasalright; and only then did she let her mother enter. Gregor had hurriedlypulled the sheet down lower over the couch and put more folds into it so thateverything really looked as if it had just been thrown down by chance. Gregoralso refrained, this time, from spying out from under the sheet; he gave up thechance to see his mother until later and was simply glad that she had come.“You can come in, he can’t be seen”, said his sister,obviously leading her in by the hand. The old chest of drawers was too heavyfor a pair of feeble women to be heaving about, but Gregor listened as theypushed it from its place, his sister always taking on the heaviest part of thework for herself and ignoring her mother’s warnings that she would strainherself. This lasted a very long time. After labouring at it for fifteenminutes or more his mother said it would be better to leave the chest where itwas, for one thing it was too heavy for them to get the job finished beforeGregor’s father got home and leaving it in the middle of the room itwould be in his way even more, and for another thing it wasn’t even surethat taking the furniture away would really be any help to him. She thoughtjust the opposite; the sight of the bare walls saddened her right to her heart;and why wouldn’t Gregor feel the same way about it, he’d been usedto this furniture in his room for a long time and it would make him feelabandoned to be in an empty room like that. Then, quietly, almost whispering asif wanting Gregor (whose whereabouts she did not know) to hear not even thetone of her voice, as she was convinced that he did not understand her words,she added “and by taking the furniture away, won’t it seem likewe’re showing that we’ve given up all hope of improvement andwe’re abandoning him to cope for himself? I think it’d be best toleave the room exactly the way it was before so that when Gregor comes back tous again he’ll find everything unchanged and he’ll be able toforget the time in between all the easier”.
Hearing these words from his mother made Gregor realise that the lack of anydirect human communication, along with the monotonous life led by the familyduring these two months, must have made him confused—he could think of noother way of explaining to himself why he had seriously wanted his room emptiedout. Had he really wanted to transform his room into a cave, a warm room fittedout with the nice furniture he had inherited? That would have let him crawlaround unimpeded in any direction, but it would also have let him quicklyforget his past when he had still been human. He had come very close toforgetting, and it had only been the voice of his mother, unheard for so long,that had shaken him out of it. Nothing should be removed; everything had tostay; he could not do without the good influence the furniture had on hiscondition; and if the furniture made it difficult for him to crawl aboutmindlessly that was not a loss but a great advantage.
His sister, unfortunately, did not agree; she had become used to the idea, notwithout reason, that she was Gregor’s spokesman to his parents about thethings that concerned him. This meant that his mother’s advice now wassufficient reason for her to insist on removing not only the chest of drawersand the desk, as she had thought at first, but all the furniture apart from theall-important couch. It was more than childish perversity, of course, or theunexpected confidence she had recently acquired, that made her insist; she hadindeed noticed that Gregor needed a lot of room to crawl about in, whereas thefurniture, as far as anyone could see, was of no use to him at all. Girls ofthat age, though, do become enthusiastic about things and feel they must gettheir way whenever they can. Perhaps this was what tempted Grete to makeGregor’s situation seem even more shocking than it was so that she coulddo even more for him. Grete would probably be the only one who would dare entera room dominated by Gregor crawling about the bare walls by himself.
So she refused to let her mother dissuade her. Gregor’s mother alreadylooked uneasy in his room, she soon stopped speaking and helped Gregor’ssister to get the chest of drawers out with what strength she had. The chest ofdrawers was something that Gregor could do without if he had to, but thewriting desk had to stay. Hardly had the two women pushed the chest of drawers,groaning, out of the room than Gregor poked his head out from under the couchto see what he could do about it. He meant to be as careful and considerate ashe could, but, unfortunately, it was his mother who came back first while Gretein the next room had her arms round the chest, pushing and pulling at it fromside to side by herself without, of course, moving it an inch. His mother wasnot used to the sight of Gregor, he might have made her ill, so Gregor hurriedbackwards to the far end of the couch. In his startlement, though, he was notable to prevent the sheet at its front from moving a little. It was enough toattract his mother’s attention. She stood very still, remained there amoment, and then went back out to Grete.
Gregor kept trying to assure himself that nothing unusual was happening, it wasjust a few pieces of furniture being moved after all, but he soon had to admitthat the women going to and fro, their little calls to each other, the scrapingof the furniture on the floor, all these things made him feel as if he werebeing assailed from all sides. With his head and legs pulled in against him andhis body pressed to the floor, he was forced to admit to himself that he couldnot stand all of this much longer. They were emptying his room out; taking awayeverything that was dear to him; they had already taken out the chestcontaining his fretsaw and other tools; now they threatened to remove thewriting desk with its place clearly worn into the floor, the desk where he haddone his homework as a business trainee, at high school, even while he had beenat infant school—he really could not wait any longer to see whether thetwo women’s intentions were good. He had nearly forgotten they were thereanyway, as they were now too tired to say anything while they worked and hecould only hear their feet as they stepped heavily on the floor.
So, while the women were leant against the desk in the other room catchingtheir breath, he sallied out, changed direction four times not knowing what heshould save first before his attention was suddenly caught by the picture onthe wall—which was already denuded of everything else that had been onit—of the lady dressed in copious fur. He hurried up onto the picture andpressed himself against its glass, it held him firmly and felt good on his hotbelly. This picture at least, now totally covered by Gregor, would certainly betaken away by no-one. He turned his head to face the door into the living roomso that he could watch the women when they came back.
They had not allowed themselves a long rest and came back quite soon; Grete hadput her arm around her mother and was nearly carrying her. “What shall wetake now, then?”, said Grete and looked around. Her eyes met those ofGregor on the wall. Perhaps only because her mother was there, she remainedcalm, bent her face to her so that she would not look round and said, albeithurriedly and with a tremor in her voice: “Come on, let’s go backin the living room for a while?” Gregor could see what Grete had in mind,she wanted to take her mother somewhere safe and then chase him down from thewall. Well, she could certainly try it! He sat unyielding on his picture. Hewould rather jump at Grete’s face.
But Grete’s words had made her mother quite worried, she stepped to oneside, saw the enormous brown patch against the flowers of the wallpaper, andbefore she even realised it was Gregor that she saw screamed: “Oh God, ohGod!” Arms outstretched, she fell onto the couch as if she had given upeverything and stayed there immobile. “Gregor!” shouted his sister,glowering at him and shaking her fist. That was the first word she had spokento him directly since his transformation. She ran into the other room to fetchsome kind of smelling salts to bring her mother out of her faint; Gregor wantedto help too—he could save his picture later, although he stuck fast tothe glass and had to pull himself off by force; then he, too, ran into the nextroom as if he could advise his sister like in the old days; but he had to juststand behind her doing nothing; she was looking into various bottles, hestartled her when she turned round; a bottle fell to the ground and broke; asplinter cut Gregor’s face, some kind of caustic medicine splashed allover him; now, without delaying any longer, Grete took hold of all the bottlesshe could and ran with them in to her mother; she slammed the door shut withher foot. So now Gregor was shut out from his mother, who, because of him,might be near to death; he could not open the door if he did not want to chasehis sister away, and she had to stay with his mother; there was nothing for himto do but wait; and, oppressed with anxiety and self-reproach, he began tocrawl about, he crawled over everything, walls, furniture, ceiling, and finallyin his confusion as the whole room began to spin around him he fell down intothe middle of the dinner table.
He lay there for a while, numb and immobile, all around him it was quiet, maybethat was a good sign. Then there was someone at the door. The maid, of course,had locked herself in her kitchen so that Grete would have to go and answer it.His father had arrived home. “What’s happened?” were hisfirst words; Grete’s appearance must have made everything clear to him.She answered him with subdued voice, and openly pressed her face into hischest: “Mother’s fainted, but she’s better now. Gregor gotout.” “Just as I expected”, said his father, “just as Ialways said, but you women wouldn’t listen, would you.” It wasclear to Gregor that Grete had not said enough and that his father took it tomean that something bad had happened, that he was responsible for some act ofviolence. That meant Gregor would now have to try to calm his father, as he didnot have the time to explain things to him even if that had been possible. Sohe fled to the door of his room and pressed himself against it so that hisfather, when he came in from the hall, could see straight away that Gregor hadthe best intentions and would go back into his room without delay, that itwould not be necessary to drive him back but that they had only to open thedoor and he would disappear.
His father, though, was not in the mood to notice subtleties like that;“Ah!”, he shouted as he came in, sounding as if he were both angryand glad at the same time. Gregor drew his head back from the door and liftedit towards his father. He really had not imagined his father the way he stoodthere now; of late, with his new habit of crawling about, he had neglected topay attention to what was going on the rest of the flat the way he had donebefore. He really ought to have expected things to have changed, but still,still, was that really his father? The same tired man as used to be layingthere entombed in his bed when Gregor came back from his business trips, whowould receive him sitting in the armchair in his nightgown when he came back inthe evenings; who was hardly even able to stand up but, as a sign of hispleasure, would just raise his arms and who, on the couple of times a year whenthey went for a walk together on a Sunday or public holiday wrapped up tightlyin his overcoat between Gregor and his mother, would always labour his wayforward a little more slowly than them, who were already walking slowly for hissake; who would place his stick down carefully and, if he wanted to saysomething would invariably stop and gather his companions around him. He wasstanding up straight enough now; dressed in a smart blue uniform with goldbuttons, the sort worn by the employees at the banking institute; above thehigh, stiff collar of the coat his strong double-chin emerged; under the bushyeyebrows, his piercing, dark eyes looked out fresh and alert; his normallyunkempt white hair was combed down painfully close to his scalp. He took hiscap, with its gold monogram from, probably, some bank, and threw it in an arcright across the room onto the sofa, put his hands in his trouser pockets,pushing back the bottom of his long uniform coat, and, with look ofdetermination, walked towards Gregor. He probably did not even know himselfwhat he had in mind, but nonetheless lifted his feet unusually high. Gregor wasamazed at the enormous size of the soles of his boots, but wasted no time withthat—he knew full well, right from the first day of his new life, thathis father thought it necessary to always be extremely strict with him. And sohe ran up to his father, stopped when his father stopped, scurried forwardsagain when he moved, even slightly. In this way they went round the roomseveral times without anything decisive happening, without even giving theimpression of a chase as everything went so slowly. Gregor remained all thistime on the floor, largely because he feared his father might see it asespecially provoking if he fled onto the wall or ceiling. Whatever he did,Gregor had to admit that he certainly would not be able to keep up this runningabout for long, as for each step his father took he had to carry out countlessmovements. He became noticeably short of breath, even in his earlier life hislungs had not been very reliable. Now, as he lurched about in his efforts tomuster all the strength he could for running he could hardly keep his eyesopen; his thoughts became too slow for him to think of any other way of savinghimself than running; he almost forgot that the walls were there for him to usealthough, here, they were concealed behind carefully carved furniture full ofnotches and protrusions—then, right beside him, lightly tossed, somethingflew down and rolled in front of him. It was an apple; then another oneimmediately flew at him; Gregor froze in shock; there was no longer any pointin running as his father had decided to bombard him. He had filled his pocketswith fruit from the bowl on the sideboard and now, without even taking the timefor careful aim, threw one apple after another. These little, red apples rolledabout on the floor, knocking into each other as if they had electric motors. Anapple thrown without much force glanced against Gregor’s back and slidoff without doing any harm. Another one however, immediately following it, hitsquarely and lodged in his back; Gregor wanted to drag himself away, as if hecould remove the surprising, the incredible pain by changing his position; buthe felt as if nailed to the spot and spread himself out, all his senses inconfusion. The last thing he saw was the door of his room being pulled open,his sister was screaming, his mother ran out in front of her in her blouse (ashis sister had taken off some of her clothes after she had fainted to make iteasier for her to breathe), she ran to his father, her skirts unfastened andsliding one after another to the ground, stumbling over the skirts she pushedherself to his father, her arms around him, uniting herself with himtotally—now Gregor lost his ability to see anything—her handsbehind his father’s head begging him to spare Gregor’s life.
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No-one dared to remove the apple lodged in Gregor’s flesh, so it remainedthere as a visible reminder of his injury. He had suffered it there for morethan a month, and his condition seemed serious enough to remind even his fatherthat Gregor, despite his current sad and revolting form, was a family memberwho could not be treated as an enemy. On the contrary, as a family there was aduty to swallow any revulsion for him and to be patient, just to be patient.
Because of his injuries, Gregor had lost much of his mobility—probablypermanently. He had been reduced to the condition of an ancient invalid and ittook him long, long minutes to crawl across his room—crawling over theceiling was out of the question—but this deterioration in his conditionwas fully (in his opinion) made up for by the door to the living room beingleft open every evening. He got into the habit of closely watching it for oneor two hours before it was opened and then, lying in the darkness of his roomwhere he could not be seen from the living room, he could watch the family inthe light of the dinner table and listen to their conversation—witheveryone’s permission, in a way, and thus quite differently from before.
They no longer held the lively conversations of earlier times, of course, theones that Gregor always thought about with longing when he was tired andgetting into the damp bed in some small hotel room. All of them were usuallyvery quiet nowadays. Soon after dinner, his father would go to sleep in hischair; his mother and sister would urge each other to be quiet; his mother,bent deeply under the lamp, would sew fancy underwear for a fashion shop; hissister, who had taken a sales job, learned shorthand and French in the eveningsso that she might be able to get a better position later on. Sometimes hisfather would wake up and say to Gregor’s mother “you’re doingso much sewing again today!”, as if he did not know that he had beendozing—and then he would go back to sleep again while mother and sisterwould exchange a tired grin.
With a kind of stubbornness, Gregor’s father refused to take his uniformoff even at home; while his nightgown hung unused on its peg Gregor’sfather would slumber where he was, fully dressed, as if always ready to serveand expecting to hear the voice of his superior even here. The uniform had notbeen new to start with, but as a result of this it slowly became even shabbierdespite the efforts of Gregor’s mother and sister to look after it.Gregor would often spend the whole evening looking at all the stains on thiscoat, with its gold buttons always kept polished and shiny, while the old manin it would sleep, highly uncomfortable but peaceful.
As soon as it struck ten, Gregor’s mother would speak gently to hisfather to wake him and try to persuade him to go to bed, as he couldn’tsleep properly where he was and he really had to get his sleep if he was to beup at six to get to work. But since he had been in work he had become moreobstinate and would always insist on staying longer at the table, even thoughhe regularly fell asleep and it was then harder than ever to persuade him toexchange the chair for his bed. Then, however much mother and sister wouldimportune him with little reproaches and warnings he would keep slowly shakinghis head for a quarter of an hour with his eyes closed and refusing to get up.Gregor’s mother would tug at his sleeve, whisper endearments into hisear, Gregor’s sister would leave her work to help her mother, but nothingwould have any effect on him. He would just sink deeper into his chair. Onlywhen the two women took him under the arms he would abruptly open his eyes,look at them one after the other and say: “What a life! This is whatpeace I get in my old age!” And supported by the two women he would lifthimself up carefully as if he were carrying the greatest load himself, let thewomen take him to the door, send them off and carry on by himself whileGregor’s mother would throw down her needle and his sister her pen sothat they could run after his father and continue being of help to him.
Who, in this tired and overworked family, would have had time to give moreattention to Gregor than was absolutely necessary? The household budget becameeven smaller; so now the maid was dismissed; an enormous, thick-boned charwomanwith white hair that flapped around her head came every morning and evening todo the heaviest work; everything else was looked after by Gregor’s motheron top of the large amount of sewing work she did. Gregor even learned,listening to the evening conversation about what price they had hoped for, thatseveral items of jewellery belonging to the family had been sold, even thoughboth mother and sister had been very fond of wearing them at functions andcelebrations. But the loudest complaint was that although the flat was much toobig for their present circumstances, they could not move out of it, there wasno imaginable way of transferring Gregor to the new address. He could see quitewell, though, that there were more reasons than consideration for him that madeit difficult for them to move, it would have been quite easy to transport himin any suitable crate with a few air holes in it; the main thing holding thefamily back from their decision to move was much more to do with their totaldespair, and the thought that they had been struck with a misfortune unlikeanything experienced by anyone else they knew or were related to. They carriedout absolutely everything that the world expects from poor people,Gregor’s father brought bank employees their breakfast, his mothersacrificed herself by washing clothes for strangers, his sister ran back andforth behind her desk at the behest of the customers, but they just did nothave the strength to do any more. And the injury in Gregor’s back beganto hurt as much as when it was new. After they had come back from taking hisfather to bed Gregor’s mother and sister would now leave their work whereit was and sit close together, cheek to cheek; his mother would point toGregor’s room and say “Close that door, Grete”, and then,when he was in the dark again, they would sit in the next room and their tearswould mingle, or they would simply sit there staring dry-eyed at the table.
Gregor hardly slept at all, either night or day. Sometimes he would think oftaking over the family’s affairs, just like before, the next time thedoor was opened; he had long forgotten about his boss and the chief clerk, butthey would appear again in his thoughts, the salesmen and the apprentices, thatstupid teaboy, two or three friends from other businesses, one of thechambermaids from a provincial hotel, a tender memory that appeared anddisappeared again, a cashier from a hat shop for whom his attention had beenserious but too slow,—all of them appeared to him, mixed together withstrangers and others he had forgotten, but instead of helping him and hisfamily they were all of them inaccessible, and he was glad when theydisappeared. Other times he was not at all in the mood to look after hisfamily, he was filled with simple rage about the lack of attention he wasshown, and although he could think of nothing he would have wanted, he madeplans of how he could get into the pantry where he could take all the things hewas entitled to, even if he was not hungry. Gregor’s sister no longerthought about how she could please him but would hurriedly push some food orother into his room with her foot before she rushed out to work in the morningand at midday, and in the evening she would sweep it away again with the broom,indifferent as to whether it had been eaten or—more often thannot—had been left totally untouched. She still cleared up the room in theevening, but now she could not have been any quicker about it. Smears of dirtwere left on the walls, here and there were little balls of dust and filth. Atfirst, Gregor went into one of the worst of these places when his sisterarrived as a reproach to her, but he could have stayed there for weeks withouthis sister doing anything about it; she could see the dirt as well as he couldbut she had simply decided to leave him to it. At the same time she becametouchy in a way that was quite new for her and which everyone in the familyunderstood—cleaning up Gregor’s room was for her and her alone.Gregor’s mother did once thoroughly clean his room, and needed to useseveral bucketfuls of water to do it—although that much dampness alsomade Gregor ill and he lay flat on the couch, bitter and immobile. But hismother was to be punished still more for what she had done, as hardly had hissister arrived home in the evening than she noticed the change inGregor’s room and, highly aggrieved, ran back into the living room where,despite her mothers raised and imploring hands, she broke into convulsivetears. Her father, of course, was startled out of his chair and the two parentslooked on astonished and helpless; then they, too, became agitated;Gregor’s father, standing to the right of his mother, accused her of notleaving the cleaning of Gregor’s room to his sister; from her left,Gregor’s sister screamed at her that she was never to cleanGregor’s room again; while his mother tried to draw his father, who wasbeside himself with anger, into the bedroom; his sister, quaking with tears,thumped on the table with her small fists; and Gregor hissed in anger thatno-one had even thought of closing the door to save him the sight of this andall its noise.
Gregor’s sister was exhausted from going out to work, and looking afterGregor as she had done before was even more work for her, but even so hismother ought certainly not to have taken her place. Gregor, on the other hand,ought not to be neglected. Now, though, the charwoman was here. This elderlywidow, with a robust bone structure that made her able to withstand the hardestof things in her long life, wasn’t really repelled by Gregor. Just bychance one day, rather than any real curiosity, she opened the door toGregor’s room and found herself face to face with him. He was takentotally by surprise, no-one was chasing him but he began to rush to and frowhile she just stood there in amazement with her hands crossed in front of her.From then on she never failed to open the door slightly every evening andmorning and look briefly in on him. At first she would call to him as she didso with words that she probably considered friendly, such as “come onthen, you old dung-beetle!”, or “look at the old dung-beetlethere!” Gregor never responded to being spoken to in that way, but justremained where he was without moving as if the door had never even been opened.If only they had told this charwoman to clean up his room every day instead ofletting her disturb him for no reason whenever she felt like it! One day, earlyin the morning while a heavy rain struck the windowpanes, perhaps indicatingthat spring was coming, she began to speak to him in that way once again.Gregor was so resentful of it that he started to move toward her, he was slowand infirm, but it was like a kind of attack. Instead of being afraid, thecharwoman just lifted up one of the chairs from near the door and stood therewith her mouth open, clearly intending not to close her mouth until the chairin her hand had been slammed down into Gregor’s back. “Aren’tyou coming any closer, then?”, she asked when Gregor turned round again,and she calmly put the chair back in the corner.
Gregor had almost entirely stopped eating. Only if he happened to find himselfnext to the food that had been prepared for him he might take some of it intohis mouth to play with it, leave it there a few hours and then, more often thannot, spit it out again. At first he thought it was distress at the state of hisroom that stopped him eating, but he had soon got used to the changes madethere. They had got into the habit of putting things into this room that theyhad no room for anywhere else, and there were now many such things as one ofthe rooms in the flat had been rented out to three gentlemen. These earnestgentlemen—all three of them had full beards, as Gregor learned peeringthrough the crack in the door one day—were painfully insistent onthings’ being tidy. This meant not only in their own room but, since theyhad taken a room in this establishment, in the entire flat and especially inthe kitchen. Unnecessary clutter was something they could not tolerate,especially if it was dirty. They had moreover brought most of their ownfurnishings and equipment with them. For this reason, many things had becomesuperfluous which, although they could not be sold, the family did not wish todiscard. All these things found their way into Gregor’s room. Thedustbins from the kitchen found their way in there too. The charwoman wasalways in a hurry, and anything she couldn’t use for the time being shewould just chuck in there. He, fortunately, would usually see no more than theobject and the hand that held it. The woman most likely meant to fetch thethings back out again when she had time and the opportunity, or to throweverything out in one go, but what actually happened was that they were leftwhere they landed when they had first been thrown unless Gregor made his waythrough the junk and moved it somewhere else. At first he moved it because,with no other room free where he could crawl about, he was forced to, but lateron he came to enjoy it although moving about in that way left him sad and tiredto death, and he would remain immobile for hours afterwards.
The gentlemen who rented the room would sometimes take their evening meal athome in the living room that was used by everyone, and so the door to this roomwas often kept closed in the evening. But Gregor found it easy to give uphaving the door open, he had, after all, often failed to make use of it when itwas open and, without the family having noticed it, lain in his room in itsdarkest corner. One time, though, the charwoman left the door to the livingroom slightly open, and it remained open when the gentlemen who rented the roomcame in in the evening and the light was put on. They sat up at the tablewhere, formerly, Gregor had taken his meals with his father and mother, theyunfolded the serviettes and picked up their knives and forks. Gregor’smother immediately appeared in the doorway with a dish of meat and soon behindher came his sister with a dish piled high with potatoes. The food wassteaming, and filled the room with its smell. The gentlemen bent over thedishes set in front of them as if they wanted to test the food before eatingit, and the gentleman in the middle, who seemed to count as an authority forthe other two, did indeed cut off a piece of meat while it was still in itsdish, clearly wishing to establish whether it was sufficiently cooked orwhether it should be sent back to the kitchen. It was to his satisfaction, andGregor’s mother and sister, who had been looking on anxiously, began tobreathe again and smiled.
The family themselves ate in the kitchen. Nonetheless, Gregor’s fathercame into the living room before he went into the kitchen, bowed once with hiscap in his hand and did his round of the table. The gentlemen stood as one, andmumbled something into their beards. Then, once they were alone, they ate innear perfect silence. It seemed remarkable to Gregor that above all the variousnoises of eating their chewing teeth could still be heard, as if they hadwanted to show Gregor that you need teeth in order to eat and it was notpossible to perform anything with jaws that are toothless however nice theymight be. “I’d like to eat something”, said Gregor anxiously,“but not anything like they’re eating. They do feed themselves. Andhere I am, dying!”
Throughout all this time, Gregor could not remember having heard the violinbeing played, but this evening it began to be heard from the kitchen. The threegentlemen had already finished their meal, the one in the middle had produced anewspaper, given a page to each of the others, and now they leant back in theirchairs reading them and smoking. When the violin began playing they becameattentive, stood up and went on tip-toe over to the door of the hallway wherethey stood pressed against each other. Someone must have heard them in thekitchen, as Gregor’s father called out: “Is the playing perhapsunpleasant for the gentlemen? We can stop it straight away.” “Onthe contrary”, said the middle gentleman, “would the young lady notlike to come in and play for us here in the room, where it is, after all, muchmore cosy and comfortable?” “Oh yes, we’d love to”,called back Gregor’s father as if he had been the violin player himself.The gentlemen stepped back into the room and waited. Gregor’s father soonappeared with the music stand, his mother with the music and his sister withthe violin. She calmly prepared everything for her to begin playing; hisparents, who had never rented a room out before and therefore showed anexaggerated courtesy towards the three gentlemen, did not even dare to sit ontheir own chairs; his father leant against the door with his right hand pushedin between two buttons on his uniform coat; his mother, though, was offered aseat by one of the gentlemen and sat—leaving the chair where thegentleman happened to have placed it—out of the way in a corner.
His sister began to play; father and mother paid close attention, one on eachside, to the movements of her hands. Drawn in by the playing, Gregor had daredto come forward a little and already had his head in the living room. Before,he had taken great pride in how considerate he was but now it hardly occurredto him that he had become so thoughtless about the others. What’s more,there was now all the more reason to keep himself hidden as he was covered inthe dust that lay everywhere in his room and flew up at the slightest movement;he carried threads, hairs, and remains of food about on his back and sides; hewas much too indifferent to everything now to lay on his back and wipe himselfon the carpet like he had used to do several times a day. And despite thiscondition, he was not too shy to move forward a little onto the immaculatefloor of the living room.
No-one noticed him, though. The family was totally preoccupied with the violinplaying; at first, the three gentlemen had put their hands in their pockets andcome up far too close behind the music stand to look at all the notes beingplayed, and they must have disturbed Gregor’s sister, but soon, incontrast with the family, they withdrew back to the window with their headssunk and talking to each other at half volume, and they stayed by the windowwhile Gregor’s father observed them anxiously. It really now seemed veryobvious that they had expected to hear some beautiful or entertaining violinplaying but had been disappointed, that they had had enough of the wholeperformance and it was only now out of politeness that they allowed their peaceto be disturbed. It was especially unnerving, the way they all blew the smokefrom their cigarettes upwards from their mouth and noses. Yet Gregor’ssister was playing so beautifully. Her face was leant to one side, followingthe lines of music with a careful and melancholy expression. Gregor crawled alittle further forward, keeping his head close to the ground so that he couldmeet her eyes if the chance came. Was he an animal if music could captivate himso? It seemed to him that he was being shown the way to the unknown nourishmenthe had been yearning for. He was determined to make his way forward to hissister and tug at her skirt to show her she might come into his room with herviolin, as no-one appreciated her playing here as much as he would. He neverwanted to let her out of his room, not while he lived, anyway; his shockingappearance should, for once, be of some use to him; he wanted to be at everydoor of his room at once to hiss and spit at the attackers; his sister shouldnot be forced to stay with him, though, but stay of her own free will; shewould sit beside him on the couch with her ear bent down to him while he toldher how he had always intended to send her to the conservatory, how he wouldhave told everyone about it last Christmas—had Christmas really come andgone already?—if this misfortune hadn’t got in the way, and refuseto let anyone dissuade him from it. On hearing all this, his sister would breakout in tears of emotion, and Gregor would climb up to her shoulder and kiss herneck, which, since she had been going out to work, she had kept free withoutany necklace or collar.
“Mr. Samsa!”, shouted the middle gentleman to Gregor’sfather, pointing, without wasting any more words, with his forefinger at Gregoras he slowly moved forward. The violin went silent, the middle of the threegentlemen first smiled at his two friends, shaking his head, and then lookedback at Gregor. His father seemed to think it more important to calm the threegentlemen before driving Gregor out, even though they were not at all upset andseemed to think Gregor was more entertaining than the violin playing had been.He rushed up to them with his arms spread out and attempted to drive them backinto their room at the same time as trying to block their view of Gregor withhis body. Now they did become a little annoyed, and it was not clear whether itwas his father’s behaviour that annoyed them or the dawning realisationthat they had had a neighbour like Gregor in the next room without knowing it.They asked Gregor’s father for explanations, raised their arms like hehad, tugged excitedly at their beards and moved back towards their room onlyvery slowly. Meanwhile Gregor’s sister had overcome the despair she hadfallen into when her playing was suddenly interrupted. She had let her handsdrop and let violin and bow hang limply for a while but continued to look atthe music as if still playing, but then she suddenly pulled herself together,lay the instrument on her mother’s lap who still sat laboriouslystruggling for breath where she was, and ran into the next room which, underpressure from her father, the three gentlemen were more quickly moving toward.Under his sister’s experienced hand, the pillows and covers on the bedsflew up and were put into order and she had already finished making the bedsand slipped out again before the three gentlemen had reached the room.Gregor’s father seemed so obsessed with what he was doing that he forgotall the respect he owed to his tenants. He urged them and pressed them until,when he was already at the door of the room, the middle of the three gentlemenshouted like thunder and stamped his foot and thereby brought Gregor’sfather to a halt. “I declare here and now”, he said, raising hishand and glancing at Gregor’s mother and sister to gain their attentiontoo, “that with regard to the repugnant conditions that prevail in thisflat and with this family”—here he looked briefly but decisively atthe floor—“I give immediate notice on my room. For the days that Ihave been living here I will, of course, pay nothing at all, on the contrary Iwill consider whether to proceed with some kind of action for damages from you,and believe me it would be very easy to set out the grounds for such anaction.” He was silent and looked straight ahead as if waiting forsomething. And indeed, his two friends joined in with the words: “And wealso give immediate notice.” With that, he took hold of the door handleand slammed the door.
Gregor’s father staggered back to his seat, feeling his way with hishands, and fell into it; it looked as if he was stretching himself out for hisusual evening nap but from the uncontrolled way his head kept nodding it couldbe seen that he was not sleeping at all. Throughout all this, Gregor had lainstill where the three gentlemen had first seen him. His disappointment at thefailure of his plan, and perhaps also because he was weak from hunger, made itimpossible for him to move. He was sure that everyone would turn on him anymoment, and he waited. He was not even startled out of this state when theviolin on his mother’s lap fell from her trembling fingers and landedloudly on the floor.
“Father, Mother”, said his sister, hitting the table with her handas introduction, “we can’t carry on like this. Maybe youcan’t see it, but I can. I don’t want to call this monster mybrother, all I can say is: we have to try and get rid of it. We’ve doneall that’s humanly possible to look after it and be patient, Idon’t think anyone could accuse us of doing anything wrong.”
“She’s absolutely right”, said Gregor’s father tohimself. His mother, who still had not had time to catch her breath, began tocough dully, her hand held out in front of her and a deranged expression in hereyes.
Gregor’s sister rushed to his mother and put her hand on her forehead.Her words seemed to give Gregor’s father some more definite ideas. He satupright, played with his uniform cap between the plates left by the threegentlemen after their meal, and occasionally looked down at Gregor as he laythere immobile.
“We have to try and get rid of it”, said Gregor’s sister, nowspeaking only to her father, as her mother was too occupied with coughing tolisten, “it’ll be the death of both of you, I can see it coming. Wecan’t all work as hard as we have to and then come home to be torturedlike this, we can’t endure it. I can’t endure it any more.”And she broke out so heavily in tears that they flowed down the face of hermother, and she wiped them away with mechanical hand movements.
“My child”, said her father with sympathy and obviousunderstanding, “what are we to do?”
His sister just shrugged her shoulders as a sign of the helplessness and tearsthat had taken hold of her, displacing her earlier certainty.
“If he could just understand us”, said his father almost as aquestion; his sister shook her hand vigorously through her tears as a sign thatof that there was no question.
“If he could just understand us”, repeated Gregor’s father,closing his eyes in acceptance of his sister’s certainty that that wasquite impossible, “then perhaps we could come to some kind of arrangementwith him. But as it is ...”
“It’s got to go”, shouted his sister, “that’s theonly way, Father. You’ve got to get rid of the idea that that’sGregor. We’ve only harmed ourselves by believing it for so long. How canthat be Gregor? If it were Gregor he would have seen long ago that it’snot possible for human beings to live with an animal like that and he wouldhave gone of his own free will. We wouldn’t have a brother any more,then, but we could carry on with our lives and remember him with respect. As itis this animal is persecuting us, it’s driven out our tenants, itobviously wants to take over the whole flat and force us to sleep on thestreets. Father, look, just look”, she suddenly screamed,“he’s starting again!” In her alarm, which was totally beyondGregor’s comprehension, his sister even abandoned his mother as shepushed herself vigorously out of her chair as if more willing to sacrifice herown mother than stay anywhere near Gregor. She rushed over to behind herfather, who had become excited merely because she was and stood up half raisinghis hands in front of Gregor’s sister as if to protect her.
But Gregor had had no intention of frightening anyone, least of all his sister.All he had done was begin to turn round so that he could go back into his room,although that was in itself quite startling as his pain-wracked condition meantthat turning round required a great deal of effort and he was using his head tohelp himself do it, repeatedly raising it and striking it against the floor. Hestopped and looked round. They seemed to have realised his good intention andhad only been alarmed briefly. Now they all looked at him in unhappy silence.His mother lay in her chair with her legs stretched out and pressed againsteach other, her eyes nearly closed with exhaustion; his sister sat next to hisfather with her arms around his neck.
“Maybe now they’ll let me turn round”, thought Gregor andwent back to work. He could not help panting loudly with the effort and hadsometimes to stop and take a rest. No-one was making him rush any more,everything was left up to him. As soon as he had finally finished turning roundhe began to move straight ahead. He was amazed at the great distance thatseparated him from his room, and could not understand how he had covered thatdistance in his weak state a little while before and almost without noticingit. He concentrated on crawling as fast as he could and hardly noticed thatthere was not a word, not any cry, from his family to distract him. He did notturn his head until he had reached the doorway. He did not turn it all the wayround as he felt his neck becoming stiff, but it was nonetheless enough to seethat nothing behind him had changed, only his sister had stood up. With hislast glance he saw that his mother had now fallen completely asleep.
He was hardly inside his room before the door was hurriedly shut, bolted andlocked. The sudden noise behind Gregor so startled him that his little legscollapsed under him. It was his sister who had been in so much of a rush. Shehad been standing there waiting and sprung forward lightly, Gregor had notheard her coming at all, and as she turned the key in the lock she said loudlyto her parents “At last!”.
“What now, then?”, Gregor asked himself as he looked round in thedarkness. He soon made the discovery that he could no longer move at all. Thiswas no surprise to him, it seemed rather that being able to actually movearound on those spindly little legs until then was unnatural. He also feltrelatively comfortable. It is true that his entire body was aching, but thepain seemed to be slowly getting weaker and weaker and would finally disappearaltogether. He could already hardly feel the decayed apple in his back or theinflamed area around it, which was entirely covered in white dust. He thoughtback of his family with emotion and love. If it was possible, he felt that hemust go away even more strongly than his sister. He remained in this state ofempty and peaceful rumination until he heard the clock tower strike three inthe morning. He watched as it slowly began to get light everywhere outside thewindow too. Then, without his willing it, his head sank down completely, andhis last breath flowed weakly from his nostrils.
When the cleaner came in early in the morning—they’d often askedher not to keep slamming the doors but with her strength and in her hurry shestill did, so that everyone in the flat knew when she’d arrived and fromthen on it was impossible to sleep in peace—she made her usual brief lookin on Gregor and at first found nothing special. She thought he was layingthere so still on purpose, playing the martyr; she attributed all possibleunderstanding to him. She happened to be holding the long broom in her hand, soshe tried to tickle Gregor with it from the doorway. When she had no successwith that she tried to make a nuisance of herself and poked at him a little,and only when she found she could shove him across the floor with no resistanceat all did she start to pay attention. She soon realised what had reallyhappened, opened her eyes wide, whistled to herself, but did not waste time toyank open the bedroom doors and shout loudly into the darkness of the bedrooms:“Come and ’ave a look at this, it’s dead, just lying there,stone dead!”
Mr. and Mrs. Samsa sat upright there in their marriage bed and had to make aneffort to get over the shock caused by the cleaner before they could grasp whatshe was saying. But then, each from his own side, they hurried out of bed. Mr.Samsa threw the blanket over his shoulders, Mrs. Samsa just came out in hernightdress; and that is how they went into Gregor’s room. On the way theyopened the door to the living room where Grete had been sleeping since thethree gentlemen had moved in; she was fully dressed as if she had never beenasleep, and the paleness of her face seemed to confirm this.“Dead?”, asked Mrs. Samsa, looking at the charwoman enquiringly,even though she could have checked for herself and could have known it evenwithout checking. “That’s what I said”, replied the cleaner,and to prove it she gave Gregor’s body another shove with the broom,sending it sideways across the floor. Mrs. Samsa made a movement as if shewanted to hold back the broom, but did not complete it. “Now then”,said Mr. Samsa, “let’s give thanks to God for that”. Hecrossed himself, and the three women followed his example. Grete, who had nottaken her eyes from the corpse, said: “Just look how thin he was. Hedidn’t eat anything for so long. The food came out again just the same aswhen it went in”. Gregor’s body was indeed completely dried up andflat, they had not seen it until then, but now he was not lifted up on hislittle legs, nor did he do anything to make them look away.
“Grete, come with us in here for a little while”, said Mrs. Samsawith a pained smile, and Grete followed her parents into the bedroom but notwithout looking back at the body. The cleaner shut the door and opened thewindow wide. Although it was still early in the morning the fresh air hadsomething of warmth mixed in with it. It was already the end of March, afterall.
The three gentlemen stepped out of their room and looked round in amazement fortheir breakfasts; they had been forgotten about. “Where is ourbreakfast?”, the middle gentleman asked the cleaner irritably. She justput her finger on her lips and made a quick and silent sign to the men thatthey might like to come into Gregor’s room. They did so, and stood aroundGregor’s corpse with their hands in the pockets of their well-worn coats.It was now quite light in the room.
Then the door of the bedroom opened and Mr. Samsa appeared in his uniform withhis wife on one arm and his daughter on the other. All of them had been cryinga little; Grete now and then pressed her face against her father’s arm.
“Leave my home. Now!”, said Mr. Samsa, indicating the door andwithout letting the women from him. “What do you mean?”, asked themiddle of the three gentlemen somewhat disconcerted, and he smiled sweetly. Theother two held their hands behind their backs and continually rubbed themtogether in gleeful anticipation of a loud quarrel which could only end intheir favour. “I mean just what I said”, answered Mr. Samsa, and,with his two companions, went in a straight line towards the man. At first, hestood there still, looking at the ground as if the contents of his head wererearranging themselves into new positions. “Alright, we’ll gothen”, he said, and looked up at Mr. Samsa as if he had been suddenlyovercome with humility and wanted permission again from Mr. Samsa for hisdecision. Mr. Samsa merely opened his eyes wide and briefly nodded to himseveral times. At that, and without delay, the man actually did take longstrides into the front hallway; his two friends had stopped rubbing their handssome time before and had been listening to what was being said. Now they jumpedoff after their friend as if taken with a sudden fear that Mr. Samsa might gointo the hallway in front of them and break the connection with their leader.Once there, all three took their hats from the stand, took their sticks fromthe holder, bowed without a word and left the premises. Mr. Samsa and the twowomen followed them out onto the landing; but they had had no reason tomistrust the men’s intentions and as they leaned over the landing theysaw how the three gentlemen made slow but steady progress down the many steps.As they turned the corner on each floor they disappeared and would reappear afew moments later; the further down they went, the more that the Samsa familylost interest in them; when a butcher’s boy, proud of posture with histray on his head, passed them on his way up and came nearer than they were, Mr.Samsa and the women came away from the landing and went, as if relieved, backinto the flat.
They decided the best way to make use of that day was for relaxation and to gofor a walk; not only had they earned a break from work but they were in seriousneed of it. So they sat at the table and wrote three letters of excusal, Mr.Samsa to his employers, Mrs. Samsa to her contractor and Grete to herprincipal. The cleaner came in while they were writing to tell them she wasgoing, she’d finished her work for that morning. The three of them atfirst just nodded without looking up from what they were writing, and it wasonly when the cleaner still did not seem to want to leave that they looked upin irritation. “Well?”, asked Mr. Samsa. The charwoman stood in thedoorway with a smile on her face as if she had some tremendous good news toreport, but would only do it if she was clearly asked to. The almost verticallittle ostrich feather on her hat, which had been a source of irritation to Mr.Samsa all the time she had been working for them, swayed gently in alldirections. “What is it you want then?”, asked Mrs. Samsa, whom thecleaner had the most respect for. “Yes”, she answered, and brokeinto a friendly laugh that made her unable to speak straight away, “wellthen, that thing in there, you needn’t worry about how you’re goingto get rid of it. That’s all been sorted out.” Mrs. Samsa and Gretebent down over their letters as if intent on continuing with what they werewriting; Mr. Samsa saw that the cleaner wanted to start describing everythingin detail but, with outstretched hand, he made it quite clear that she was notto. So, as she was prevented from telling them all about it, she suddenlyremembered what a hurry she was in and, clearly peeved, called out“Cheerio then, everyone”, turned round sharply and left, slammingthe door terribly as she went.
“Tonight she gets sacked”, said Mr. Samsa, but he received no replyfrom either his wife or his daughter as the charwoman seemed to have destroyedthe peace they had only just gained. They got up and went over to the windowwhere they remained with their arms around each other. Mr. Samsa twisted roundin his chair to look at them and sat there watching for a while. Then he calledout: “Come here, then. Let’s forget about all that old stuff, shallwe. Come and give me a bit of attention”. The two women immediately didas he said, hurrying over to him where they kissed him and hugged him and thenthey quickly finished their letters.
After that, the three of them left the flat together, which was something theyhad not done for months, and took the tram out to the open country outside thetown. They had the tram, filled with warm sunshine, all to themselves. Leantback comfortably on their seats, they discussed their prospects and found thaton closer examination they were not at all bad—until then they had neverasked each other about their work but all three had jobs which were very goodand held particularly good promise for the future. The greatest improvement forthe time being, of course, would be achieved quite easily by moving house; whatthey needed now was a flat that was smaller and cheaper than the current onewhich had been chosen by Gregor, one that was in a better location and, most ofall, more practical. All the time, Grete was becoming livelier. With all theworry they had been having of late her cheeks had become pale, but, while theywere talking, Mr. and Mrs. Samsa were struck, almost simultaneously, with thethought of how their daughter was blossoming into a well built and beautifulyoung lady. They became quieter. Just from each other’s glance and almostwithout knowing it they agreed that it would soon be time to find a good manfor her. And, as if in confirmation of their new dreams and good intentions, assoon as they reached their destination Grete was the first to get up andstretch out her young body.
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INTRODUCTION
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The Ethics of Aristotle is one half of a single treatise of which hisPolitics is the other half. Both deal with one and the same subject.This subject is what Aristotle calls in one place the “philosophy ofhuman affairs;” but more frequently Political or Social Science. In thetwo works taken together we have their author’s whole theory of humanconduct or practical activity, that is, of all human activity which is notdirected merely to knowledge or truth. The two parts of this treatise aremutually complementary, but in a literary sense each is independent andself-contained. The proem to the Ethics is an introduction to the wholesubject, not merely to the first part; the last chapter of the Ethicspoints forward to the Politics, and sketches for that part of thetreatise the order of enquiry to be pursued (an order which in the actualtreatise is not adhered to).
The principle of distribution of the subject-matter between the two works isfar from obvious, and has been much debated. Not much can be gathered fromtheir titles, which in any case were not given to them by their author. Nor dothese titles suggest any very compact unity in the works to which they areapplied: the plural forms, which survive so oddly in English (Ethics,Politics), were intended to indicate the treatment within a single workof a group of connected questions. The unity of the first group arisesfrom their centring round the topic of character, that of the second from theirconnection with the existence and life of the city or state. We have thus toregard the Ethics as dealing with one group of problems and thePolitics with a second, both falling within the wide compass ofPolitical Science. Each of these groups falls into sub-groups which roughlycorrespond to the several books in each work. The tendency to take up one byone the various problems which had suggested themselves in the wide fieldobscures both the unity of the subject-matter and its proper articulation. Butit is to be remembered that what is offered us is avowedly rather an enquirythan an exposition of hard and fast doctrine.
Nevertheless each work aims at a relative completeness, and it is important toobserve the relation of each to the other. The distinction is not that the onetreats of Moral and the other of Political Philosophy, nor again that the onedeals with the moral activity of the individual and the other with that of theState, nor once more that the one gives us the theory of human conduct, whilethe other discusses its application in practice, though not all of thesemisinterpretations are equally erroneous. The clue to the right interpretationis given by Aristotle himself, where in the last chapter of the Ethicshe is paving the way for the Politics. In the Ethics he has notconfined himself to the abstract or isolated individual, but has always thoughtof him, or we might say, in his social and political context, with a givennature due to race and heredity and in certain surroundings. So viewing him hehas studied the nature and formation of his character—all that he canmake himself or be made by others to be. Especially he has investigated thevarious admirable forms of human character and the mode of their production.But all this, though it brings more clearly before us what goodness or virtueis, and how it is to be reached, remains mere theory or talk. By itself it doesnot enable us to become, or to help others to become, good. For this it isnecessary to bring into play the great force of the Political Community orState, of which the main instrument is Law. Hence arises the demand for thenecessary complement to the Ethics, i.e., a treatise devoted to thequestions which centre round the enquiry; by what organisation of social orpolitical forces, by what laws or institutions can we best secure the greatestamount of good character?
We must, however, remember that the production of good character is not the endof either individual or state action: that is the aim of the one and the otherbecause good character is the indispensable condition and chief determinant ofhappiness, itself the goal of all human doing. The end of all action,individual or collective, is the greatest happiness of the greatest number.There is, Aristotle insists, no difference of kind between the good of one andthe good of many or all. The sole difference is one of amount or scale. Thisdoes not mean simply that the State exists to secure in larger measure theobjects of degree which the isolated individual attempts, but is too feeble, tosecure without it. On the contrary, it rather insists that whatever goodssociety alone enables a man to secure have always had to theindividual—whether he realised it or not—the value which, when sosecured, he recognises them to possess. The best and happiest life for theindividual is that which the State renders possible, and this it does mainly byrevealing to him the value of new objects of desire and educating him toappreciate them. To Aristotle or to Plato the State is, above all, a large andpowerful educative agency which gives the individual increased opportunities ofself-development and greater capacities for the enjoyment of life.
Looking forward, then, to the life of the State as that which aids support, andcombines the efforts of the individual to obtain happiness, Aristotle draws nohard and fast distinction between the spheres of action of Man as individualand Man as citizen. Nor does the division of his discussion into theEthics and the Politics rest upon any such distinction. Thedistinction implied is rather between two stages in the life of the civilisedman—the stage of preparation for the full life of the adult citizen, andthe stage of the actual exercise or enjoyment of citizenship. Hence theEthics, where his attention is directed upon the formation of character,is largely and centrally a treatise on Moral Education. It discusses especiallythose admirable human qualities which fit a man for life in an organised civiccommunity, which makes him “a good citizen,” and considers how theycan be fostered or created and their opposites prevented.
This is the kernel of the Ethics, and all the rest is subordinate tothis main interest and purpose. Yet “the rest” is not irrelevant;the whole situation in which character grows and operates is concretelyconceived. There is a basis of what we should call Psychology, sketched in firmoutlines, the deeper presuppositions and the wider issues of human characterand conduct are not ignored, and there is no little of what we should callMetaphysics. But neither the Psychology nor the Metaphysics is elaborated, andonly so much is brought forward as appears necessary to put the main facts intheir proper perspective and setting. It is this combination of width ofoutlook with close observation of the concrete facts of conduct which gives itsabiding value to the work, and justifies the view of it as containingAristotle’s Moral Philosophy. Nor is it important merely as summing upthe moral judgments and speculations of an age now long past. It seizes anddwells upon those elements and features in human practice which are mostessential and permanent, and it is small wonder that so much in it survives inour own ways of regarding conduct and speaking of it. Thus it still remains oneof the classics of Moral Philosophy, nor is its value likely soon to beexhausted.
As was pointed out above, the proem (Book I., cc. i-iii.) is a prelude to thetreatment of the whole subject covered by the Ethics and thePolitics together. It sets forth the purpose of the enquiry, describesthe spirit in which it is to be undertaken and what ought to be the expectationof the reader, and lastly states the necessary conditions of studying it withprofit. The aim of it is the acquisition and propagation of a certain kind ofknowledge (science), but this knowledge and the thinking which brings it aboutare subsidiary to a practical end. The knowledge aimed at is of what is bestfor man and of the conditions of its realisation. Such knowledge is that whichin its consumate form we find in great statesmen, enabling them to organise andadminister their states and regulate by law the life of the citizens to theiradvantage and happiness, but it is the same kind of knowledge which on asmaller scale secures success in the management of the family or of privatelife.
It is characteristic of such knowledge that it should be deficient in“exactness,” in precision of statement, and closeness of logicalconcatenation. We must not look for a mathematics of conduct. Thesubject-matter of Human Conduct is not governed by necessary and uniform laws.But this does not mean that it is subject to no laws. There are generalprinciples at work in it, and these can be formulated in “rules,”which rules can be systematised or unified. It is all-important to rememberthat practical or moral rules are only general and always admit of exceptions,and that they arise not from the mere complexity of the facts, but from theliability of the facts to a certain unpredictable variation. At their verybest, practical rules state probabilities, not certainties; a relativeconstancy of connection is all that exists, but it is enough to serve as aguide in life. Aristotle here holds the balance between a misleading hope ofreducing the subject-matter of conduct to a few simple rigorous abstractprinciples, with conclusions necessarily issuing from them, and the view thatit is the field of operation of inscrutable forces acting without predictableregularity. He does not pretend to find in it absolute uniformities, or todeduce the details from his principles. Hence, too, he insists on the necessityof experience as the source or test of all that he has to say. Moralexperience—the actual possession and exercise of good character—isnecessary truly to understand moral principles and profitably to apply them.The mere intellectual apprehension of them is not possible, or if possible,profitless.
The Ethics is addressed to students who are presumed both to have enoughgeneral education to appreciate these points, and also to have a solidfoundation of good habits. More than that is not required for the profitablestudy of it.
If the discussion of the nature and formation of character be regarded as thecentral topic of the Ethics, the contents of Book I., cc. iv.-xii. maybe considered as still belonging to the introduction and setting, but thesechapters contain matter of profound importance and have exercised an enormousinfluence upon subsequent thought. They lay down a principle which governs allGreek thought about human life, viz. that it is only intelligible when viewedas directed towards some end or good. This is the Greek way of expressing thatall human life involves an ideal element—something which it is not yetand which under certain conditions it is to be. In that sense Greek MoralPhilosophy is essentially idealistic. Further it is always assumed that allhuman practical activity is directed or “oriented” to asingle end, and that that end is knowable or definable in advance of itsrealisation. To know it is not merely a matter of speculative interest, it isof the highest practical moment for only in the light of it can life be dulyguided, and particularly only so can the state be properly organised andadministered. This explains the stress laid throughout by Greek MoralPhilosophy upon the necessity of knowledge as a condition of the best life.This knowledge is not, though it includes knowledge of the nature of man andhis circumstances, it is knowledge of what is best—of man’s supremeend or good.
But this end is not conceived as presented to him by a superior power nor evenas something which ought to be. The presentation of the Moral Ideal asDuty is almost absent. From the outset it is identified with the object ofdesire, of what we not merely judge desirable but actually do desire, or thatwhich would, if realised, satisfy human desire. In fact it is what we all, wiseand simple, agree in naming “Happiness” (Welfare or Well-being)
In what then does happiness consist? Aristotle summarily sets aside the more orless popular identifications of it with abundance of physical pleasures, withpolitical power and honour, with the mere possession of such superior gifts orattainments as normally entitle men to these, with wealth. None of these canconstitute the end or good of man as such. On the other hand, he rejects hismaster Plato’s conception of a good which is the end of the wholeuniverse, or at least dismisses it as irrelevant to his present enquiry. Thegood towards which all human desires and practical activities are directed mustbe one conformable to man’s special nature and circumstances andattainable by his efforts. There is in Aristotle’s theory of humanconduct no trace of Plato’s “other worldliness”, he bringsthe moral ideal in Bacon’s phrase down to “rightearth”—and so closer to the facts and problems of actual humanliving. Turning from criticism of others he states his own positive view ofHappiness, and, though he avowedly states it merely in outline his account ispregnant with significance. Human Happiness lies in activity or energising, andthat in a way peculiar to man with his given nature and his givencircumstances, it is not theoretical, but practical: it is the activity not ofreason but still of a being who possesses reason and applies it, and itpresupposes in that being the development, and not merely the naturalpossession, of certain relevant powers and capacities. The last is the primecondition of successful living and therefore of satisfaction, but Aristotledoes not ignore other conditions, such as length of life, wealth and good luck,the absence or diminution of which render happiness not impossible, butdifficult of attainment.
It is interesting to compare this account of Happiness with Mill’s inUtilitarianism. Mill’s is much the less consistent: at times hedistinguishes and at times he identifies, happiness, pleasure, contentment, andsatisfaction. He wavers between belief in its general attainability and anabsence of hopefulness. He mixes up in an arbitrary way such ingredients as“not expecting more from life than it is capable of bestowing,”“mental cultivation,” “improved laws,” etc., and infact leaves the whole conception vague, blurred, and uncertain. Aristotle drawsthe outline with a firmer hand and presents a more definite ideal. He allowsfor the influence on happiness of conditions only partly, if at all, within thecontrol of man, but he clearly makes the man positive determinant ofman’s happiness he in himself, and more particularly in what he makesdirectly of his own nature, and so indirectly of his circumstances.“‘Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus” But once morethis does not involve an artificial or abstract isolation of the individualmoral agent from his relation to other persons or things from his context insociety and nature, nor ignore the relative dependence of his life upon afavourable environment.
The main factor which determines success or failure in human life is theacquisition of certain powers, for Happiness is just the exercise or puttingforth of these in actual living, everything else is secondary and subordinate.These powers arise from the due development of certain natural aptitudes whichbelong (in various degrees) to human nature as such and therefore to all normalhuman beings. In their developed form they are known as virtues (the Greekmeans simply “goodnesses,” “perfections,”“excellences,” or “fitnesses”), some of them arephysical, but others are psychical, and among the latter some, and thesedistinctively or peculiarly human, are “rational,” i e,presuppose the possession and exercise of mind or intelligence. These last fallinto two groups, which Aristotle distinguishes as Goodnesses of Intellect andGoodnesses of Character. They have in common that they all excite in usadmiration and praise of their possessors, and that they are not naturalendowments, but acquired characteristics But they differ in important ways. (1)the former are excellences or developed powers of the reason as such—ofthat in us which sees and formulates laws, rules, regularities systems, and iscontent in the vision of them, while the latter involve a submission orobedience to such rules of something in us which is in itself capricious andirregular, but capable of regulation, viz our instincts and feelings, (2) theformer are acquired by study and instruction, the latter by discipline. Thelatter constitute “character,” each of them as a “moralvirtue” (literally “a goodness of character”), and upon themprimarily depends the realisation of happiness. This is the case at least forthe great majority of men, and for all men their possession is an indispensablebasis of the best, i e, the most desirable life. They form the chief orcentral subject-matter of the Ethics.
Perhaps the truest way of conceiving Aristotle’s meaning here is toregard a moral virtue as a form of obedience to a maxim or rule of conductaccepted by the agent as valid for a class of recurrent situations in humanlife. Such obedience requires knowledge of the rule and acceptance of it asthe rule of the agent’s own actions, but not necessarily knowledge ofits ground or of its systematic connexion with other similarly known andsimilarly accepted rules (It may be remarked that the Greek word usuallytranslated “reason,” means in almost all cases in the Ethicssuch a rule, and not the faculty which apprehends, formulates, considers them).
The “moral virtues and vices” make up what we call character, andthe important questions arise: (1) What is character? and (2) How is it formed?(for character in this sense is not a natural endowment; it is formed orproduced). Aristotle deals with these questions in the reverse order. Hisanswers are peculiar and distinctive—not that they are absolutely novel(for they are anticipated in Plato), but that by him they are for the firsttime distinctly and clearly formulated.
(1.) Character, good or bad, is produced by what Aristotle calls“habituation,” that is, it is the result of the repeated doing ofacts which have a similar or common quality. Such repetition acting uponnatural aptitudes or propensities gradually fixes them in one or other of twoopposite directions, giving them a bias towards good or evil. Hence the severalacts which determine goodness or badness of character must be done in a certainway, and thus the formation of good character requires discipline and directionfrom without. Not that the agent himself contributes nothing to the formationof his character, but that at first he needs guidance. The point is not so muchthat the process cannot be safely left to Nature, but that it cannot beentrusted to merely intellectual instruction. The process is one ofassimilation, largely by imitation and under direction and control. The resultis a growing understanding of what is done, a choice of it for its own sake, afixity and steadiness of purpose. Right acts and feelings become, throughhabit, easier and more pleasant, and the doing of them a “secondnature.” The agent acquires the power of doing them freely, willingly,more and more “of himself.”
But what are “right” acts? In the first place, they are those thatconform to a rule—to the right rule, and ultimately to reason. The Greeksnever waver from the conviction that in the end moral conduct is essentiallyreasonable conduct. But there is a more significant way of describing their“rightness,” and here for the first time Aristotle introduces hisfamous “Doctrine of the Mean.” Reasoning from the analogy of“right” physical acts, he pronounces that rightness always meansadaptation or adjustment to the special requirements of a situation. To thisadjustment he gives a quantitative interpretation. To do (or to feel) what isright in a given situation is to do or to feel just the amountrequired—neither more nor less: to do wrong is to do or to feel too muchor too little—to fall short of or over-shoot, “a mean”determined by the situation. The repetition of acts which lie in the mean isthe cause of the formation of each and every “goodness ofcharacter,” and for this “rules” can be given.
(2) What then is a “moral virtue,” the result of such a processduly directed? It is no mere mood of feeling, no mere liability to emotion, nomere natural aptitude or endowment, it is a permanent state of theagent’s self, or, as we might in modern phrase put it, of his will, itconsists in a steady self-imposed obedience to a rule of action in certainsituations which frequently recur in human life. The rule prescribes thecontrol and regulation within limits of the agent’s natural impulses toact and feel thus and thus. The situations fall into groups which constitutethe “fields” of the several “moral virtues”, for eachthere is a rule, conformity to which secures rightness in the individual acts.Thus the moral ideal appears as a code of rules, accepted by the agent, but asyet to him without rational justification and without system or unity.But the rules prescribe no mechanical uniformity: each within its limitspermits variety, and the exactly right amount adopted to the requirements ofthe individual situation (and every actual situation is individual) must bedetermined by the intuition of the moment. There is no attempt to reduce therich possibilities of right action to a single monotonous type. On thecontrary, there are acknowledged to be many forms of moral virtue, and there isa long list of them, with their correlative vices enumerated.
The Doctrine of the Mean here takes a form in which it has impressed subsequentthinkers, but which has less importance than is usually ascribed to it. In the“Table of the Virtues and Vices,” each of the virtues is flanked bytwo opposite vices, which are respectively the excess and defect of that whichin due measure constitutes the virtue. Aristotle tries to show that this is thecase in regard to every virtue named and recognised as such, but his treatmentis often forced and the endeavour is not very successful. Except as aconvenient principle of arrangement of the various forms of praiseworthy orblameworthy characters, generally acknowledged as such by Greek opinion, thisform of the doctrine is of no great significance.
Books III-V are occupied with a survey of the moral virtues and vices. Theseseem to have been undertaken in order to verify in detail the general account,but this aim is not kept steadily in view. Nor is there any well-consideredprinciple of classification. What we find is a sort of portrait-gallery of thevarious types of moral excellence which the Greeks of the author’s ageadmired and strove to encourage. The discussion is full of acute, interestingand sometimes profound observations. Some of the types are those which are andwill be admired at all times, but others are connected with peculiar featuresof Greek life which have now passed away. The most important is that of Justiceor the Just Man, to which we may later return. But the discussion is precededby an attempt to elucidate some difficult and obscure points in the generalaccount of moral virtue and action (Book III, cc i-v). This section isconcerned with the notion of Responsibility. The discussion designedly excludeswhat we may call the metaphysical issues of the problem, which here presentthemselves, it moves on the level of thought of the practical man, thestatesman, and the legislator. Coercion and ignorance of relevant circumstancesrender acts involuntary and exempt their doer from responsibility, otherwisethe act is voluntary and the agent responsible, choice or preference of what isdone, and inner consent to the deed, are to be presumed. Neither passion norignorance of the right rule can extenuate responsibility. But there is adifference between acts done voluntarily and acts done of set choice orpurpose. The latter imply Deliberation. Deliberation involves thinking,thinking out means to ends: in deliberate acts the whole nature of the agentconsents to and enters into the act, and in a peculiar sense they are his, theyare him in action, and the most significant evidence of what he is.Aristotle is unable wholly to avoid allusion to the metaphysical difficultiesand what he does here say upon them is obscure and unsatisfactory. But heinsists upon the importance in moral action of the agent’s inner consent,and on the reality of his individual responsibility. For his present purposethe metaphysical difficulties are irrelevant.
The treatment of Justice in Book V has always been a source of great difficultyto students of the Ethics. Almost more than any other part of the workit has exercised influence upon mediaeval and modern thought upon the subject.The distinctions and divisions have become part of the stock-in-trade of wouldbe philosophic jurists. And yet, oddly enough, most of these distinctions havebeen misunderstood and the whole purport of the discussion misconceived.Aristotle is here dealing with justice in a restricted sense viz as thatspecial goodness of character which is required of every adult citizen andwhich can be produced by early discipline or habituation. It is the temper orhabitual attitude demanded of the citizen for the due exercise of his functionsas taking part in the administration of the civic community—as a memberof the judicature and executive. The Greek citizen was only exceptionally, andat rare intervals if ever, a law-maker while at any moment he might be calledupon to act as a judge (juryman or arbitrator) or as an administrator. For thework of a legislator far more than the moral virtue of justice orfairmindedness was necessary, these were requisite to the rarer and higher“intellectual virtue” of practical wisdom. Then here, too, thediscussion moves on a low level, and the raising of fundamental problems isexcluded. Hence “distributive justice” is concerned not with thelarge question of the distribution of political power and privileges among theconstituent members or classes of the state but with the smaller questions ofthe distribution among those of casual gains and even with the division amongprivate claimants of a common fund or inheritance, while “correctivejustice” is concerned solely with the management of legal redress. Thewhole treatment is confused by the unhappy attempt to give a precisemathematical form to the principles of justice in the various fieldsdistinguished. Still it remains an interesting first endeavour to give greaterexactness to some of the leading conceptions of jurisprudence.
Book VI appears to have in view two aims: (1) to describe goodness of intellectand discover its highest form or forms; (2) to show how this is related togoodness of character, and so to conduct generally. As all thinking is eithertheoretical or practical, goodness of intellect has two supremeforms—Theoretical and Practical Wisdom. The first, which apprehends theeternal laws of the universe, has no direct relation to human conduct: thesecond is identical with that master science of human life of which the wholetreatise, consisting of the Ethics and the Politics, is anexposition. It is this science which supplies the right rules of conduct Takingthem as they emerge in and from practical experience, it formulates them moreprecisely and organises them into a system where they are all seen to convergeupon happiness. The mode in which such knowledge manifests itself is in thepower to show that such and such rules of action follow from the very nature ofthe end or good for man. It presupposes and starts from a clear conception ofthe end and the wish for it as conceived, and it proceeds by a deduction whichis dehberation writ large. In the man of practical wisdom this process hasreached its perfect result, and the code of right rules is apprehended as asystem with a single principle and so as something wholly rational orreasonable He has not on each occasion to seek and find the right ruleapplicable to the situation, he produces it at once from within himself, andcan at need justify it by exhibiting its rationale, i.e. , itsconnection with the end. This is the consummate form of reason applied toconduct, but there are minor forms of it, less independent or original, butnevertheless of great value, such as the power to think out the proper cause ofpolicy in novel circumstances or the power to see the proper line of treatmentto follow in a court of law.
The form of the thinking which enters into conduct is that which terminates inthe production of a rule which declares some means to the end of life. Theprocess presupposes (a) a clear and just apprehension of the nature ofthat end—such as the Ethics itself endeavours to supply;(b) a correct perception of the conditions of action, (a) atleast is impossible except to a man whose character has been duly formed bydiscipline; it arises only in a man who has acquired moral virtue. For suchaction and feeling as forms bad character, blinds the eye of the soul andcorrupts the moral principle, and the place of practical wisdom is taken bythat parody of itself which Aristotle calls “cleverness”—the“wisdom” of the unscrupulous man of the world. Thus true practicalwisdom and true goodness of character are interdependent; neither is genuinelypossible or “completely” present without the other. This isAristotle’s contribution to the discussion of the question, so central inGreek Moral Philosophy, of the relation of the intellectual and the passionatefactors in conduct.
Aristotle is not an intuitionist, but he recognises the implication in conductof a direct and immediate apprehension both of the end and of the character ofhis circumstances under which it is from moment to moment realised. Thedirectness of such apprehension makes it analogous to sensation orsense-perception; but it is on his view in the end due to the existence oractivity in man of that power in him which is the highest thing in his nature,and akin to or identical with the divine nature—mind, or intelligence. Itis this which reveals to us what is best for us—the ideal of a happinesswhich is the object of our real wish and the goal of all our efforts. Butbeyond and above the practical ideal of what is best for man begins toshow itself another and still higher ideal—that of a life notdistinctively human or in a narrow sense practical, yet capable of beingparticipated in by man even under the actual circumstances of this world. For atime, however, this further and higher ideal is ignored.
The next book (Book VII.), is concerned partly with moral conditions, in whichthe agent seems to rise above the level of moral virtue or fall below that ofmoral vice, but partly and more largely with conditions in which the agentoccupies a middle position between the two. Aristotle’s attention is heredirected chiefly towards the phenomena of “Incontinence,” weaknessof will or imperfect self-control. This condition was to the Greeks a matter ofonly too frequent experience, but it appeared to them peculiarly difficult tounderstand. How can a man know what is good or best for him, and yetchronically fail to act upon his knowledge? Socrates was driven to the paradoxof denying the possibility, but the facts are too strong for him. Knowledge ofthe right rule may be present, nay the rightfulness of its authority may beacknowledged, and yet time after time it may be disobeyed; the will may be goodand yet overmastered by the force of desire, so that the act done is contraryto the agent’s will. Nevertheless the act may be the agent’s, andthe will therefore divided against itself. Aristotle is aware of theseriousness and difficulty of the problem, but in spite of the vividness withwhich he pictures, and the acuteness with which he analyses, the situation inwhich such action occurs, it cannot be said that he solves the problem. It istime that he rises above the abstract view of it as a conflict between reasonand passion, recognising that passion is involved in the knowledge which inconduct prevails or is overborne, and that the force which leads to the wrongact is not blind or ignorant passion, but always has some reason in it. But hetends to lapse back into the abstraction, and his final account is perplexedand obscure. He finds the source of the phenomenon in the nature of the desirefor bodily pleasures, which is not irrational but has something rational in it.Such pleasures are not necessarily or inherently bad, as has sometimes beenmaintained; on the contrary, they are good, but only in certain amounts orunder certain conditions, so that the will is often misled, hesitates, and islost.
Books VIII. and IX. (on Friendship) are almost an interruption of the argument.The subject-matter of them was a favourite topic of ancient writers, and thetreatment is smoother and more orderly than elsewhere in the Ethics. Theargument is clear, and may be left without comment to the readers. These bookscontain a necessary and attractive complement to the somewhat dry account ofGreek morality in the preceding books, and there are in them profoundreflections on what may be called the metaphysics of friendship or love.
At the beginning of Book X. we return to the topic of Pleasure, which is nowregarded from a different point of view. In Book VII. the antagonists werethose who over-emphasised the irrationality or badness of Pleasure: here it israther those who so exaggerate its value as to confuse or identify it with thegood or Happiness. But there is offered us in this section much more thancriticism of the errors of others. Answers are given both to the psychologicalquestion, “What is Pleasure?” and to the ethical question,“What is its value?” Pleasure, we are told, is the naturalconcomitant and index of perfect activity, distinguishable but inseparable fromit—“the activity of a subject at its best acting upon an object atits best.” It is therefore always and in itself a good, but its valuerises and falls with that of the activity with which it is conjoined, and whichit intensifies and perfects. Hence it follows that the highest and bestpleasures are those which accompany the highest and best activity.
Pleasure is, therefore, a necessary element in the best life, but it is not thewhole of it nor the principal ingredient. The value of a life depends upon thenature and worth of the activity which it involves; given the maximum of fullfree action, the maximum of pleasure necessary follows. But on what sort oflife is such activity possible? This leads us back to the question, What ishappiness? In what life can man find the fullest satisfaction for his desires?To this question Aristotle gives an answer which cannot but surprise us afterwhat has preceded. True Happiness, great satisfaction, cannot be found by manin any form of “practical” life, no, not in the fullest and freestexercise possible of the “moral virtues,” not in the life of thecitizen or of the great soldier or statesman. To seek it there is to courtfailure and disappointment. It is to be found in the life of the onlooker, thedisinterested spectator; or, to put it more distinctly, “in the life ofthe philosopher, the life of scientific and philosophic contemplation.”The highest and most satisfying form of life possible to man is “thecontemplative life”; it is only in a secondary sense and for thoseincapable of their life, that the practical or moral ideal is the best. It istime that such a life is not distinctively human, but it is the privilege ofman to partake in it, and such participation, at however rare intervals and forhowever short a period, is the highest Happiness which human life can offer.All other activities have value only because and in so far as they renderthis life possible.
But it must not be forgotten that Aristotle conceives of this life as one ofintense activity or energising: it is just this which gives it its supremacy.In spite of the almost religious fervour with which he speaks of it (“themost orthodox of his disciples” paraphrases his meaning by describing itscontent as “the service and vision of God”), it is clear that heidentified it with the life of the philosopher, as he understood it, a life ofceaseless intellectual activity in which at least at times all the distractionsand disturbances inseparable from practical life seemed to disappear and becomeas nothing. This ideal was partly an inheritance from the more ardent idealismof his master Plato, but partly it was the expression of personal experience.
The nobility of this ideal cannot be questioned; the conception of the end ofman or a life lived for truth—of a life blissfully absorbed in the visionof truth—is a lofty and inspiring one. But we cannot resist certaincriticisms upon its presentation by Aristotle: (1) the relation of it to thelower ideal of practice is left somewhat obscure; (2) it is described in such away as renders its realisation possible only to a gifted few, and underexceptional circumstances; (3) it seems in various ways, as regards itscontent, to be unnecessarily and unjustifiably limited. But it must be borne inmind that this is a first endeavour to determine its principle, and thatsimilar failures have attended the attempts to describe the“religious” or the “spiritual” ideals of life, whichhave continually been suggested by the apparently inherent limitations of the“practical” or “moral” life, which is the subject ofMoral Philosophy.
The Moral Ideal to those who have most deeply reflected on it leads to thethought of an Ideal beyond and above it, which alone gives it meaning, butwhich seems to escape from definite conception by man. The richness and varietyof this Ideal ceaselessly invite, but as ceaselessly defy, our attempts toimprison it in a definite formula or portray it in detailed imagination. Yetthe thought of it is and remains inexpungable from our minds.
This conception of the best life is not forgotten in the Politics Theend of life in the state is itself well-living and well-doing—a lifewhich helps to produce the best life The great agency in the production of suchlife is the State operating through Law, which is Reason backed by Force. Forits greatest efficiency there is required the development of a science oflegislation. The main drift of what he says here is that the most desirablething would be that the best reason of the community should be embodied in itslaws. But so far as that is not possible, it still is true that anyone whowould make himself and others better must become a miniaturelegislator—must study the general principles of law, morality, andeducation. The conception of πολιτικὴwith which he opened the Ethics would serve as a guide to a fathereducating his children as well as to the legislator legislating for the state.Finding in his predecessors no developed doctrine on this subject, Aristotleproposes himself to undertake the construction of it, and sketches in advancethe programme of the Politics in the concluding sentence of theEthics His ultimate object is to answer the questions, What is the bestform of Polity, how should each be constituted, and what laws and customsshould it adopt and employ? Not till this answer is given will “thephilosophy of human affairs” be complete.
On looking back it will be seen that the discussion of the central topic of thenature and formation of character has expanded into a Philosophy of HumanConduct, merging at its beginning and end into metaphysics The result is aMoral Philosophy set against a background of Political Theory and generalPhilosophy. The most characteristic features of this Moral Philosophy are dueto the fact of its essentially teleological view of human life and action: (1)Every human activity, but especially every human practical activity, isdirected towards a simple End discoverable by reflection, and this End isconceived of as the object of universal human desire, as something to beenjoyed, not as something which ought to be done or enacted. Anstotle’sMoral Philosophy is not hedonistic but it is eudæmomstic, the end is theenjoyment of Happiness, not the fulfilment of Duty. (2) Every human practicalactivity derives its value from its efficiency as a means to that end, it isgood or bad, right or wrong, as it conduces or fails to conduce to HappinessThus his Moral Philosophy is essentially utilitarian or prudential Right actionpresupposes Thought or Thinking, partly on the development of a clearer anddistincter conception of the end of desire, partly as the deduction from thatof rules which state the normally effective conditions of its realisation. Thethinking involved in right conduct is calculation—calculation of means toan end fixed by nature and foreknowable Action itself is at its best just therealisation of a scheme preconceived and thought out beforehand, commendingitself by its inherent attractiveness or promise of enjoyment.
This view has the great advantage of exhibiting morality as essentiallyreasonable, but the accompanying disadvantage of lowering it into a somewhatprosaic and unideal Prudentialism, nor is it saved from this by the tacking onto it, by a sort of after-thought, of the second and higher Ideal—anaddition which ruins the coherence of the account without really transmutingits substance The source of our dissatisfaction with the whole theory liesdeeper than in its tendency to identify the end with the maximum of enjoymentor satisfaction, or to regard the goodness or badness of acts and feelings aslying solely in their efficacy to produce such a result It arises from theapplication to morality of the distinction of means and end For thisdistinction, for all its plausibility and usefulness in ordinary thought andspeech, cannot finally be maintained In morality—and this is vital to itscharacter—everything is both means and end, and so neither in distinctionor separation, and all thinking about it which presupposes the finality of thisdistinction wanders into misconception and error. The thinking which reallymatters in conduct is not a thinking which imaginatively forecasts ideals whichpromise to fulfil desire, or calculates means to their attainment—that issometimes useful, sometimes harmful, and always subordinate, but thinking whichreveals to the agent the situation in which he is to act, both, that is, theuniversal situation on which as man he always and everywhere stands, and theever-varying and ever-novel situation in which he as this individual, here andnow, finds himself. In such knowledge of given or historic fact lie the naturaldeterminants of his conduct, in such knowledge alone lies the condition of hisfreedom and his good.
But this does not mean that Moral Philosophy has not still much to learn fromAristotle’s Ethics. The work still remains one of the bestintroductions to a study of its important subject-matter, it spreads before usa view of the relevant facts, it reduces them to manageable compass and order,it raises some of the central problems, and makes acute and valuablesuggestions towards their solution. Above all, it perpetually incites torenewed and independent reflection upon them.
J. A. SMITH
First edition of works (with omission of Rhetorica, Poetica, and second book ofEconomica), 5 vols by Aldus Manutius, Venice, 1495 8, re impression supervisedby Erasmus and with certain corrections by Grynaeus (including Rhetorica andPoetica), 1531, 1539, revised 1550, later editions were followed by that ofImmanuel Bekker and Brandis (Greek and Latin), 5 vols. The 5th vol contains theIndex by Bomtz, 1831-70, Didot edition (Greek and Latin), 5 vols 1848 74
ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS Edited by T Taylor, with Porphyry’s Introduction, 9vols, 1812, under editorship of J A Smith and W D Ross, II vols, 1908-31, Loebeditions Ethica, Rhetorica, Poetica, Physica, Politica, Metaphysica, 1926-33
Later editions of separate works De Anima Torstrik, 1862, Trendelenburg,2nd edition, 1877, with English translation, L Wallace, 1882, Biehl, 1884,1896, with English, R D Hicks, 1907 Ethica J S Brewer (Nicomachean),1836, W E Jelf, 1856, J F T Rogers, 1865, A Grant, 1857 8, 1866, 1874, 1885, EMoore, 1871, 1878, 4th edition, 1890, Ramsauer (Nicomachean), 1878, Susemihl,1878, 1880, revised by O Apelt, 1903, A Grant, 1885, I Bywater (Nicomachean),1890, J Burnet, 1900
Historia Animalium Schneider, 1812, Aubert and Wimmer, 1860; Dittmeyer,1907
Metaphysica Schwegler, 1848, W Christ, 1899
Organon Waitz, 1844 6
Poetica Vahlen, 1867, 1874, with Notes by E Moore, 1875, with Englishtranslation by E R Wharton, 1883, 1885, Uberweg, 1870, 1875, with Germantranslation, Susemihl, 1874, Schmidt, 1875, Christ, 1878, I Bywater, 1898, T GTucker, 1899
De Republica Athenientium Text and facsimile of Papyrus, F G Kenyon,1891, 3rd edition, 1892, Kaibel and Wilamowitz-Moellendorf, 1891, 3rd edition,1898, Van Herwerden and Leeuwen (from Kenyon’s text), 1891, Blass, 1892,1895, 1898, 1903, J E Sandys, 1893
Politica Susemihl, 1872, with German, 1878, 3rd edition, 1882, Susemihland Hicks, 1894, etc, O Immisch, 1909
Physica C Prantl, 1879
Rhetorica Stahr, 1862, Sprengel (with Latin text), 1867, Cope andSandys, 1877, Roemer, 1885, 1898
ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF ONE OR MORE WORKS De Anima (with Parva Naturalia), by WA Hammond, 1902 Ethica Of Morals to Nicomachus, by E Pargiter, 1745, withPolitica by J Gillies, 1797, 1804, 1813, with Rhetorica and Poetica, by TTaylor, 1818, and later editions Nicomachean Ethics, 1819, mainly from text ofBekker by D P Chase, 1847, revised 1861, and later editions, with anintroductory essay by G H Lewes (Camelot Classics) 1890, re-edited by J MMitchell (New Universal Library), 1906, 1910, by R W Browne (Bohn’sClassical Library), 1848, etc, by R Williams, 1869, 1876, by W M Hatch andothers (with translation of paraphrase attributed to Andronicus of Rhodes),edited by E Hatch, 1879 by F H Peters, 1881, J E C Welldon, 1892, J Gillies(Lubbock’s Hundred Books) 1893 Historia Animalium, by R Creswell(Bonn’s Classical Library) 1848, with Treatise on Physiognomy, by TTaylor, 1809 Metaphysica, by T Taylor, 1801, by J H M Mahon (Bohn’sClassical Library), 1848 Organon, with Porphyry’s Introduction, by O FOwen (Bohn’s Classical Library), 1848 Posterior Analytics, E Poste, 1850,E S Bourchier, 1901, On Fallacies, E Poste, 1866 Parva Naturaha (Greek andEnglish), by G R T Ross, 1906, with De Anima, by W A Hammond, 1902 Youth andOld Age, Life and Death and Respiration, W Ogle 1897 Poetica, with Notes fromthe French of D Acier, 1705, by H J Pye, 1788, 1792, T Twining, 1789, 1812,with Preface and Notes by H Hamilton, 1851, Treatise on Rhetorica and Poetica,by T Hobbes (Bohn’s Classical Library), 1850, by Wharton, 1883 (see Greekversion), S H Butcher, 1895, 1898, 3rd edition, 1902, E S Bourchier, 1907, byIngram Bywater, 1909 De Partibus Animalium, W Ogle, 1882 De RepublicaAthenientium, by E Poste, 1891, F G Kenyon, 1891, T J Dymes, 1891 De Virtutibuset Vitus, by W Bridgman, 1804 Politica, from the French of Regius, 1598, by WEllis, 1776, 1778, 1888 (Morley’s Universal Library), 1893(Lubbock’s Hundred Books) by E Walford (with Æconomics, and Life by DrGillies), (Bohn’s Classical Library), 1848, J E. C. Welldon, 1883, BJowett, 1885, with Introduction and Index by H W C Davis, 1905, Books i iii iv(vii) from Bekker’s text by W E Bolland, with Introduction by A Lang,1877. Problemata (with writings of other philosophers), 1597, 1607, 1680, 1684,etc. Rhetorica, A summary by T Hobbes, 1655 (?), new edition, 1759, by thetranslators of the Art of Thinking, 1686, 1816, by D M Crimmin, 1812, JGillies, 1823, Anon 1847, J E C Welldon, 1886, R C Jebb, with Introduction andSupplementary Notes by J E Sandys, 1909 (see under Poetica and Ethica). SecretaSecretorum (supposititious work), Anon 1702, from the Hebrew version by MGaster, 1907, 1908. Version by Lydgate and Burgh, edited by R Steele (E E T S),1894, 1898.
LIFE, ETC J W Blakesley, 1839, A Crichton (Jardine’s Naturalist’sLibrary), 1843, JS Blackie, Four Phases of Morals, Socrates, Aristotle, etc,1871, G Grote, Aristotle, edited by A Bain and G C Robertson, 1872, 1880, EWallace, Outlines of the Philosophy of Aristotle, 1875, 1880, A Grant (AncientClassics for English readers), 1877, T Davidson, Aristotle and AncientEducational Ideals (Great Educators), 1892, F Sewall, Swedenborg and Aristotle,1895, W A Heidel, The Necessary and the Contingent of the Aristotelian System(University of Chicago Contributions to Philosophy), 1896, F W Bain, On theRealisation of the Possible, and the Spirit of Aristotle, 1899, J H Hyslop, TheEthics of the Greek Philosophers, etc (Evolution of Ethics), 1903, M VWilliams, Six Essays on the Platonic Theory of Knowledge as expounded in thelater dialogues and reviewed by Aristotle, 1908, J M Watson, Aristotle’sCriticism of Plato, 1909 A E Taylor, Aristotle, 1919, W D Ross, Aristotle,1923.
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BOOK I
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Every art, and every science reduced to a teachable form, and in like mannerevery action and moral choice, aims, it is thought, at some good: for whichreason a common and by no means a bad description of the Chief Good is,“that which all things aim at.”
Now there plainly is a difference in the Ends proposed: for in some cases theyare acts of working, and in others certain works or tangible results beyond andbeside the acts of working: and where there are certain Ends beyond and besidethe actions, the works are in their nature better than the acts of working.Again, since actions and arts and sciences are many, the Ends likewise come tobe many: of the healing art, for instance, health; of the ship-building art, avessel; of the military art, victory; and of domestic management, wealth; arerespectively the Ends.
And whatever of such actions, arts, or sciences range under some one faculty(as under that of horsemanship the art of making bridles, and all that areconnected with the manufacture of horse-furniture in general; this itselfagain, and every action connected with war, under the military art; and in thesame way others under others), in all such, the Ends of the master-arts aremore choice-worthy than those ranging under them, because it is with a view tothe former that the latter are pursued.
(And in this comparison it makes no difference whether the acts of working arethemselves the Ends of the actions, or something further beside them, as is thecase in the arts and sciences we have been just speaking of.)
Since then of all things which may be done there is some one End which wedesire for its own sake, and with a view to which we desire everything else;and since we do not choose in all instances with a further End in view (forthen men would go on without limit, and so the desire would be unsatisfied andfruitless), this plainly must be the Chief Good, i.e. the best thing ofall.
Surely then, even with reference to actual life and conduct, the knowledge ofit must have great weight; and like archers, with a mark in view, we shall bemore likely to hit upon what is right: and if so, we ought to try to describe,in outline at least, what it is and of which of the sciences and faculties itis the End.
Now one would naturally suppose it to be the End of that which is mostcommanding and most inclusive: and to this description,πολιτικὴ[1]plainly answers: for this it is that determines which of the sciences should bein the communities, and which kind individuals are to learn, and what degree ofproficiency is to be required. Again; we see also ranging under this the mosthighly esteemed faculties, such as the art military, and that of domesticmanagement, and Rhetoric. Well then, since this uses all the other practicalsciences, and moreover lays down rules as to what men are to do, and from whatto abstain, the End of this must include the Ends of the rest, and so must beThe Good of Man. And grant that this is the same to the individual andto the community, yet surely that of the latter is plainly greater and moreperfect to discover and preserve: for to do this even for a single individualwere a matter for contentment; but to do it for a whole nation, and forcommunities generally, were more noble and godlike.
Such then are the objects proposed by our treatise, which is of the nature ofπολιτικὴ: and I conceive I shall havespoken on them satisfactorily, if they be made as distinctly clear as thenature of the subject-matter will admit: for exactness must not be looked forin all discussions alike, any more than in all works of handicraft. Now thenotions of nobleness and justice, with the examination of whichπολιτικὴ is concerned, admit ofvariation and error to such a degree, that they are supposed by some to existconventionally only, and not in the nature of things: but then, again, thethings which are allowed to be goods admit of a similar error, because harmcomes to many from them: for before now some have perished through wealth, andothers through valour.
We must be content then, in speaking of such things and from such data, to setforth the truth roughly and in outline; in other words, since we are speakingof general matter and from general data, to draw also conclusions merelygeneral. And in the same spirit should each person receive what we say: for theman of education will seek exactness so far in each subject as the nature ofthe thing admits, it being plainly much the same absurdity to put up with amathematician who tries to persuade instead of proving, and to demand strictdemonstrative reasoning of a Rhetorician.
Now each man judges well what he knows, and of these things he is a good judge:on each particular matter then he is a good judge who has been instructed init, and in a general way the man of general mentalcultivation.[2]
Hence the young man is not a fit student of Moral Philosophy, for he has noexperience in the actions of life, while all that is said presupposes and isconcerned with these: and in the next place, since he is apt to follow theimpulses of his passions, he will hear as though he heard not, and to noprofit, the end in view being practice and not mere knowledge.
And I draw no distinction between young in years, and youthful in temper anddisposition: the defect to which I allude being no direct result of the time,but of living at the beck and call of passion, and following each object as itrises.[3] Forto them that are such the knowledge comes to be unprofitable, as tothose of imperfect self-control: but, to those who form their desiresand act in accordance with reason, to have knowledge on these pointsmust be very profitable.
Let thus much suffice by way of preface on these three points, the student, thespirit in which our observations should be received, and the object which wepropose.
And now, resuming the statement with which we commenced, since all knowledgeand moral choice grasps at good of some kind or another, what good is thatwhich we say πολιτικὴ aims at? or, inother words, what is the highest of all the goods which are the objects ofaction?
So far as name goes, there is a pretty general agreement: forHAPPINESS both the multitude and the refined few call it, and“living well” and “doing well” they conceive to be thesame with “being happy;” but about the Nature of this Happiness,men dispute, and the multitude do not in their account of it agree with thewise. For some say it is some one of those things which are palpable andapparent, as pleasure or wealth or honour; in fact, some one thing, someanother; nay, oftentimes the same man gives a different account of it; for whenill, he calls it health; when poor, wealth: and conscious of their ownignorance, men admire those who talk grandly and above their comprehension.Some again held it to be something by itself, other than and beside these manygood things, which is in fact to all these the cause of their being good.
Now to sift all the opinions would be perhaps rather a fruitless task; so itshall suffice to sift those which are most generally current, or are thought tohave some reason in them.
And here we must not forget the difference between reasoning from principles,and reasoning to principles:[4]for with good cause did Plato too doubt about this, and enquire whether theright road is from principles or to principles, just as in the racecourse fromthe judges to the further end, or vice versâ.
Of course, we must begin with what is known; but then this is of two kinds,what we do know, and what we may know:[5]perhaps then as individuals we must begin with what we do know. Hencethe necessity that he should have been well trained in habits, who is to study,with any tolerable chance of profit, the principles of nobleness and justiceand moral philosophy generally. For a principle is a matter of fact, and if thefact is sufficiently clear to a man there will be no need in addition of thereason for the fact. And he that has been thus trained either has principlesalready, or can receive them easily: as for him who neither has nor can receivethem, let him hear his sentence from Hesiod:
He is best of all who of himself conceiveth all things;Good again is he too who can adopt a good suggestion;But whoso neither of himself conceiveth nor hearing from anotherLayeth it to heart;—he is a useless man.
But to return from this digression.
Now of the Chief Good (i.e. of Happiness) men seem to form their notionsfrom the different modes of life, as we might naturally expect: the many andmost low conceive it to be pleasure, and hence they are content with the lifeof sensual enjoyment. For there are three lines of life which stand outprominently to view: that just mentioned, and the life in society, and,thirdly, the life of contemplation.
Now the many are plainly quite slavish, choosing a life like that of bruteanimals: yet they obtain some consideration, because many of the great sharethe tastes of Sardanapalus. The refined and active again conceive it to behonour: for this may be said to be the end of the life in society: yet it isplainly too superficial for the object of our search, because it is thought torest with those who pay rather than with him who receives it, whereas the ChiefGood we feel instinctively must be something which is our own, and not easilyto be taken from us.
And besides, men seem to pursue honour, that they may believe themselves to begood:[6] forinstance, they seek to be honoured by the wise, and by those among whom theyare known, and for virtue: clearly then, in the opinion at least of these men,virtue is higher than honour. In truth, one would be much more inclined tothink this to be the end of the life in society; yet this itself is plainly notsufficiently final: for it is conceived possible, that a man possessed ofvirtue might sleep or be inactive all through his life, or, as a third case,suffer the greatest evils and misfortunes: and the man who should live thus noone would call happy, except for mere disputation’s sake.[7]
And for these let thus much suffice, for they have been treated of atsufficient length in my Encyclia.[8]
A third line of life is that of contemplation, concerning which we shall makeour examination in the following pages.[9]
As for the life of money-making, it is one of constraint, and wealth manifestlyis not the good we are seeking, because it is for use, that is, for the sake ofsomething further: and hence one would rather conceive the forementioned endsto be the right ones, for men rest content with them for their own sakes. Yet,clearly, they are not the objects of our search either, though many words havebeen wasted on them.[10]So much then for these.
Again, the notion of one Universal Good (the same, that is, in all things), itis better perhaps we should examine, and discuss the meaning of it, though suchan enquiry is unpleasant, because they are friends of ours who have introducedthese εἴδη.[11]Still perhaps it may appear better, nay to be our duty where the safety of thetruth is concerned, to upset if need be even our own theories, specially as weare lovers of wisdom: for since both are dear to us, we are bound to prefer thetruth. Now they who invented this doctrine of εἴδη, didnot apply it to those things in which they spoke of priority and posteriority,and so they never made any ἰδέα of numbers; but good ispredicated in the categories of Substance, Quality, and Relation; now thatwhich exists of itself, i.e. Substance, is prior in the nature of thingsto that which is relative, because this latter is an off-shoot, as it were, andresult of that which is; on their own principle then there cannot be a commonἰδέα in the case of these.
In the next place, since good is predicated in as many ways as there are modesof existence [for it is predicated in the category of Substance, as God,Intellect—and in that of Quality, as The Virtues—and in that ofQuantity, as The Mean—and in that of Relation, as The Useful—and inthat of Time, as Opportunity—and in that of Place, as Abode; and othersuch like things], it manifestly cannot be something common and universal andone in all: else it would not have been predicated in all the categories, butin one only.
Thirdly, since those things which range under one ἰδέαare also under the cognisance of one science, there would have been, on theirtheory, only one science taking cognisance of all goods collectively: but infact there are many even for those which range under one category: forinstance, of Opportunity or Seasonableness (which I have before mentioned asbeing in the category of Time), the science is, in war, generalship; indisease, medical science; and of the Mean (which I quoted before as being inthe category of Quantity), in food, the medical science; and in labour orexercise, the gymnastic science. A person might fairly doubt also what in theworld they mean by very-this that or the other, since, as they would themselvesallow, the account of the humanity is one and the same in the very-Man, and inany individual Man: for so far as the individual and the very-Man are both Man,they will not differ at all: and if so, then very-good and any particular goodwill not differ, in so far as both are good. Nor will it do to say, that theeternity of the very-good makes it to be more good; for what has lasted whiteever so long, is no whiter than what lasts but for a day.
No. The Pythagoreans do seem to give a more credible account of the matter, whoplace “One” among the goods in their double list of goods andbads:[12]which philosophers, in fact, Speusippus[13]seems to have followed.
But of these matters let us speak at some other time. Now there is plainly aloophole to object to what has been advanced, on the plea that the theory Ihave attacked is not by its advocates applied to all good: but those goods onlyare spoken of as being under one ἰδέα, which are pursued,and with which men rest content simply for their own sakes: whereas thosethings which have a tendency to produce or preserve them in any way, or tohinder their contraries, are called good because of these other goods, andafter another fashion. It is manifest then that the goods may be so called intwo senses, the one class for their own sakes, the other because of these.
Very well then, let us separate the independent goods from the instrumental,and see whether they are spoken of as under one ἰδέα. Butthe question next arises, what kind of goods are we to call independent? Allsuch as are pursued even when separated from other goods, as, for instance,being wise, seeing, and certain pleasures and honours (for these, though we dopursue them with some further end in view, one would still place among theindependent goods)? or does it come in fact to this, that we can call nothingindependent good except the ἰδέα, and so the concrete ofit will be nought?
If, on the other hand, these are independent goods, then we shall require thatthe account of the goodness be the same clearly in all, just as that of thewhiteness is in snow and white lead. But how stands the fact? Why of honour andwisdom and pleasure the accounts are distinct and different in so far as theyare good. The Chief Good then is not something common, and after oneἰδέα.
But then, how does the name come to be common (for it is not seemingly a caseof fortuitous equivocation)? Are different individual things called good byvirtue of being from one source, or all conducing to one end, or rather by wayof analogy, for that intellect is to the soul as sight to the body, and so on?However, perhaps we ought to leave these questions now, for an accurateinvestigation of them is more properly the business of a different philosophy.And likewise respecting the ἰδέα: for even if there issome one good predicated in common of all things that are good, or separableand capable of existing independently, manifestly it cannot be the object ofhuman action or attainable by Man; but we are in search now of something thatis so.[14]
It may readily occur to any one, that it would be better to attain a knowledgeof it with a view to such concrete goods as are attainable and practical,because, with this as a kind of model in our hands, we shall the better knowwhat things are good for us individually, and when we know them, we shallattain them.
Some plausibility, it is true, this argument possesses, but it is contradictedby the facts of the Arts and Sciences; for all these, though aiming at somegood, and seeking that which is deficient, yet pretermit the knowledge of it:now it is not exactly probable that all artisans without exception should beignorant of so great a help as this would be, and not even look after it;neither is it easy to see wherein a weaver or a carpenter will be profited inrespect of his craft by knowing the very-good, or how a man will be the moreapt to effect cures or to command an army for having seen theἰδέα itself. For manifestly it is not health after thisgeneral and abstract fashion which is the subject of the physician’sinvestigation, but the health of Man, or rather perhaps of this or that man;for he has to heal individuals.—Thus much on these points.
And now let us revert to the Good of which we are in search: what can it be?for manifestly it is different in different actions and arts: for it isdifferent in the healing art and in the art military, and similarly in therest. What then is the Chief Good in each? Is it not “that for the sakeof which the other things are done?” and this in the healing art ishealth, and in the art military victory, and in that of house-building a house,and in any other thing something else; in short, in every action and moralchoice the End, because in all cases men do everything else with a view tothis. So that if there is some one End of all things which are and may be done,this must be the Good proposed by doing, or if more than one, then these.
Thus our discussion after some traversing about has come to the same pointwhich we reached before. And this we must try yet more to clear up.
Now since the ends are plainly many, and of these we choose some with a view toothers (wealth, for instance, musical instruments, and, in general, allinstruments), it is clear that all are not final: but the Chief Good ismanifestly something final; and so, if there is some one only which is final,this must be the object of our search: but if several, then the most final ofthem will be it.
Now that which is an object of pursuit in itself we call more final than thatwhich is so with a view to something else; that again which is never an objectof choice with a view to something else than those which are so both inthemselves and with a view to this ulterior object: and so by the term“absolutely final,” we denote that which is an object of choicealways in itself, and never with a view to any other.
And of this nature Happiness is mostly thought to be, for this we choose alwaysfor its own sake, and never with a view to anything further: whereas honour,pleasure, intellect, in fact every excellence we choose for their own sakes, itis true (because we would choose each of these even if no result were tofollow), but we choose them also with a view to happiness, conceiving thatthrough their instrumentality we shall be happy: but no man chooses happinesswith a view to them, nor in fact with a view to any other thing whatsoever.
The same result[15]is seen to follow also from the notion of self-sufficiency, a quality thoughtto belong to the final good. Now by sufficient for Self, we mean not for asingle individual living a solitary life, but for his parents also and childrenand wife, and, in general, friends and countrymen; for man is by nature adaptedto a social existence. But of these, of course, some limit must be fixed: forif one extends it to parents and descendants and friends’ friends, thereis no end to it. This point, however, must be left for future investigation:for the present we define that to be self-sufficient “which taken alonemakes life choice-worthy, and to be in want of nothing;” now of such kindwe think Happiness to be: and further, to be most choice-worthy of all things;not being reckoned with any other thing,[16]for if it were so reckoned, it is plain we must then allow it, with theaddition of ever so small a good, to be more choice-worthy than it wasbefore:[17]because what is put to it becomes an addition of so much more good, and ofgoods the greater is ever the more choice-worthy.
So then Happiness is manifestly something final and self-sufficient, being theend of all things which are and may be done.
But, it may be, to call Happiness the Chief Good is a mere truism, and what iswanted is some clearer account of its real nature. Now this object may beeasily attained, when we have discovered what is the work of man; for as in thecase of flute-player, statuary, or artisan of any kind, or, more generally, allwho have any work or course of action, their Chief Good and Excellence isthought to reside in their work, so it would seem to be with man, if there isany work belonging to him.
Are we then to suppose, that while carpenter and cobbler have certain works andcourses of action, Man as Man has none, but is left by Nature without a work?or would not one rather hold, that as eye, hand, and foot, and generally eachof his members, has manifestly some special work; so too the whole Man, asdistinct from all these, has some work of his own?[18]
What then can this be? not mere life, because that plainly is shared with himeven by vegetables, and we want what is peculiar to him. We must separate offthen the life of mere nourishment and growth, and next will come the life ofsensation: but this again manifestly is common to horses, oxen, and everyanimal. There remains then a kind of life of the Rational Nature apt to act:and of this Nature there are two parts denominated Rational, the one as beingobedient to Reason, the other as having and exerting it. Again, as this life isalso spoken of in two ways,[19]we must take that which is in the way of actual working, because this isthought to be most properly entitled to the name. If then the work of Man is aworking of the soul in accordance with reason, or at least not independently ofreason, and we say that the work of any given subject, and of that subject goodof its kind, are the same in kind (as, for instance, of a harp-player and agood harp-player, and so on in every case, adding to the work eminence in theway of excellence; I mean, the work of a harp-player is to play the harp, andof a good harp-player to play it well); if, I say, this is so, and we assumethe work of Man to be life of a certain kind, that is to say a working of thesoul, and actions with reason, and of a good man to do these things well andnobly, and in fact everything is finished off well in the way of the excellencewhich peculiarly belongs to it: if all this is so, then the Good of Man comesto be “a working of the Soul in the way of Excellence,” or, ifExcellence admits of degrees, in the way of the best and most perfectExcellence.
And we must add, ἐν βίῳτελείῳ;[20]for as it is not one swallow or one fine day that makes a spring, so it is notone day or a short time that makes a man blessed and happy.
Let this then be taken for a rough sketch of the Chief Good: since it isprobably the right way to give first the outline, and fill it in afterwards.And it would seem that any man may improve and connect what is good in thesketch, and that time is a good discoverer and co-operator in such matters: itis thus in fact that all improvements in the various arts have been broughtabout, for any man may fill up a deficiency.
You must remember also what has been already stated, and not seek for exactnessin all matters alike, but in each according to the subject-matter, and so faras properly belongs to the system. The carpenter and geometrician, forinstance, enquire into the right line in different fashion: the former so faras he wants it for his work, the latter enquires into its nature andproperties, because he is concerned with the truth.
So then should one do in other matters, that the incidental matters may notexceed the direct ones.
And again, you must not demand the reason either in all things alike,[21]because in some it is sufficient that the fact has been well demonstrated,which is the case with first principles; and the fact is the first step,i.e. starting-point or principle.
And of these first principles some are obtained by induction, some byperception,[22]some by a course of habituation, others in other different ways. And we musttry to trace up each in their own nature, and take pains to secure their beingwell defined, because they have great influence on what follows: it is thought,I mean, that the starting-point or principle is more than half the wholematter, and that many of the points of enquiry come simultaneously into viewthereby.
We must now enquire concerning Happiness, not only from our conclusion and thedata on which our reasoning proceeds, but likewise from what is commonly saidabout it: because with what is true all things which really are are in harmony,but with that which is false the true very soon jars.
Now there is a common division of goods into three classes; one being calledexternal, the other two those of the soul and body respectively, and thosebelonging to the soul we call most properly and specially good. Well, in ourdefinition we assume that the actions and workings of the soul constituteHappiness, and these of course belong to the soul. And so our account is a goodone, at least according to this opinion, which is of ancient date, and acceptedby those who profess philosophy. Rightly too are certain actions and workingssaid to be the end, for thus it is brought into the number of the goods of thesoul instead of the external. Agreeing also with our definition is the commonnotion, that the happy man lives well and does well, for it has been stated byus to be pretty much a kind of living well and doing well.
And further, the points required in Happiness are found in combination in ouraccount of it.
For some think it is virtue, others practical wisdom, others a kind ofscientific philosophy; others that it is these, or else some one of them, incombination with pleasure, or at least not independently of it; while othersagain take in external prosperity.
Of these opinions, some rest on the authority of numbers or antiquity, otherson that of few, and those men of note: and it is not likely that either ofthese classes should be wrong in all points, but be right at least in some one,or even in most.
Now with those who assert it to be Virtue (Excellence), or some kind of Virtue,our account agrees: for working in the way of Excellence surely belongs toExcellence.
And there is perhaps no unimportant difference between conceiving of the ChiefGood as in possession or as in use, in other words, as a mere state or as aworking. For the state or habit[23]may possibly exist in a subject without effecting any good, as, for instance,in him who is asleep, or in any other way inactive; but the working cannot so,for it will of necessity act, and act well. And as at the Olympic games it isnot the finest and strongest men who are crowned, but they who enter the lists,for out of these the prize-men are selected; so too in life, of the honourableand the good, it is they who act who rightly win the prizes.[24]
Their life too is in itself pleasant: for the feeling of pleasure is a mentalsensation, and that is to each pleasant of which he is said to be fond: ahorse, for instance, to him who is fond of horses, and a sight to him who isfond of sights: and so in like manner just acts to him who is fond of justice,and more generally the things in accordance with virtue to him who is fond ofvirtue. Now in the case of the multitude of men the things which theyindividually esteem pleasant clash, because they are not such by nature,whereas to the lovers of nobleness those things are pleasant which are such bynature: but the actions in accordance with virtue are of this kind, so thatthey are pleasant both to the individuals and also in themselves.
So then their life has no need of pleasure as a kind of additional appendage,but involves pleasure in itself. For, besides what I have just mentioned, a manis not a good man at all who feels no pleasure in noble actions,[25]just as no one would call that man just who does not feel pleasure in actingjustly, or liberal who does not in liberal actions, and similarly in the caseof the other virtues which might be enumerated: and if this be so, then theactions in accordance with virtue must be in themselves pleasurable. Then againthey are certainly good and noble, and each of these in the highest degree; ifwe are to take as right the judgment of the good man, for he judges as we havesaid.
Thus then Happiness is most excellent, most noble, and most pleasant, and theseattributes are not separated as in the well-known Delian inscription—
“Most noble is that which is most just, but best is health;And naturally most pleasant is the obtaining one’s desires.”
For all these co-exist in the best acts of working: and we say that Happinessis these, or one, that is, the best of them.
Still[26]it is quite plain that it does require the addition of external goods, as wehave said: because without appliances it is impossible, or at all events noteasy, to do noble actions: for friends, money, and political influence are in amanner instruments whereby many things are done: some things there are again adeficiency in which mars blessedness; good birth, for instance, or fineoffspring, or even personal beauty: for he is not at all capable of Happinesswho is very ugly, or is ill-born, or solitary and childless; and still lessperhaps supposing him to have very bad children or friends, or to have lostgood ones by death. As we have said already, the addition of prosperity of thiskind does seem necessary to complete the idea of Happiness; hence some rankgood fortune, and others virtue, with Happiness.
And hence too a question is raised, whether it is a thing that can be learned,or acquired by habituation or discipline of some other kind, or whether itcomes in the way of divine dispensation, or even in the way of chance.
Now to be sure, if anything else is a gift of the Gods to men, it is probablethat Happiness is a gift of theirs too, and specially because of all humangoods it is the highest. But this, it may be, is a question belonging moreproperly to an investigation different from ours:[27]and it is quite clear, that on the supposition of its not being sent from theGods direct, but coming to us by reason of virtue and learning of a certainkind, or discipline, it is yet one of the most Godlike things; because theprize and End of virtue is manifestly somewhat most excellent, nay divine andblessed.
It will also on this supposition be widely participated, for it may throughlearning and diligence of a certain kind exist in all who have not beenmaimed[28]for virtue.
And if it is better we should be happy thus than as a result of chance, this isin itself an argument that the case is so; because those things which are inthe way of nature, and in like manner of art, and of every cause, and speciallythe best cause, are by nature in the best way possible: to leave them to chancewhat is greatest and most noble would be very much out of harmony with allthese facts.[29]
The question may be determined also by a reference to our definition ofHappiness, that it is a working of the soul in the way of excellence or virtueof a certain kind: and of the other goods, some we must have to begin with, andthose which are co-operative and useful are given by nature asinstruments.[30]
These considerations will harmonise also with what we said at the commencement:for we assumed the End of πολιτικὴ tobe most excellent: now this bestows most care on making the members of thecommunity of a certain character; good that is and apt to do what ishonourable.
With good reason then neither ox nor horse nor any other brute animal do wecall happy, for none of them can partake in such working: and for this samereason a child is not happy either, because by reason of his tender age hecannot yet perform such actions: if the term is applied, it is by way ofanticipation.
For to constitute Happiness, there must be, as we have said, complete virtueand a complete life: for many changes and chances of all kinds arise during alife, and he who is most prosperous may become involved in great misfortunes inhis old age, as in the heroic poems the tale is told of Priam: but the man whohas experienced such fortune and died in wretchedness, no man calls happy.
Are we then to call no man happy while he lives, and, as Solon would have us,look to the end? And again, if we are to maintain this position, is a man thenhappy when he is dead? or is not this a complete absurdity, specially in us whosay Happiness is a working of a certain kind?
If on the other hand we do not assert that the dead man is happy, and Solondoes not mean this, but only that one would then be safe in pronouncing a manhappy, as being thenceforward out of the reach of evils and misfortunes, thistoo admits of some dispute, since it is thought that the dead has somewhat bothof good and evil (if, as we must allow, a man may have when alive but not awareof the circumstances), as honour and dishonour, and good and bad fortune ofchildren and descendants generally.
Nor is this view again without its difficulties: for, after a man has lived inblessedness to old age and died accordingly, many changes may befall him inright of his descendants; some of them may be good and obtain positions in lifeaccordant to their merits, others again quite the contrary: it is plain toothat the descendants may at different intervals or grades stand in all mannerof relations to the ancestors.[31]Absurd indeed would be the position that even the dead man is to change aboutwith them and become at one time happy and at another miserable. Absurd howeverit is on the other hand that the affairs of the descendants should in no degreeand during no time affect the ancestors.
But we must revert to the point first raised,[32]since the present question will be easily determined from that.
If then we are to look to the end and then pronounce the man blessed, not asbeing so but as having been so at some previous time, surely it is absurd thatwhen he is happy the truth is not to be asserted of him, because we areunwilling to pronounce the living happy by reason of their liability tochanges, and because, whereas we have conceived of happiness as somethingstable and no way easily changeable, the fact is that good and bad fortune areconstantly circling about the same people: for it is quite plain, that if weare to depend upon the fortunes of men, we shall often have to call the sameman happy, and a little while after miserable, thus representing our happy man,
“Chameleon-like, and based on rottenness.”
Is not this the solution? that to make our sentence dependent on the changes offortune, is no way right: for not in them stands the well, or the ill, butthough human life needs these as accessories (which we have allowed already),the workings in the way of virtue are what determine Happiness, and thecontrary the contrary.
And, by the way, the question which has been here discussed, testifiesincidentally to the truth of our account of Happiness.[33]For to nothing does a stability of human results attach so much as it does tothe workings in the way of virtue, since these are held to be more abiding eventhan the sciences: and of these last again[34]the most precious are the most abiding, because the blessed live in them mostand most continuously, which seems to be the reason why they are not forgotten.So then this stability which is sought will be in the happy man, and he will besuch through life, since always, or most of all, he will be doing andcontemplating the things which are in the way of virtue: and the variouschances of life he will bear most nobly, and at all times and in all waysharmoniously, since he is the truly good man, or in the terms of our proverb“a faultless cube.”
And whereas the incidents of chance are many, and differ in greatness andsmallness, the small pieces of good or ill fortune evidently do not affect thebalance of life, but the great and numerous, if happening for good, will makelife more blessed (for it is their nature to contribute to ornament, and theusing of them comes to be noble and excellent), but if for ill, they bruise asit were and maim the blessedness: for they bring in positive pain, and hindermany acts of working. But still, even in these, nobleness shines through when aman bears contentedly many and great mischances not from insensibility to painbut because he is noble and high-spirited.
And if, as we have said, the acts of working are what determine the characterof the life, no one of the blessed can ever become wretched, because he willnever do those things which are hateful and mean. For the man who is truly goodand sensible bears all fortunes, we presume, becomingly, and always does whatis noblest under the circumstances, just as a good general employs to the bestadvantage the force he has with him; or a good shoemaker makes the handsomestshoe he can out of the leather which has been given him; and all other goodartisans likewise. And if this be so, wretched never can the happy man come tobe: I do not mean to say he will be blessed should he fall into fortunes likethose of Priam.
Nor, in truth, is he shifting and easily changeable, for on the one hand fromhis happiness he will not be shaken easily nor by ordinary mischances, but, ifat all, by those which are great and numerous; and, on the other, after suchmischances he cannot regain his happiness in a little time; but, if at all, ina long and complete period, during which he has made himself master of greatand noble things.
Why then should we not call happy the man who works in the way of perfectvirtue, and is furnished with external goods sufficient for acting his part inthe drama of life:[35]and this during no ordinary period but such as constitutes a completelife as we have been describing it.
Or we must add, that not only is he to live so, but his death must be inkeeping with such life, since the future is dark to us, and Happiness we assumeto be in every way an end and complete. And, if this be so, we shall call themamong the living blessed who have and will have the things specified, butblessed as Men.[36]
On these points then let it suffice to have denned thus much.
Now that the fortunes of their descendants, and friends generally, contributenothing towards forming the condition of the dead, is plainly a very heartlessnotion, and contrary to the current opinions.
But since things which befall are many, and differ in all kinds of ways, andsome touch more nearly, others less, to go into minute particular distinctionswould evidently be a long and endless task: and so it may suffice to speakgenerally and in outline.
If then, as of the misfortunes which happen to one’s self, some have acertain weight and turn the balance of life, while others are, so to speak,lighter; so it is likewise with those which befall all our friends alike; iffurther, whether they whom each suffering befalls be alive or dead makes muchmore difference than in a tragedy the presupposing or actual perpetration ofthe various crimes and horrors, we must take into our account this differencealso, and still more perhaps the doubt concerning the dead whether they reallypartake of any good or evil; it seems to result from all these considerations,that if anything does pierce the veil and reach them, be the same good or bad,it must be something trivial and small, either in itself or to them; or atleast of such a magnitude or such a kind as neither to make happy them that arenot so otherwise, nor to deprive of their blessedness them thatare.[37]
It is plain then that the good or ill fortunes of their friends do affect thedead somewhat: but in such kind and degree as neither to make the happy unhappynor produce any other such effect.
Having determined these points, let us examine with respect to Happiness,whether it belongs to the class of things praiseworthy or things precious; forto that of faculties[38]it evidently does not.
Now it is plain that everything which is a subject of praise is praised forbeing of a certain kind and bearing a certain relation to something else: forinstance, the just, and the valiant, and generally the good man, and virtueitself, we praise because of the actions and the results: and the strong man,and the quick runner, and so forth, we praise for being of a certain nature andbearing a certain relation to something good and excellent (and this isillustrated by attempts to praise the gods; for they are presented in aludicrous aspect[39]by being referred to our standard, and this results from the fact, that allpraise does, as we have said, imply reference to a standard). Now if it is tosuch objects that praise belongs, it is evident that what is applicable to thebest objects is not praise, but something higher and better: which is plainmatter of fact, for not only do we call the gods blessed and happy, but of menalso we pronounce those blessed who most nearly resemble the gods. And in likemanner in respect of goods; no man thinks of praising Happiness as he does theprinciple of justice, but calls it blessed, as being somewhat more godlike andmore excellent.
Eudoxus[40]too is thought to have advanced a sound argument in support of the claim ofpleasure to the highest prize: for the fact that, though it is one of the goodthings, it is not praised, he took for an indication of its superiority tothose which are subjects of praise: a superiority he attributed also to a godand the Chief Good, on the ground that they form the standard to whicheverything besides is referred. For praise applies to virtue, because it makesmen apt to do what is noble; but encomia to definite works of body ormind.[41]
However, it is perhaps more suitable to a regular treatise on encomia to pursuethis topic with exactness: it is enough for our purpose that from what has beensaid it is evident that Happiness belongs to the class of things precious andfinal. And it seems to be so also because of its being a starting-point; whichit is, in that with a view to it we all do everything else that is done; nowthe starting-point and cause of good things we assume to be something preciousand divine.
Moreover, since Happiness is a kind of working of the soul in the way ofperfect Excellence, we must enquire concerning Excellence: for so probablyshall we have a clearer view concerning Happiness; and again, he who is reallya statesman is generally thought to have spent most pains on this, for hewishes to make the citizens good and obedient to the laws. (For examples ofthis class we have the lawgivers of the Cretans and Lacedæmonians and whateverother such there have been.) But if this investigation belongs properly toπολιτικὴ, then clearly the enquirywill be in accordance with our original design.
Well, we are to enquire concerning Excellence, i.e. Human Excellence ofcourse, because it was the Chief Good of Man and the Happiness of Man that wewere enquiring of just now.
And by Human Excellence we mean not that of man’s body but that of hissoul; for we call Happiness a working of the Soul.
And if this is so, it is plain that some knowledge of the nature of the Soul isnecessary for the statesman, just as for the oculist a knowledge of the wholebody, and the more so in proportion asπολιτικὴ is more precious and higherthan the healing art: and in fact physicians of the higher class do busythemselves much with the knowledge of the body.
So then the statesman is to consider the nature of the Soul: but he must do sowith these objects in view, and so far only as may suffice for the objects ofhis special enquiry: for to carry his speculations to a greater exactness isperhaps a task more laborious than falls within his province.
In fact, the few statements made on the subject in my popular treatises arequite enough, and accordingly we will adopt them here: as, that the Soulconsists of two parts, the Irrational and the Rational (as to whether these areactually divided, as are the parts of the body, and everything that is capableof division; or are only metaphysically speaking two, being by natureinseparable, as are convex and concave circumferences, matters not in respectof our present purpose). And of the Irrational, the one part seems common toother objects, and in fact vegetative; I mean the cause of nourishment andgrowth (for such a faculty of the Soul one would assume to exist in all thingsthat receive nourishment, even in embryos, and this the same as in the perfectcreatures; for this is more likely than that it should be a different one).
Now the Excellence of this manifestly is not peculiar to the human species butcommon to others: for this part and this faculty is thought to work most intime of sleep, and the good and bad man are least distinguishable while asleep;whence it is a common saying that during one half of life there is nodifference between the happy and the wretched; and this accords with ouranticipations, for sleep is an inactivity of the soul, in so far as it isdenominated good or bad, except that in some wise some of its movements findtheir way through the veil and so the good come to have better dreams thanordinary men. But enough of this: we must forego any further mention of thenutritive part, since it is not naturally capable of the Excellence which ispeculiarly human.
And there seems to be another Irrational Nature of the Soul, which yet in a waypartakes of Reason. For in the man who controls his appetites, and in him whoresolves to do so and fails, we praise the Reason or Rational part of the Soul,because it exhorts aright and to the best course: but clearly there is in them,beside the Reason, some other natural principle which fights with and strainsagainst the Reason. (For in plain terms, just as paralysed limbs of the bodywhen their owners would move them to the right are borne aside in a contrarydirection to the left, so is it in the case of the Soul, for the impulses ofmen who cannot control their appetites are to contrary points: the differenceis that in the case of the body we do see what is borne aside but in the caseof the soul we do not. But, it may be, not the less[42]on that account are we to suppose that there is in the Soul also somewhatbesides the Reason, which is opposed to this and goes against it; as tohow it is different, that is irrelevant.)
But of Reason this too does evidently partake, as we have said: for instance,in the man of self-control it obeys Reason: and perhaps in the man of perfectedself-mastery,[43]or the brave man, it is yet more obedient; in them it agrees entirelywith the Reason.
So then the Irrational is plainly twofold: the one part, the merely vegetative,has no share of Reason, but that of desire, or appetition generally, doespartake of it in a sense, in so far as it is obedient to it and capable ofsubmitting to its rule. (So too in common phrase we say we haveλόγος of our father or friends, and this in adifferent sense from that in which we say we haveλόγος of mathematics.)[44]
Now that the Irrational is in some way persuaded by the Reason, admonition, andevery act of rebuke and exhortation indicate. If then we are to say that thisalso has Reason, then the Rational, as well as the Irrational, will be twofold,the one supremely and in itself, the other paying it a kind of filial regard.
The Excellence of Man then is divided in accordance with this difference: wemake two classes, calling the one Intellectual, and the other Moral; purescience, intelligence, and practical wisdom—Intellectual: liberality, andperfected self-mastery—Moral: in speaking of a man’s Moralcharacter, we do not say he is a scientific or intelligent but a meek man, orone of perfected self-mastery: and we praise the man of science in right of hismental state;[45]and of these such as are praiseworthy we call Excellences.
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BOOK II
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Well: human Excellence is of two kinds, Intellectual and Moral:[1]now the Intellectual springs originally, and is increased subsequently, fromteaching (for the most part that is[2]),and needs therefore experience and time; whereas the Moral comes from custom,and so the Greek term denoting it is but a slight deflection from the termdenoting custom in that language.
From this fact it is plain that not one of the Moral Virtues comes to be in usmerely by nature: because of such things as exist by nature, none can bechanged by custom: a stone, for instance, by nature gravitating downwards,could never by custom be brought to ascend, not even if one were to try andaccustom it by throwing it up ten thousand times; nor could file again bebrought to descend, nor in fact could anything whose nature is in one way bebrought by custom to be in another. The Virtues then come to be in us neitherby nature, nor in despite of nature,[3]but we are furnished by nature with a capacity for receiving themu and areperfected in them through custom.
Again, in whatever cases we get things by nature, we get the faculties firstand perform the acts of working afterwards; an illustration of which isafforded by the case of our bodily senses, for it was not from having oftenseen or heard that we got these senses, but just the reverse: we had them andso exercised them, but did not have them because we had exercised them. But theVirtues we get by first performing single acts of working, which, again, is thecase of other things, as the arts for instance; for what we have to make whenwe have learned how, these we learn how to make by making: men come to bebuilders, for instance, by building; harp-players, by playing on the harp:exactly so, by doing just actions we come to be just; by doing the actions ofself-mastery we come to be perfected in self-mastery; and by doing braveactions brave.
And to the truth of this testimony is borne by what takes place in communities:because the law-givers make the individual members good men by habituation, andthis is the intention certainly of every law-giver, and all who do not effectit well fail of their intent; and herein consists the difference between a goodConstitution and a bad.
Again, every Virtue is either produced or destroyed from and by the very samecircumstances: art too in like manner; I mean it is by playing the harp thatboth the good and the bad harp-players are formed: and similarly builders andall the rest; by building well men will become good builders; by doing it badlybad ones: in fact, if this had not been so, there would have been no need ofinstructors, but all men would have been at once good or bad in their severalarts without them.
So too then is it with the Virtues: for by acting in the various relations inwhich we are thrown with our fellow men, we come to be, some just, some unjust:and by acting in dangerous positions and being habituated to feel fear orconfidence, we come to be, some brave, others cowards.
Similarly is it also with respect to the occasions of lust and anger: for somemen come to be perfected in self-mastery and mild, others destitute of allself-control and passionate; the one class by behaving in one way under them,the other by behaving in another. Or, in one word, the habits are produced fromthe acts of working like to them: and so what we have to do is to give acertain character to these particular acts, because the habits formedcorrespond to the differences of these.
So then, whether we are accustomed this way or that straight from childhood,makes not a small but an important difference, or rather I would say it makesall the difference.
Since then the object of the present treatise is not mere speculation, as it isof some others (for we are enquiring not merely that we may know what virtue isbut that we may become virtuous, else it would have been useless), we mustconsider as to the particular actions how we are to do them, because, as wehave just said, the quality of the habits that shall be formed depends onthese.
Now, that we are to act in accordance with Right Reason is a general maxim, andmay for the present be taken for granted: we will speak of it hereafter, andsay both what Right Reason is, and what are its relations to the othervirtues.[4]
But let this point be first thoroughly understood between us, that all whichcan be said on moral action must be said in outline, as it were, and notexactly: for as we remarked at the commencement, such reasoning only must berequired as the nature of the subject-matter admits of, and matters of moralaction and expediency have no fixedness any more than matters of health. And ifthe subject in its general maxims is such, still less in its application toparticular cases is exactness attainable:[5]because these fall not under any art or system of rules, but it must be left ineach instance to the individual agents to look to the exigencies of theparticular case, as it is in the art of healing, or that of navigating a ship.Still, though the present subject is confessedly such, we must try and do whatwe can for it.
First then this must be noted, that it is the nature of such things to bespoiled by defect and excess; as we see in the case of health and strength(since for the illustration of things which cannot be seen we must use thosethat can), for excessive training impairs the strength as well as deficient:meat and drink, in like manner, in too great or too small quantities, impairthe health: while in due proportion they cause, increase, and preserve it.
Thus it is therefore with the habits of perfected Self-Mastery and Courage andthe rest of the Virtues: for the man who flies from and fears all things, andnever stands up against anything, comes to be a coward; and he who fearsnothing, but goes at everything, comes to be rash. In like manner too, he thattastes of every pleasure and abstains from none comes to lose all self-control;while he who avoids all, as do the dull and clownish, comes as it were to losehis faculties of perception: that is to say, the habits of perfectedSelf-Mastery and Courage are spoiled by the excess and defect, but by the meanstate are preserved.
Furthermore, not only do the origination, growth, and marring of the habitscome from and by the same circumstances, but also the acts of working after thehabits are formed will be exercised on the same: for so it is also with thoseother things which are more directly matters of sight, strength for instance:for this comes by taking plenty of food and doing plenty of work, and the manwho has attained strength is best able to do these: and so it is with theVirtues, for not only do we by abstaining from pleasures come to be perfectedin Self-Mastery, but when we have come to be so we can best abstain from them:similarly too with Courage: for it is by accustoming ourselves to despiseobjects of fear and stand up against them that we come to be brave; and afterwe have come to be so we shall be best able to stand up against such objects.
And for a test of the formation of the habits we must take the pleasure or painwhich succeeds the acts; for he is perfected in Self-Mastery who not onlyabstains from the bodily pleasures but is glad to do so; whereas he whoabstains but is sorry to do it has not Self-Mastery: he again is brave whostands up against danger, either with positive pleasure or at least without anypain; whereas he who does it with pain is not brave.[6]
For Moral Virtue has for its object-matter pleasures and pains, because byreason of pleasure we do what is bad, and by reason of pain decline doing whatis right (for which cause, as Plato observes, men should have been trainedstraight from their childhood to receive pleasure and pain from proper objects,for this is the right education). Again: since Virtues have to do with actionsand feelings, and on every feeling and every action pleasure and pain follow,here again is another proof that Virtue has for its object-matter pleasure andpain. The same is shown also by the fact that punishments are effected throughthe instrumentality of these; because they are of the nature of remedies, andit is the nature of remedies to be the contraries of the ills they cure. Again,to quote what we said before: every habit of the Soul by its very nature hasrelation to, and exerts itself upon, things of the same kind as those by whichit is naturally deteriorated or improved: now such habits do come to be viciousby reason of pleasures and pains, that is, by men pursuing or avoidingrespectively, either such as they ought not, or at wrong times, or in wrongmanner, and so forth (for which reason, by the way, some people define theVirtues as certain states of impassibility and utter quietude,[7]but they are wrong because they speak without modification, instead of adding“as they ought,” “as they ought not,” and“when,” and so on). Virtue then is assumed to be that habit whichis such, in relation to pleasures and pains, as to effect the best results, andVice the contrary.
The following considerations may also serve to set this in a clear light. Thereare principally three things moving us to choice and three to avoidance, thehonourable, the expedient, the pleasant; and their three contraries, thedishonourable, the hurtful, and the painful: now the good man is apt to goright, and the bad man wrong, with respect to all these of course, but mostspecially with respect to pleasure: because not only is this common to him withall animals but also it is a concomitant of all those things which move tochoice, since both the honourable and the expedient give an impression ofpleasure.
Again, it grows up with us all from infancy, and so it is a hard matter toremove from ourselves this feeling, engrained as it is into our very life.
Again, we adopt pleasure and pain (some of us more, and some less) as themeasure even of actions: for this cause then our whole business must be withthem, since to receive right or wrong impressions of pleasure and pain is athing of no little importance in respect of the actions. Once more; it isharder, as Heraclitus says, to fight against pleasure than against anger: nowit is about that which is more than commonly difficult that art comes intobeing, and virtue too, because in that which is difficult the good is of ahigher order: and so for this reason too both virtue and moral philosophygenerally must wholly busy themselves respecting pleasures and pains, becausehe that uses these well will be good, he that does so ill will be bad.
Let us then be understood to have stated, that Virtue has for its object-matterpleasures and pains, and that it is either increased or marred by the samecircumstances (differently used) by which it is originally generated, and thatit exerts itself on the same circumstances out of which it was generated.
Now I can conceive a person perplexed as to the meaning of our statement, thatmen must do just actions to become just, and those of self-mastery to acquirethe habit of self-mastery; “for,” he would say, “if men aredoing the actions they have the respective virtues already, just as men aregrammarians or musicians when they do the actions of either art.” May wenot reply by saying that it is not so even in the case of the arts referred to:because a man may produce something grammatical either by chance or thesuggestion of another; but then only will he be a grammarian when he not onlyproduces something grammatical but does so grammarian-wise, i.e. invirtue of the grammatical knowledge he himself possesses.
Again, the cases of the arts and the virtues are not parallel: because thosethings which are produced by the arts have their excellence in themselves, andit is sufficient therefore that these when produced should be in a certainstate: but those which are produced in the way of the virtues, are, strictlyspeaking, actions of a certain kind (say of Justice or perfected Self-Mastery),not merely if in themselves they are in a certain state but if also he who doesthem does them being himself in a certain state, first if knowing what he isdoing, next if with deliberate preference, and with such preference for thethings’ own sake; and thirdly if being himself stable and unapt tochange. Now to constitute possession of the arts these requisites are notreckoned in, excepting the one point of knowledge: whereas for possession ofthe virtues knowledge avails little or nothing, but the other requisites availnot a little, but, in fact, are all in all, and these requisites as a matter offact do come from oftentimes doing the actions of Justice and perfectedSelf-Mastery.
The facts,[8]it is true, are called by the names of these habits when they are such as thejust or perfectly self-mastering man would do; but he is not in possession ofthe virtues who merely does these facts, but he who also so does them as thejust and self-mastering do them.
We are right then in saying, that these virtues are formed in a man by hisdoing the actions; but no one, if he should leave them undone, would be even inthe way to become a good man. Yet people in general do not perform theseactions, but taking refuge in talk they flatter themselves they arephilosophising, and that they will so be good men: acting in truth very likethose sick people who listen to the doctor with great attention but do nothingthat he tells them: just as these then cannot be well bodily under such acourse of treatment, so neither can those be mentally by such philosophising.
Next, we must examine what Virtue is.[9]Well, since the things which come to be in the mind are, in all, of threekinds, Feelings, Capacities, States, Virtue of course must belong to one of thethree classes.
By Feelings, I mean such as lust, anger, fear, confidence, envy, joy,friendship, hatred, longing, emulation, compassion, in short all such as arefollowed by pleasure or pain: by Capacities, those in right of which we aresaid to be capable of these feelings; as by virtue of which we are able to havebeen made angry, or grieved, or to have compassionated; by States, those inright of which we are in a certain relation good or bad to the aforementionedfeelings; to having been made angry, for instance, we are in a wrong relationif in our anger we were too violent or too slack, but if we were in the happymedium we are in a right relation to the feeling. And so on of the rest.
Now Feelings neither the virtues nor vices are, because in right of theFeelings we are not denominated either good or bad, but in right of the virtuesand vices we are.
Again, in right of the Feelings we are neither praised norblamed,[10](for a man is not commended for being afraid or being angry, nor blamed forbeing angry merely but for being so in a particular way), but in right of thevirtues and vices we are.
Again, both anger and fear we feel without moral choice, whereas the virtuesare acts of moral choice, or at least certainly not independent of it.
Moreover, in right of the Feelings we are said to be moved, but in right of thevirtues and vices not to be moved, but disposed, in a certain way.
And for these same reasons they are not Capacities, for we are not called goodor bad merely because we are able to feel, nor are we praised or blamed.
And again, Capacities we have by nature, but we do not come to be good or badby nature, as we have said before.
Since then the virtues are neither Feelings nor Capacities, it remains thatthey must be States.
Now what the genus of Virtue is has been said; but we must not merely speak ofit thus, that it is a state but say also what kind of a state it is.
We must observe then that all excellence makes that whereof it is theexcellence both to be itself in a good state and to perform its work well. Theexcellence of the eye, for instance, makes both the eye good and its work also:for by the excellence of the eye we see well. So too the excellence of thehorse makes a horse good, and good in speed, and in carrying his rider, andstanding up against the enemy. If then this is universally the case, theexcellence of Man, i.e. Virtue, must be a state whereby Man comes to be goodand whereby he will perform well his proper work. Now how this shall be it istrue we have said already, but still perhaps it may throw light on the subjectto see what is its characteristic nature.
In all quantity then, whether continuous or discrete,[11]one may take the greater part, the less, or the exactly equal, and these eitherwith reference to the thing itself, or relatively to us: and the exactly equalis a mean between excess and defect. Now by the mean of the thing, i.e.absolute mean, I denote that which is equidistant from either extreme (which ofcourse is one and the same to all), and by the mean relatively to ourselves,that which is neither too much nor too little for the particular individual.This of course is not one nor the same to all: for instance, suppose ten is toomuch and two too little, people take six for the absolute mean; because itexceeds the smaller sum by exactly as much as it is itself exceeded by thelarger, and this mean is according to arithmetical proportion.[12]
But the mean relatively to ourselves must not be so found ; for it does notfollow, supposing ten minæ[13]is too large a quantity to eat and two too small, that the trainer will orderhis man six; because for the person who is to take it this also may be too muchor too little: for Milo it would be too little, but for a man just commencinghis athletic exercises too much: similarly too of the exercises themselves, asrunning or wrestling.
So then it seems every one possessed of skill avoids excess and defect, butseeks for and chooses the mean, not the absolute but the relative.
Now if all skill thus accomplishes well its work by keeping an eye on the mean,and bringing the works to this point (whence it is common enough to say of suchworks as are in a good state, “one cannot add to or take ought fromthem,” under the notion of excess or defect destroying goodness but themean state preserving it), and good artisans, as we say, work with their eye onthis, and excellence, like nature, is more exact and better than any art in theworld, it must have an aptitude to aim at the mean.
It is moral excellence, i.e. Virtue, of course which I mean, becausethis it is which is concerned with feelings and actions, and in these there canbe excess and defect and the mean: it is possible, for instance, to feel theemotions of fear, confidence, lust, anger, compassion, and pleasure and paingenerally, too much or too little, and in either case wrongly; but to feel themwhen we ought, on what occasions, towards whom, why, and as, we should do, isthe mean, or in other words the best state, and this is the property of Virtue.
In like manner too with respect to the actions, there may be excess and defectand the mean. Now Virtue is concerned with feelings and actions, in which theexcess is wrong and the defect is blamed but the mean is praised and goesright; and both these circumstances belong to Virtue. Virtue then is in a sensea mean state, since it certainly has an aptitude for aiming at the mean.
Again, one may go wrong in many different ways (because, as the Pythagoreansexpressed it, evil is of the class of the infinite, good of the finite), butright only in one; and so the former is easy, the latter difficult; easy tomiss the mark, but hard to hit it: and for these reasons, therefore, both theexcess and defect belong to Vice, and the mean state to Virtue; for, as thepoet has it,
“Men may be bad in many ways,But good in one alone.”
Virtue then is “a state apt to exercise deliberate choice, being in therelative mean, determined by reason, and[14]as the man of practical wisdom would determine.”
It is a middle state between too faulty ones, in the way of excess on one sideand of defect on the other: and it is so moreover, because the faulty states onone side fall short of, and those on the other exceed, what is right, both inthe case of the feelings and the actions; but Virtue finds, and when foundadopts, the mean.
And so, viewing it in respect of its essence and definition, Virtue is a meanstate; but in reference to the chief good and to excellence it is the higheststate possible.
But it must not be supposed that every action or every feeling is capable ofsubsisting in this mean state, because some there are which are so named asimmediately to convey the notion of badness, as malevolence, shamelessness,envy; or, to instance in actions, adultery, theft, homicide; for all these andsuchlike are blamed because they are in themselves bad, not the having too muchor too little of them.
In these then you never can go right, but must always be wrong: nor in suchdoes the right or wrong depend on the selection of a proper person, time, ormanner (take adultery for instance), but simply doing any one soever of thosethings is being wrong.
You might as well require that there should be determined a mean state, anexcess and a defect in respect of acting unjustly, being cowardly, or giving upall control of the passions: for at this rate there will be of excess anddefect a mean state; of excess, excess; and of defect, defect.
But just as of perfected self-mastery and courage there is no excess anddefect, because the mean is in one point of view the highest possible state, soneither of those faulty states can you have a mean state, excess, or defect,but howsoever done they are wrong: you cannot, in short, have of excess anddefect a mean state, nor of a mean state excess and defect.
It is not enough, however, to state this in general terms, we must also applyit to particular instances, because in treatises on moral conduct generalstatements have an air of vagueness, but those which go into detail one ofgreater reality: for the actions after all must be in detail, and the generalstatements, to be worth anything, must hold good here.
We must take these details then from the well-known scheme.[15]
I. In respect of fears and confidence or boldness:
The Mean state is Courage: men may exceed, of course, either in absence of fearor in positive confidence: the former has no name (which is a common case), thelatter is called rash: again, the man who has too much fear and too littleconfidence is called a coward.
II. In respect of pleasures and pains (but not all, and perhaps fewer painsthan pleasures):
The Mean state here is perfected Self-Mastery, the defect total absence ofSelf-control. As for defect in respect of pleasure, there are really no peoplewho are chargeable with it, so, of course, there is really no name for suchcharacters, but, as they are conceivable, we will give them one and call theminsensible.
III. In respect of giving and taking wealth[16](a):
The mean state is Liberality, the excess Prodigality, the defect Stinginess:here each of the extremes involves really an excess and defect contrary to eachother: I mean, the prodigal gives out too much and takes in too little, whilethe stingy man takes in too much and gives out too little. (It must beunderstood that we are now giving merely an outline and summary, intentionally:and we will, in a later part of the treatise, draw out the distinctions withgreater exactness.)
IV. In respect of wealth (b):
There are other dispositions besides these just mentioned; a mean state calledMunificence (for the munificent man differs from the liberal, the former havingnecessarily to do with great wealth, the latter with but small); the excesscalled by the names either of Want of taste or Vulgar Profusion, and the defectPaltriness (these also differ from the extremes connected with liberality, andthe manner of their difference shall also be spoken of later).
V. In respect of honour and dishonour (a):
The mean state Greatness of Soul, the excess which may be calledχαυνότης,[17]and the defect Littleness of Soul.
VI. In respect of honour and dishonour (b):
Now there is a state bearing the same relation to Greatness of Soul as we saidjust now Liberality does to Munificence, with the difference that is of beingabout a small amount of the same thing: this state having reference to smallhonour, as Greatness of Soul to great honour; a man may, of course, grasp athonour either more than he should or less; now he that exceeds in his graspingat it is called ambitious, he that falls short unambitious, he that is just ashe should be has no proper name: nor in fact have the states, except that thedisposition of the ambitious man is called ambition. For this reason those whoare in either extreme lay claim to the mean as a debateable land, and we callthe virtuous character sometimes by the name ambitious,[18]sometimes by that of unambitious, and we commend sometimes the one andsometimes the other. Why we do it shall be said in the subsequent part of thetreatise; but now we will go on with the rest of the virtues after the plan wehave laid down.
VII. In respect of anger:
Here too there is excess, defect, and a mean state; but since they may be saidto have really no proper names, as we call the virtuous character Meek, we willcall the mean state Meekness, and of the extremes, let the man who is excessivebe denominated Passionate, and the faulty state Passionateness, and him who isdeficient Angerless, and the defect Angerlessness.
There are also three other mean states, having some mutual resemblance, butstill with differences; they are alike in that they all have for theirobject-matter intercourse of words and deeds, and they differ in that one hasrespect to truth herein, the other two to what is pleasant; and this in twoways, the one in relaxation and amusement, the other in all things which occurin daily life. We must say a word or two about these also, that we may thebetter see that in all matters the mean is praiseworthy, while the extremes areneither right nor worthy of praise but of blame.
Now of these, it is true, the majority have really no proper names, but stillwe must try, as in the other cases, to coin some for them for the sake ofclearness and intelligibleness.
I. In respect of truth: The man who is in the mean state we will call Truthful, and his stateTruthfulness, and as to the disguise of truth, if it be on the side ofexaggeration, Braggadocia, and him that has it a Braggadocio; if on that ofdiminution, Reserve and Reserved shall be the terms.
II. In respect of what is pleasant in the way of relaxation or amusement.
The mean state shall be called Easy-pleasantry, and the character accordingly aman of Easy-pleasantry; the excess Buffoonery, and the man a Buffoon; the mandeficient herein a Clown, and his state Clownishness.
III. In respect of what is pleasant in daily life.
He that is as he should be may be called Friendly, and his mean stateFriendliness: he that exceeds, if it be without any interested motive, somewhattoo Complaisant, if with such motive, a Flatterer: he that is deficient and inall instances unpleasant, Quarrelsome and Cross.
There are mean states likewise in feelings and matters concerning them.Shamefacedness, for instance, is no virtue, still a man is praised for beingshamefaced: for in these too the one is denominated the man in the mean state,the other in the excess; the Dumbfoundered, for instance, who is overwhelmedwith shame on all and any occasions: the man who is in the defect, i.e.who has no shame at all in his composition, is called Shameless: but the rightcharacter Shamefaced.
Indignation against successful vice,[19]again, is a state in the mean between Envy and Malevolence: they all three haverespect to pleasure and pain produced by what happens to one’s neighbour:for the man who has this right feeling is annoyed at undeserved success ofothers, while the envious man goes beyond him and is annoyed at all success ofothers, and the malevolent falls so far short of feeling annoyance that he evenrejoices [at misfortune of others].again, is a state in the mean between Envyand Malevolence: they all three have respect to pleasure and pain produced bywhat happens to one’s neighbour: for the man who has this right feelingis annoyed at undeserved success of others, while the envious man goes beyondhim and is annoyed at all success of others, and the malevolent falls so farshort of feeling annoyance that he even rejoices [at misfortune of others].
But for the discussion of these also there will be another opportunity, as ofJustice too, because the term is used in more senses than one. So after this wewill go accurately into each and say how they are mean states: and in likemanner also with respect to the Intellectual Excellences.
Now as there are three states in each case, two faulty either in the way ofexcess or defect, and one right, which is the mean state, of course all are ina way opposed to one another; the extremes, for instance, not only to the meanbut also to one another, and the mean to the extremes: for just as the half isgreater if compared with the less portion, and less if compared with thegreater, so the mean states, compared with the defects, exceed, whether infeelings or actions, and vice versa. The brave man, for instance, showsas rash when compared with the coward, and cowardly when compared with therash; similarly too the man of perfected self-mastery, viewed in comparisonwith the man destitute of all perception, shows like a man of no self-control,but in comparison with the man who really has no self-control, he looks likeone destitute of all perception: and the liberal man compared with the stingyseems prodigal, and by the side of the prodigal, stingy.
And so the extreme characters push away, so to speak, towards each other theman in the mean state; the brave man is called a rash man by the coward, and acoward by the rash man, and in the other cases accordingly. And there beingthis mutual opposition, the contrariety between the extremes is greater thanbetween either and the mean, because they are further from one another thanfrom the mean, just as the greater or less portion differ more from each otherthan either from the exact half.
Again, in some cases an extreme will bear a resemblance to the mean; rashness,for instance, to courage, and prodigality to liberality; but between theextremes there is the greatest dissimilarity. Now things which are furthestfrom one another[20]are defined to be contrary, and so the further off the more contrary will theybe.
Further: of the extremes in some cases the excess, and in others the defect, ismost opposed to the mean: to courage, for instance, not rashness which is theexcess, but cowardice which is the defect; whereas to perfected self-masterynot insensibility which is the defect but absence of all self-control which isthe excess.
And for this there are two reasons to be given; one from the nature of thething itself, because from the one extreme being nearer and more like the mean,we do not put this against it, but the other; as, for instance, since rashnessis thought to be nearer to courage than cowardice is, and to resemble it more,we put cowardice against courage rather than rashness, because those thingswhich are further from the mean are thought to be more contrary to it. Thisthen is one reason arising from the thing itself; there is another arising fromour own constitution and make: for in each man’s own case those thingsgive the impression of being more contrary to the mean to which we individuallyhave a natural bias. Thus we have a natural bias towards pleasures, for whichreason we are much more inclined to the rejection of all self-control, than toself-discipline.
These things then to which the bias is, we call more contrary, and so totalwant of self-control (the excess) is more contrary than the defect is toperfected self-mastery.
Now that Moral Virtue is a mean state, and how it is so, and that it liesbetween two faulty states, one in the way of excess and another in the way ofdefect, and that it is so because it has an aptitude to aim at the mean both infeelings and actions, all this has been set forth fully and sufficiently.
And so it is hard to be good: for surely hard it is in each instance to findthe mean, just as to find the mean point or centre of a circle is not what anyman can do, but only he who knows how: just so to be angry, to give money, andbe expensive, is what any man can do, and easy: but to do these to the rightperson, in due proportion, at the right time, with a right object, and in theright manner, this is not as before what any man can do, nor is it easy; andfor this cause goodness is rare, and praiseworthy, and noble.
Therefore he who aims at the mean should make it his first care to keep awayfrom that extreme which is more contrary than the other to the mean; just asCalypso in Homer advises Ulysses,
“Clear of this smoke and surge thy barque direct;”
because of the two extremes the one is always more, and the other less,erroneous; and, therefore, since to hit exactly on the mean is difficult, onemust take the least of the evils as the safest plan;[21]and this a man will be doing, if he follows this method.
We ought also to take into consideration our own natural bias; which varies ineach man’s case, and will be ascertained from the pleasure and painarising in us. Furthermore, we should force ourselves off in the contrarydirection, because we shall find ourselves in the mean after we have removedourselves far from the wrong side, exactly as men do in straightening benttimber.[22]
But in all cases we must guard most carefully against what is pleasant, andpleasure itself, because we are not impartial judges of it.
We ought to feel in fact towards pleasure as did the old counsellors towardsHelen, and in all cases pronounce a similar sentence; for so by sending it awayfrom us, we shall err the less.[23]
Well, to speak very briefly, these are the precautions by adopting which weshall be best able to attain the mean.
Still, perhaps, after all it is a matter of difficulty, and specially in theparticular instances: it is not easy, for instance, to determine exactly inwhat manner, with what persons, for what causes, and for what length of time,one ought to feel anger: for we ourselves sometimes praise those who aredefective in this feeling, and we call them meek; at another, we term thehot-tempered manly and spirited.
Then, again, he who makes a small deflection from what is right, be it on theside of too much or too little, is not blamed, only he who makes a considerableone; for he cannot escape observation. But to what point or degree a man musterr in order to incur blame, it is not easy to determine exactly in words: norin fact any of those points which are matter of perception by the Moral Sense:such questions are matters of detail, and the decision of them rests with theMoral Sense.[24]
At all events thus much is plain, that the mean state is in all thingspraiseworthy, and that practically we must deflect sometimes towards excesssometimes towards defect, because this will be the easiest method of hitting onthe mean, that is, on what is right.
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BOOK III
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Now since Virtue is concerned with the regulation of feelings and actions, andpraise and blame arise upon such as are voluntary, while for the involuntaryallowance is made, and sometimes compassion is excited, it is perhaps anecessary task for those who are investigating the nature of Virtue to draw outthe distinction between what is voluntary and what involuntary; and it iscertainly useful for legislators, with respect to the assigning of honours andpunishments.
Involuntary actions then are thought to be of two kinds, being done either oncompulsion, or by reason of ignorance. An action is, properly speaking,compulsory, when the origination is external to the agent, being such that init the agent (perhaps we may more properly say the patient) contributesnothing; as if a wind were to convey you anywhere, or men having power overyour person.
But when actions are done, either from fear of greater evils, or from somehonourable motive, as, for instance, if you were ordered to commit some baseact by a despot who had your parents or children in his power, and they were tobe saved upon your compliance or die upon your refusal, in such cases there isroom for a question whether the actions are voluntary or involuntary.
A similar question arises with respect to cases of throwing goods overboard ina storm: abstractedly no man throws away his property willingly, but with aview to his own and his shipmates’ safety any one would who had anysense.
The truth is, such actions are of a mixed kind, but are most like voluntaryactions; for they are choice-worthy at the time when they are being done, andthe end or object of the action must be taken with reference to the actualoccasion. Further, we must denominate an action voluntary or involuntary at thetime of doing it: now in the given case the man acts voluntarily, because theoriginating of the motion of his limbs in such actions rests with himself; andwhere the origination is in himself it rests with himself to do or not to do.
Such actions then are voluntary, though in the abstract perhaps involuntarybecause no one would choose any of such things in and by itself.
But for such actions men sometimes are even praised, as when they endure anydisgrace or pain to secure great and honourable equivalents; if viceversâ, then they are blamed, because it shows a base mind to endure thingsvery disgraceful for no honourable object, or for a trifling one.
For some again no praise is given, but allowance is made; as where a man doeswhat he should not by reason of such things as overstrain the powers of humannature, or pass the limits of human endurance.
Some acts perhaps there are for which compulsion cannot be pleaded, but a manshould rather suffer the worst and die; how absurd, for instance, are the pleasof compulsion with which Alcmaeon in Euripides’ play excuses hismatricide!
But it is difficult sometimes to decide what kind of thing should be choseninstead of what, or what endured in preference to what, and much moreso toabide by one’s decisions: for in general the alternatives are painful,and the actions required are base, and so praise or blame is awarded accordingas persons have been compelled or no.
What kind of actions then are to be called compulsory? may we say, simply andabstractedly whenever the cause is external and the agent contributes nothing;and that where the acts are in themselves such as one would not wish butchoice-worthy at the present time and in preference to such and such things,and where the origination rests with the agent, the actions are in themselvesinvoluntary but at the given time and in preference to such and such thingsvoluntary; and they are more like voluntary than involuntary, because theactions consist of little details, and these are voluntary.
But what kind of things one ought to choose instead of what, it is not easy tosettle, for there are many differences in particular instances.
But suppose a person should say, things pleasant and honourable exert acompulsive force (for that they are external and do compel); at that rate everyaction is on compulsion, because these are universal motives of action.
Again, they who act on compulsion and against their will do so with pain; butthey who act by reason of what is pleasant or honourable act with pleasure.
It is truly absurd for a man to attribute his actions to external thingsinstead of to his own capacity for being easily caught by them;[1]or, again, to ascribe the honourable to himself, and the base ones to pleasure.
So then that seems to be compulsory “whose origination is from without,the party compelled contributing nothing.”
Now every action of which ignorance is the cause is not-voluntary, but thatonly is involuntary which is attended with pain and remorse; for clearly theman who has done anything by reason of ignorance, but is not annoyed at his ownaction, cannot be said to have done it with his will because he did notknow he was doing it, nor again against his will because he is not sorryfor it.
So then of the class “acting by reason of ignorance,” he who feelsregret afterwards is thought to be an involuntary agent, and him that has nosuch feeling, since he certainly is different from the other, we will call anot-voluntary agent; for as there is a real difference it is better to have aproper name.
Again, there seems to be a difference between acting because ofignorance and acting with ignorance: for instance, we do not usuallyassign ignorance as the cause of the actions of the drunken or angry man, buteither the drunkenness or the anger, yet they act not knowingly but withignorance.
Again, every bad man is ignorant what he ought to do and what to leave undone,and by reason of such error men become unjust and wholly evil.
Again, we do not usually apply the term involuntary when a man is ignorant ofhis own true interest;[2]because ignorance which affects moral choice[3]constitutes depravity but not involuntariness: nor does any ignorance ofprinciple (because for this men are blamed) but ignorance in particulardetails, wherein consists the action and wherewith it is concerned, for inthese there is both compassion and allowance, because he who acts in ignoranceof any of them acts in a proper sense involuntarily.
It may be as well, therefore, to define these particular details; what theyare, and how many; viz. who acts, what he is doing, with respect to what or inwhat, sometimes with what, as with what instrument, and with what result;[4]as that of preservation, for instance, and how, as whether softly or violently.
All these particulars, in one and the same case, no man in his senses could beignorant of; plainly not of the agent, being himself. But what he is doing aman may be ignorant, as men in speaking say a thing escaped them unawares; oras Aeschylus did with respect to the Mysteries, that he was not aware that itwas unlawful to speak of them; or as in the case of that catapult accident theother day the man said he discharged it merely to display its operation. Or aperson might suppose a son to be an enemy, as Merope did; or that the spearreally pointed was rounded off; or that the stone was a pumice; or in strikingwith a view to save might kill; or might strike when merely wishing to showanother, as people do in sham-fighting.
Now since ignorance is possible in respect to all these details in which theaction consists, he that acted in ignorance of any of them is thought to haveacted involuntarily, and he most so who was in ignorance as regards the mostimportant, which are thought to be those in which the action consists, and theresult.
Further, not only must the ignorance be of this kind, to constitute an actioninvoluntary, but it must be also understood that the action is followed by painand regret.
Now since all involuntary action is either upon compulsion or by reason ofignorance, Voluntary Action would seem to be “that whose origination isin the agent, he being aware of the particular details in which the actionconsists.”
For, it may be, men are not justified by calling those actions involuntary,which are done by reason of Anger or Lust.
Because, in the first place, if this be so no other animal but man, and noteven children, can be said to act voluntarily. Next, is it meant that we neveract voluntarily when we act from Lust or Anger, or that we act voluntarily indoing what is right and involuntarily in doing what is discreditable? Thelatter supposition is absurd, since the cause is one and the same. Then as tothe former, it is a strange thing to maintain actions to be involuntary whichwe are bound to grasp at: now there are occasions on which anger is a duty,[5]and there are things which we are bound to lust after,[6]health, for instance, and learning.
Again, whereas actions strictly involuntary are thought to be attended withpain, those which are done to gratify lust are thought to be pleasant.
Again: how does the involuntariness make any difference[7]between wrong actions done from deliberate calculation, and those done byreason of anger? for both ought to be avoided, and the irrational feelings arethought to be just as natural to man as reason, and so of course must be suchactions of the individual as are done from Anger and Lust. It is absurd then toclass these actions among the involuntary.
Having thus drawn out the distinction between voluntary and involuntary actionour next step is to examine into the nature of Moral Choice, because this seemsmost intimately connected with Virtue and to be a more decisive test of moralcharacter than a man’s acts are.
Now Moral Choice is plainly voluntary, but the two are not co-extensive,voluntary being the more comprehensive term; for first, children and all otheranimals share in voluntary action but not in Moral Choice; and next, suddenactions we call voluntary but do not ascribe them to Moral Choice.
Nor do they appear to be right who say it is lust or anger, or wish, or opinionof a certain kind; because, in the first place, Moral Choice is not shared bythe irrational animals while Lust and Anger are. Next; the man who fails ofself-control acts from Lust but not from Moral Choice; the man of self-control,on the contrary, from Moral Choice, not from Lust. Again: whereas Lust isfrequently opposed to Moral Choice, Lust is not to Lust.
Lastly: the object-matter of Lust is the pleasant and the painful, but of MoralChoice neither the one nor the other. Still less can it be Anger, becauseactions done from Anger are thought generally to be least of all consequent onMoral Choice.
Nor is it Wish either, though appearing closely connected with it; because, inthe first place, Moral Choice has not for its objects impossibilities, and if aman were to say he chose them he would be thought to be a fool; but Wish mayhave impossible things for its objects, immortality for instance.
Wish again may be exercised on things in the accomplishment of whichone’s self could have nothing to do, as the success of any particularactor or athlete; but no man chooses things of this nature, only such as hebelieves he may himself be instrumental in procuring.
Further: Wish has for its object the End rather, but Moral Choice the means tothe End; for instance, we wish to be healthy but we choose the means which willmake us so; or happiness again we wish for, and commonly say so, but to say wechoose is not an appropriate term, because, in short, the province of MoralChoice seems to be those things which are in our own power.
Neither can it be Opinion; for Opinion is thought to be unlimited in its rangeof objects, and to be exercised as well upon things eternal and impossible ason those which are in our own power: again, Opinion is logically divided intotrue and false, not into good and bad as Moral Choice is.
However, nobody perhaps maintains its identity with Opinion simply; but it isnot the same with opinion of any kind,[8]because by choosing good and bad things we are constituted of a certaincharacter, but by having opinions on them we are not.
Again, we choose to take or avoid, and so on, but we opine what a thing is, orfor what it is serviceable, or how; but we do not opine to take or avoid.
Further, Moral Choice is commended rather for having a right object than forbeing judicious, but Opinion for being formed in accordance with truth.
Again, we choose such things as we pretty well know to be good, but we formopinions respecting such as we do not know at all.
And it is not thought that choosing and opining best always go together, butthat some opine the better course and yet by reason of viciousness choose notthe things which they should.
It may be urged, that Opinion always precedes or accompanies Moral Choice; beit so, this makes no difference, for this is not the point in question, butwhether Moral Choice is the same as Opinion of a certain kind.
Since then it is none of the aforementioned things, what is it, or how is itcharacterised? Voluntary it plainly is, but not all voluntary action is anobject of Moral Choice. May we not say then, it is “that voluntary whichhas passed through a stage of previous deliberation?” because MoralChoice is attended with reasoning and intellectual process. The etymology ofits Greek name seems to give a hint of it, being when analysed “chosen inpreference to somewhat else.”
Well then; do men deliberate about everything, and is anything soever theobject of Deliberation, or are there some matters with respect to which thereis none? (It may be as well perhaps to say, that by “object ofDeliberation” is meant such matter as a sensible man would deliberateupon, not what any fool or madman might.)
Well: about eternal things no one deliberates; as, for instance, the universe,or the incommensurability of the diameter and side of a square.
Nor again about things which are in motion but which always happen in the sameway either necessarily, or naturally, or from some other cause, as thesolstices or the sunrise.
Nor about those which are variable, as drought and rains; nor fortuitousmatters, as finding of treasure.
Nor in fact even about all human affairs; no Lacedæmonian, for instance,deliberates as to the best course for the Scythian government to adopt; becausein such cases we have no power over the result.
But we do deliberate respecting such practical matters as are in our own power(which are what are left after all our exclusions).
I have adopted this division because causes seem to be divisible into nature,necessity, chance, and moreover intellect, and all human powers.
And as man in general deliberates about what man in general can effect, soindividuals do about such practical things as can be effected through their owninstrumentality.
Again, we do not deliberate respecting such arts or sciences as are exact andindependent: as, for instance, about written characters, because we have nodoubt how they should be formed; but we do deliberate on all buch things as areusually done through our own instrumentality, but not invariably in the sameway; as, for instance, about matters connected with the healing art, or withmoney-making; and, again, more about piloting ships than gymnastic exercises,because the former has been less exactly determined, and so forth; and moreabout arts than sciences, because we more frequently doubt respecting theformer.
So then Deliberation takes place in such matters as are under general laws, butstill uncertain how in any given case they will issue, i.e. in whichthere is some indefiniteness; and for great matters we associate coadjutors incounsel, distrusting our ability to settle them alone.
Further, we deliberate not about Ends, but Means to Ends. No physician, forinstance, deliberates whether he will cure, nor orator whether he willpersuade, nor statesman whether he will produce a good constitution, nor infact any man in any other function about his particular End; but having setbefore them a certain End they look how and through what means it may beaccomplished: if there is a choice of means, they examine further which areeasiest and most creditable; or, if there is but one means of accomplishing theobject, then how it may be through this, this again through what, till theycome to the first cause; and this will be the last found; for a man engaged ina process of deliberation seems to seek and analyse, as a man, to solve aproblem, analyses the figure given him. And plainly not every search isDeliberation, those in mathematics to wit, but every Deliberation is a search,and the last step in the analysis is the first in the constructive process. Andif in the course of their search men come upon an impossibility, they give itup; if money, for instance, be necessary, but cannot be got: but if the thingappears possible they then attempt to do it.
And by possible I mean what may be done through our own instrumentality (ofcourse what may be done through our friends is through our own instrumentalityin a certain sense, because the origination in such cases rests with us). Andthe object of search is sometimes the necessary instruments, sometimes themethod of using them; and similarly in the rest sometimes through what, andsometimes how or through what.[9]
So it seems, as has been said, that Man is the originator of his actions; andDeliberation has for its object whatever may be done through one’s owninstrumentality, and the actions are with a view to other things; and so it is,not the End, but the Means to Ends on which Deliberation is employed.
Nor, again, is it employed on matters of detail, as whether the substancebefore me is bread, or has been properly cooked; for these come under theprovince of sense, and if a man is to be always deliberating, he may go onad infinitum.
Further, exactly the same matter is the object both of Deliberation and MoralChoice; but that which is the object of Moral Choice is thenceforward separatedoff and definite,[10]because by object of Moral Choice is denoted that which after Deliberation hasbeen preferred to something else: for each man leaves off searching how heshall do a thing when he has brought the origination up to himself, i.e.to the governing principle in himself,[11]because it is this which makes the choice. A good illustration of this isfurnished by the old regal constitutions which Homer drew from, in which theKings would announce to the commonalty what they had determined before.
Now since that which is the object of Moral Choice is something in our ownpower, which is the object of deliberation and the grasping of the Will, MoralChoice must be “a grasping after something in our own power consequentupon Deliberation:” because after having deliberated we decide, and thengrasp by our Will in accordance with the result of our deliberation.[12]
Let this be accepted as a sketch of the nature and object of Moral Choice, thatobject being “Means to Ends.”
That Wish has for its object-matter the End, has been already stated; but thereare two opinions respecting it; some thinking that its object is real good,others whatever impresses the mind with a notion of good.
Now those who maintain that the object of Wish is real good are beset by thisdifficulty, that what is wished for by him who chooses wrongly is not really anobject of Wish (because, on their theory, if it is an object of wish, it mustbe good, but it is, in the case supposed, evil). Those who maintain, on thecontrary, that that which impresses the mind with a notion of good is properlythe object of Wish, have to meet this difficulty, that there is nothingnaturally an object of Wish but to each individual whatever seems good to him;now different people have different notions, and it may chance contrary ones.
But, if these opinions do not satisfy us, may we not say that, abstractedly andas a matter of objective truth, the really good is the object of Wish, but toeach individual whatever impresses his mind with the notion of good.[13]And so to the good man that is an object of Wish which is really and truly so,but to the bad man anything may be; just as physically those things arewholesome to the healthy which are really so, but other things to the sick. Andso too of bitter and sweet, and hot and heavy, and so on. For the good manjudges in every instance correctly, and in every instance the notion conveyedto his mind is the true one.
For there are fair and pleasant things peculiar to, and so varying with, eachstate; and perhaps the most distinguishing characteristic of the good man ishis seeing the truth in every instance, he being, in fact, the rule and measureof these matters.
The multitude of men seem to be deceived by reason of pleasure, because thoughit is not really a good it impresses their minds with the notion of goodness,so they choose what is pleasant as good and avoid pain as an evil.
Now since the End is the object of Wish, and the means to the End ofDeliberation and Moral Choice, the actions regarding these matters must be inthe way of Moral Choice, i.e. voluntary: but the acts of working out thevirtues are such actions, and therefore Virtue is in our power.
And so too is Vice: because wherever it is in our power to do it is also in ourpower to forbear doing, and vice versâ: therefore if the doing (being ina given case creditable) is in our power, so too is the forbearing (which is inthe same case discreditable), and vice versâ.
But if it is in our power to do and to forbear doing what is creditable or thecontrary, and these respectively constitute the being good or bad, then thebeing good or vicious characters is in our power.
As for the well-known saying, “No man voluntarily is wicked orinvoluntarily happy,” it is partly true, partly false; for no man ishappy against his will, of course, but wickedness is voluntary. Or must wedispute the statements lately made, and not say that Man is the originator orgenerator of his actions as much as of his children?
But if this is matter of plain manifest fact, and we cannot refer our actionsto any other originations beside those in our own power, those things must bein our own power, and so voluntary, the originations of which are in ourselves.
Moreover, testimony seems to be borne to these positions both privately byindividuals, and by law-givers too, in that they chastise and punish those whodo wrong (unless they do so on compulsion, or by reason of ignorance which isnot self-caused), while they honour those who act rightly, under the notion ofbeing likely to encourage the latter and restrain the former. But such thingsas are not in our own power, i.e. not voluntary, no one thinks ofencouraging us to do, knowing it to be of no avail for one to have beenpersuaded not to be hot (for instance), or feel pain, or be hungry, and soforth, because we shall have those sensations all the same.
And what makes the case stronger is this: that they chastise for the very factof ignorance, when it is thought to be self-caused; to the drunken, forinstance, penalties are double, because the origination in such case lies in aman’s own self: for he might have helped getting drunk, and this is thecause of his ignorance.
Again, those also who are ignorant of legal regulations which they are bound toknow, and which are not hard to know, they chastise; and similarly in all othercases where neglect is thought to be the cause of the ignorance, under thenotion that it was in their power to prevent their ignorance, because theymight have paid attention.
But perhaps a man is of such a character that he cannot attend to such things:still men are themselves the causes of having become such characters by livingcarelessly, and also of being unjust or destitute of self-control, the formerby doing evil actions, the latter by spending their time in drinking andsuch-like; because the particular acts of working form correspondingcharacters, as is shown by those who are practising for any contest orparticular course of action, for such men persevere in the acts of working.
As for the plea, that a man did not know that habits are produced from separateacts of working, we reply, such ignorance is a mark of excessive stupidity.
Furthermore, it is wholly irrelevant to say that the man who acts unjustly ordissolutely does not wish to attain the habits of these vices: for if aman wittingly does those things whereby he must become unjust he is to allintents and purposes unjust voluntarily; but he cannot with a wish cease to beunjust and become just. For, to take the analogous case, the sick man cannotwith a wish be well again, yet in a supposable case he is voluntarily illbecause he has produced his sickness by living intemperately and disregardinghis physicians. There was a time then when he might have helped being ill, butnow he has let himself go he cannot any longer; just as he who has let a stoneout of his hand cannot recall it,[14]and yet it rested with him to aim and throw it, because the origination was inhis power. Just so the unjust man, and he who has lost all self-control, mightoriginally have helped being what they are, and so they are voluntarily whatthey are; but now that they are become so they no longer have the power ofbeing otherwise.
And not only are mental diseases voluntary, but the bodily are so in some men,whom we accordingly blame: for such as are naturally deformed no one blames,only such as are so by reason of want of exercise, and neglect: and so too ofweakness and maiming: no one would think of upbraiding, but would rathercompassionate, a man who is blind by nature, or from disease, or from anaccident; but every one would blame him who was so from excess of wine, or anyother kind of intemperance. It seems, then, that in respect of bodily diseases,those which depend on ourselves are censured, those which do not are notcensured; and if so, then in the case of the mental disorders, those which arecensured must depend upon ourselves.
But suppose a man to say, “that (by our own admission) all men aim atthat which conveys to their minds an impression of good, and that men have nocontrol over this impression, but that the End impresses each with a notioncorrespondent to his own individual character; that to be sure if each man isin a way the cause of his own moral state, so he will be also of the kind ofimpression he receives: whereas, if this is not so, no one is the cause tohimself of doing evil actions, but he does them by reason of ignorance of thetrue End, supposing that through their means he will secure the chief good.Further, that this aiming at the End is no matter of one’s own choice,but one must be born with a power of mental vision, so to speak, whereby tojudge fairly and choose that which is really good; and he is blessed by naturewho has this naturally well: because it is the most important thing and thefairest, and what a man cannot get or learn from another but will have such asnature has given it; and for this to be so given well and fairly would beexcellence of nature in the highest and truest sense.”
If all this be true, how will Virtue be a whit more voluntary than Vice? Aliketo the good man and the bad, the End gives its impression and is fixed bynature or howsoever you like to say, and they act so and so, referringeverything else to this End.
Whether then we suppose that the End impresses each man’s mind withcertain notions not merely by nature, but that there is somewhat also dependenton himself; or that the End is given by nature, and yet Virtue is voluntarybecause the good man does all the rest voluntarily, Vice must be equally so;because his own agency equally attaches to the bad man in the actions, even ifnot in the selection of the End.
If then, as is commonly said, the Virtues are voluntary (because we at leastcooperate[15]in producing our moral states, and we assume the End to be of a certain kindaccording as we are ourselves of certain characters), the Vices must bevoluntary also, because the cases are exactly similar.
Well now, we have stated generally respecting the Moral Virtues, the genus (inoutline), that they are mean states, and that they are habits, and how they areformed, and that they are of themselves calculated to act upon thecircumstances out of which they were formed, and that they are in our own powerand voluntary, and are to be done so as right Reason may direct.
But the particular actions and the habits are not voluntary in the same sense;for of the actions we are masters from beginning to end (supposing of course aknowledge of the particular details), but only of the origination of thehabits, the addition by small particular accessions not being cognisiable (asis the case with sicknesses): still they are voluntary because it rested withus to use our circumstances this way or that.
Here we will resume the particular discussion of the Moral Virtues, and saywhat they are, what is their object-matter, and how they stand respectivelyrelated to it: of course their number will be thereby shown.
First, then, of Courage. Now that it is a mean state, in respect of fear andboldness, has been already said: further, the objects of our fears areobviously things fearful or, in a general way of statement, evils; whichaccounts for the common definition of fear, viz. “expectation ofevil.”
Of course we fear evils of all kinds: disgrace, for instance, poverty, disease,desolateness, death; but not all these seem to be the object-matter of theBrave man, because there are things which to fear is right and noble, and notto fear is base; disgrace, for example, since he who fears this is a good manand has a sense of honour, and he who does not fear it is shameless (thoughthere are those who call him Brave by analogy, because he somewhat resemblesthe Brave man who agrees with him in being free from fear); but poverty,perhaps, or disease, and in fact whatever does not proceed from viciousness,nor is attributable to his own fault, a man ought not to fear: still, beingfearless in respect of these would not constitute a man Brave in the propersense of the term.
Yet we do apply the term[16]in right of the similarity of the cases; for there are men who, though timid inthe dangers of war, are liberal men and are stout enough to face loss ofwealth.
And, again, a man is not a coward for fearing insult to his wife or children,or envy, or any such thing; nor is he a Brave man for being bold when going tobe scourged.
What kind of fearful things then do constitute the object-matter of the Braveman? first of all, must they not be the greatest, since no man is more apt towithstand what is dreadful. Now the object of the greatest dread is death,because it is the end of all things, and the dead man is thought to be capableneither of good nor evil. Still it would seem that the Brave man has not forhis object-matter even death in every circumstance; on the sea, for example, orin sickness: in what circumstances then? must it not be in the most honourable?now such is death in war, because it is death in the greatest and mosthonourable danger; and this is confirmed by the honours awarded in communities,and by monarchs.
He then may be most properly denominated Brave who is fearless in respect ofhonourable death and such sudden emergencies as threaten death; now suchspecially are those which arise in the course of war.
It is not meant but that the Brave man will be fearless also on the sea (and insickness), but not in the same way as sea-faring men; for these arelight-hearted and hopeful by reason of their experience, while landsmen thoughBrave are apt to give themselves up for lost and shudder at the notion of sucha death: to which it should be added that Courage is exerted in circumstanceswhich admit of doing something to help one’s self, or in which deathwould be honourable; now neither of these requisites attach to destruction bydrowning or sickness.
Again, fearful is a term of relation, the same thing not being so to all, andthere is according to common parlance somewhat so fearful as to be beyond humanendurance: this of course would be fearful to every man of sense, but thoseobjects which are level to the capacity of man differ in magnitude and admit ofdegrees, so too the objects of confidence or boldness.
Now the Brave man cannot be frighted from his propriety (but of course only sofar as he is man); fear such things indeed he will, but he will stand upagainst them as he ought and as right reason may direct, with a view to what ishonourable, because this is the end of the virtue.
Now it is possible to fear these things too much, or too little, or again tofear what is not really fearful as if it were such. So the errors come to beeither that a man fears when he ought not to fear at all, or that he fears inan improper way, or at a wrong time, and so forth; and so too in respect ofthings inspiring confidence. He is Brave then who withstands, and fears, and isbold, in respect of right objects, from a right motive, in right manner, and atright times: since the Brave man suffers or acts as he ought and as rightreason may direct.
Now the end of every separate act of working is that which accords with thehabit, and so to the Brave man Courage; which is honourable; therefore such isalso the End, since the character of each is determined by the End.[17]
So honour is the motive from which the Brave man withstands things fearful andperforms the acts which accord with Courage.
Of the characters on the side of Excess, he who exceeds in utter absence offear has no appropriate name (I observed before that many states have none),but he would be a madman or inaccessible to pain if he feared nothing, neitherearthquake, nor the billows, as they tell of the Celts.
He again who exceeds in confidence in respect of things fearful is rash. He isthought moreover to be a braggart, and to advance unfounded claims to thecharacter of Brave: the relation which the Brave man really bears to objects offear this man wishes to appear to bear, and so imitates him in whatever pointshe can; for this reason most of them exhibit a curious mixture of rashness andcowardice; because, affecting rashness in these circumstances, they do notwithstand what is truly fearful.
The man moreover who exceeds in feeling fear is a coward, since there attach tohim the circumstances of fearing wrong objects, in wrong ways, and so forth. Heis deficient also in feeling confidence, but he is most clearly seen asexceeding in the case of pains; he is a fainthearted kind of man, for he fearsall things: the Brave man is just the contrary, for boldness is the property ofthe light-hearted and hopeful.
So the coward, the rash, and the Brave man have exactly the same object-matter,but stand differently related to it: the two first-mentioned respectivelyexceed and are deficient, the last is in a mean state and as he ought to be.The rash again are precipitate, and, being eager before danger, when actuallyin it fall away, while the Brave are quick and sharp in action, but before arequiet and composed.
Well then, as has been said, Courage is a mean state in respect of objectsinspiring boldness or fear, in the circumstances which have been stated, andthe Brave man chooses his line and withstands danger either because to do so ishonourable, or because not to do so is base. But dying to escape from poverty,or the pangs of love, or anything that is simply painful, is the act not of aBrave man but of a coward; because it is mere softness to fly from what istoilsome, and the suicide braves the terrors of death not because it ishonourable but to get out of the reach of evil.
Courage proper is somewhat of the kind I have described, but there aredispositions, differing in five ways,[18]which also bear in common parlance the name of Courage.
We will take first that which bears most resemblance to the true, the Courageof Citizenship, so named because the motives which are thought to actuate themembers of a community in braving danger are the penalties and disgrace heldout by the laws to cowardice, and the dignities conferred on the Brave; whichis thought to be the reason why those are the bravest people among whom cowardsare visited with disgrace and the Brave held in honour.
Such is the kind of Courage Homer exhibits in his characters; Diomed and Hectorfor example. The latter says,
“Polydamas will be the first to fixDisgrace upon me.”
Diomed again,
“For Hector surely will hereafter say,Speaking in Troy, Tydides by my hand”—
This I say most nearly resembles the Courage before spoken of, because itarises from virtue, from a feeling of shame, and a desire of what is noble(that is, of honour), and avoidance of disgrace which is base.
In the same rank one would be inclined to place those also who act undercompulsion from their commanders; yet are they really lower, because not asense of honour but fear is the motive from which they act, and what they seekto avoid is not that which is base but that which is simply painful: commandersdo in fact compel their men sometimes, as Hector says (to quote Homer again),
“But whomsoever I shall find cowering afar from the fight,The teeth of dogs he shall by no means escape.”
Those commanders who station staunch troops by doubtful ones,[19]or who beat their men if they flinch, or who draw their troops up in line withthe trenches, or other similar obstacles, in their rear, do in effect the sameas Hector, for they all use compulsion.
But a man is to be Brave, not on compulsion, but from a sense of honour.
In the next place, Experience and Skill in the various particulars is thoughtto be a species of Courage: whence Socrates also thought that Courage wasknowledge.[20]
This quality is exhibited of course by different men under differentcircumstances, but in warlike matters, with which we are now concerned, it isexhibited by the soldiers (“the regulars”): for there are, it wouldseem, many things in war of no real importance[21]which these have been constantly used to see; so they have a show of Couragebecause other people are not aware of the real nature of these things. Thenagain by reason of their skill they are better able than any others to inflictwithout suffering themselves, because they are able to use their arms and havesuch as are most serviceable both with a view to offence and defence: so thattheir case is parallel to that of armed men fighting with unarmed or trainedathletes with amateurs, since in contests of this kind those are the bestfighters, not who are the bravest men, but who are the strongest and are in thebest condition.
In fact, the regular troops come to be cowards whenever the danger is greaterthan their means of meeting it; supposing, for example, that they are inferiorin numbers and resources: then they are the first to fly, but the mere militiastand and fall on the ground (which as you know really happened at theHermæum),[22]for in the eyes of these flight was disgraceful and death preferable to safetybought at such a price: while “the regulars” originally went intothe danger under a notion of their own superiority, but on discovering theirerror they took to flight,[23]having greater fear of death than of disgrace; but this is not the feeling ofthe Brave man.
Thirdly, mere Animal Spirit is sometimes brought under the term Courage: theyare thought to be Brave who are carried on by mere Animal Spirit, as are wildbeasts against those who have wounded them, because in fact the really Bravehave much Spirit, there being nothing like it for going at danger of any kind;whence those frequent expressions in Homer, “infused strength into hisspirit,” “roused his strength and spirit,” or again,“and keen strength in his nostrils,” “his bloodboiled:” for all these seem to denote the arousing and impetuosity of theAnimal Spirit.
Now they that are truly Brave act from a sense of honour, and this AnimalSpirit co-operates with them; but wild beasts from pain, that is because theyhave been wounded, or are frightened; since if they are quietly in their ownhaunts, forest or marsh, they do not attack men. Surely they are not Bravebecause they rush into danger when goaded on by pain and mere Spirit, withoutany view of the danger: else would asses be Brave when they are hungry, forthough beaten they will not then leave their pasture: profligate men besides domany bold actions by reason of their lust. We may conclude then that they arenot Brave who are goaded on to meet danger by pain and mere Spirit; but stillthis temper which arises from Animal Spirit appears to be most natural, andwould be Courage of the true kind if it could have added to it moral choice andthe proper motive.
So men also are pained by a feeling of anger, and take pleasure in revenge; butthey who fight from these causes may be good fighters, but they are not trulyBrave (in that they do not act from a sense of honour, nor as reason directs,but merely from the present feeling), still they bear some resemblance to thatcharacter.
Nor, again, are the Sanguine and Hopeful therefore Brave: since their boldnessin dangers arises from their frequent victories over numerous foes. The twocharacters are alike, however, in that both are confident; but then the Braveare so from the afore-mentioned causes, whereas these are so from a settledconviction of their being superior and not likely to suffer anything in return(they who are intoxicated do much the same, for they become hopeful when inthat state); but when the event disappoints their expectations they run away:now it was said to be the character of a Brave man to withstand things whichare fearful to man or produce that impression, because it is honourable so todo and the contrary is dishonourable.
For this reason it is thought to be a greater proof of Courage to be fearlessand undisturbed under the pressure of sudden fear than under that which may beanticipated, because Courage then comes rather from a fixed habit, or less frompreparation: since as to foreseen dangers a man might take his line even fromcalculation and reasoning, but in those which are sudden he will do soaccording to his fixed habit of mind.
Fifthly and lastly, those who are acting under Ignorance have a show of Courageand are not very far from the Hopeful; but still they are inferior inasmuch asthey have no opinion of themselves; which the others have, and therefore stayand contest a field for some little time; but they who have been deceived flythe moment they know things to be otherwise than they supposed, which theArgives experienced when they fell on the Lacedæmonians, taking them for themen of Sicyon.
We have described then what kind of men the Brave are, and what they who arethought to be, but are not really, Brave.
It must be remarked, however, that though Courage has for its object-matterboldness and fear it has not both equally so, but objects of fear much morethan the former; for he that under pressure of these is undisturbed and standsrelated to them as he ought is better entitled to the name of Brave than he whois properly affected towards objects of confidence. So then men are termedBrave for withstanding painful things.
It follows that Courage involves pain and is justly praised, since it is aharder matter to withstand things that are painful than to abstain from such asare pleasant.
It must not be thought but that the End and object of Courage is pleasant, butit is obscured by the surrounding circumstances: which happens also in thegymnastic games; to the boxers the End is pleasant with a view to which theyact, I mean the crown and the honours; but the receiving the blows they do ispainful and annoying to flesh and blood, and so is all the labour they have toundergo; and, as these drawbacks are many, the object in view being smallappears to have no pleasantness in it.
If then we may say the same of Courage, of course death and wounds must bepainful to the Brave man and against his will: still he endures these becauseit is honourable so to do or because it is dishonourable not to do so. And themore complete his virtue and his happiness so much the more will he be painedat the notion of death: since to such a man as he is it is best worth while tolive, and he with full consciousness is deprived of the greatest goods bydeath, and this is a painful idea. But he is not the less Brave for feeling itto be so, nay rather it may be he is shown to be more so because he chooses thehonour that may be reaped in war in preference to retaining safe possession ofthese other goods. The fact is that to act with pleasure does not belong to allthe virtues, except so far as a man realises the End of his actions.
But there is perhaps no reason why not such men should make the best soldiers,but those who are less truly Brave but have no other good to care for: thesebeing ready to meet danger and bartering their lives against small gain.
Let thus much be accepted as sufficient on the subject of Courage; the truenature of which it is not difficult to gather, in outline at least, from whathas been said.
Next let us speak of Perfected Self-Mastery, which seems to claim the nextplace to Courage, since these two are the Excellences of the Irrational part ofthe Soul.
That it is a mean state, having for its object-matter Pleasures, we havealready said (Pains being in fact its object-matter in a less degree anddissimilar manner), the state of utter absence of self-control has plainly thesame object-matter; the next thing then is to determine what kind of Pleasures.
Let Pleasures then be understood to be divided into mental and bodily:instances of the former being love of honour or of learning: it being plainthat each man takes pleasure in that of these two objects which he has atendency to like, his body being no way affected but rather his intellect. Nowmen are not called perfectly self-mastering or wholly destitute of self-controlin respect of pleasures of this class: nor in fact in respect of any which arenot bodily; those for example who love to tell long stories, and are prosy, andspend their days about mere chance matters, we call gossips but not whollydestitute of self-control, nor again those who are pained at the loss of moneyor friends.
It is bodily Pleasures then which are the object-matter of PerfectedSelf-Mastery, but not even all these indifferently: I mean, that they who takepleasure in objects perceived by the Sight, as colours, and forms, andpainting, are not denominated men of Perfected Self-Mastery, or whollydestitute of self-control; and yet it would seem that one may take pleasureeven in such objects, as one ought to do, or excessively, or too little.
So too of objects perceived by the sense of Hearing; no one applies the termsbefore quoted respectively to those who are excessively pleased with musicaltunes or acting, or to those who take such pleasure as they ought.
Nor again to those persons whose pleasure arises from the sense of Smell,except incidentally:[24]I mean, we do not say men have no self-control because they take pleasure inthe scent of fruit, or flowers, or incense, but rather when they do so in thesmells of unguents and sauces: since men destitute of self-control takepleasure herein, because hereby the objects of their lusts are recalled totheir imagination (you may also see other men take pleasure in the smell offood when they are hungry): but to take pleasure in such is a mark of thecharacter before named since these are objects of desire to him.
Now not even brutes receive pleasure in right of these senses, exceptincidentally. I mean, it is not the scent of hares’ flesh but the eatingit which dogs take pleasure in, perception of which pleasure is caused by thesense of Smell. Or again, it is not the lowing of the ox but eating him whichthe lion likes; but of the fact of his nearness the lion is made sensible bythe lowing, and so he appears to take pleasure in this. In like manner, he hasno pleasure in merely seeing or finding a stag or wild goat, but in theprospect of a meal.
The habits of Perfect Self-Mastery and entire absence of self-control have thenfor their object-matter such pleasures as brutes also share in, for whichreason they are plainly servile and brutish: they are Touch and Taste.
But even Taste men seem to make little or no use of; for to the sense of Tastebelongs the distinguishing of flavours; what men do, in fact, who are testingthe quality of wines or seasoning “made dishes.”
But men scarcely take pleasure at all in these things, at least those whom wecall destitute of self-control do not, but only in the actual enjoyment whicharises entirely from the sense of Touch, whether in eating or in drinking, orin grosser lusts. This accounts for the wish said to have been expressed onceby a great glutton, “that his throat had been formed longer than acrane’s neck,” implying that his pleasure was derived from theTouch.
The sense then with which is connected the habit of absence of self-control isthe most common of all the senses, and this habit would seem to be justly amatter of reproach, since it attaches to us not in so far as we are men but inso far as we are animals. Indeed it is brutish to take pleasure in such thingsand to like them best of all; for the most respectable of the pleasures arisingfrom the touch have been set aside; those, for instance, which occur in thecourse of gymnastic training from the rubbing and the warm bath: because thetouch of the man destitute of self-control is not indifferently of anypart of the body but only of particular parts.
Now of lusts or desires some are thought to be universal, others peculiar andacquired; thus desire for food is natural since every one who really needsdesires also food, whether solid or liquid, or both (and, as Homer says, theman in the prime of youth needs and desires intercourse with the other sex);but when we come to this or that particular kind, then neither is the desireuniversal nor in all men is it directed to the same objects. And therefore theconceiving of such desires plainly attaches to us as individuals. It must beadmitted, however, that there is something natural in it: because differentthings are pleasant to different men and a preference of some particularobjects to chance ones is universal. Well then, in the case of the desireswhich are strictly and properly natural few men go wrong and all in onedirection, that is, on the side of too much: I mean, to eat and drink of suchfood as happens to be on the table till one is overfilled is exceeding inquantity the natural limit, since the natural desire is simply a supply of areal deficiency.
For this reason these men are called belly-mad, as filling it beyond what theyought, and it is the slavish who become of this character.
But in respect of the peculiar pleasures many men go wrong and in manydifferent ways; for whereas the term “fond of so and so” implieseither taking pleasure in wrong objects, or taking pleasure excessively, or asthe mass of men do, or in a wrong way, they who are destitute of allself-control exceed in all these ways; that is to say, they take pleasure insome things in which they ought not to do so (because they are properly objectsof detestation), and in such as it is right to take pleasure in they do so morethan they ought and as the mass of men do.
Well then, that excess with respect to pleasures is absence of self-control,and blameworthy, is plain. But viewing these habits on the side of pains, wefind that a man is not said to have the virtue for withstanding them (as in thecase of Courage), nor the vice for not withstanding them; but the man destituteof self-control is such, because he is pained more than he ought to be at notobtaining things which are pleasant (and thus his pleasure produces pain tohim), and the man of Perfected Self-Mastery is such in virtue of not beingpained by their absence, that is, by having to abstain from what is pleasant.
Now the man destitute of self-control desires either all pleasant thingsindiscriminately or those which are specially pleasant, and he is impelled byhis desire to choose these things in preference to all others; and thisinvolves pain, not only when he misses the attainment of his objects but, inthe very desiring them, since all desire is accompanied by pain. Surely it is astrange case this, being pained by reason of pleasure.
As for men who are defective on the side of pleasure, who take less pleasure inthings than they ought, they are almost imaginary characters, because suchabsence of sensual perception is not natural to man: for even the other animalsdistinguish between different kinds of food, and like some kinds and dislikeothers. In fact, could a man be found who takes no pleasure in anything and towhom all things are alike, he would be far from being human at all: there is noname for such a character because it is simply imaginary.
But the man of Perfected Self-Mastery is in the mean with respect to theseobjects: that is to say, he neither takes pleasure in the things which delightthe vicious man, and in fact rather dislikes them, nor at all in improperobjects; nor to any great degree in any object of the class; nor is he painedat their absence; nor does he desire them; or, if he does, only in moderation,and neither more than he ought, nor at improper times, and so forth; but suchthings as are conducive to health and good condition of body, being alsopleasant, these he will grasp at in moderation and as he ought to do, and alsosuch other pleasant things as do not hinder these objects, and are not unseemlyor disproportionate to his means; because he that should grasp at such would beliking such pleasures more than is proper; but the man of PerfectedSelf-Mastery is not of this character, but regulates his desires by thedictates of right reason.
Now the vice of being destitute of all Self-Control seems to be more trulyvoluntary than Cowardice, because pleasure is the cause of the former and painof the latter, and pleasure is an object of choice, pain of avoidance. Andagain, pain deranges and spoils the natural disposition of its victim, whereaspleasure has no such effect and is more voluntary and therefore more justlyopen to reproach.
It is so also for the following reason; that it is easier to be inured by habitto resist the objects of pleasure, there being many things of this kind in lifeand the process of habituation being unaccompanied by danger; whereas the caseis the reverse as regards the objects of fear.
Again, Cowardice as a confirmed habit would seem to be voluntary in a differentway from the particular instances which form the habit; because it is painless,but these derange the man by reason of pain so that he throws away his arms andotherwise behaves himself unseemly, for which reason they are even thought bysome to exercise a power of compulsion.
But to the man destitute of Self-Control the particular instances are on thecontrary quite voluntary, being done with desire and direct exertion of thewill, but the general result is less voluntary: since no man desires to formthe habit.
The name of this vice (which signifies etymologically unchastened-ness) weapply also to the faults of children, there being a certain resemblance betweenthe cases: to which the name is primarily applied, and to which secondarily orderivatively, is not relevant to the present subject, but it is evident thatthe later in point of time must get the name from the earlier. And the metaphorseems to be a very good one; for whatever grasps after base things, and isliable to great increase, ought to be chastened; and to this description desireand the child answer most truly, in that children also live under the directionof desire and the grasping after what is pleasant is most prominently seen inthese.
Unless then the appetite be obedient and subjected to the governing principleit will become very great: for in the fool the grasping after what is pleasantis insatiable and undiscriminating; and every acting out of the desireincreases the kindred habit, and if the desires are great and violent in degreethey even expel Reason entirely; therefore they ought to be moderate and few,and in no respect to be opposed to Reason. Now when the appetite is in such astate we denominate it obedient and chastened.
In short, as the child ought to live with constant regard to the orders of itseducator, so should the appetitive principle with regard to those of Reason.
So then in the man of Perfected Self-Mastery, the appetitive principle must beaccordant with Reason: for what is right is the mark at which both principlesaim: that is to say, the man of perfected self-mastery desires what he ought inright manner and at right times, which is exactly what Reason directs. Let thisbe taken for our account of Perfected Self-Mastery.
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BOOK IV
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We will next speak of Liberality. Now this is thought to be the mean state,having for its object-matter Wealth: I mean, the Liberal man is praised not inthe circumstances of war, nor in those which constitute the character ofperfected self-mastery, nor again in judicial decisions, but in respect ofgiving and receiving Wealth, chiefly the former. By the term Wealth I mean“all those things whose worth is measured by money.”
Now the states of excess and defect in regard of Wealth are respectivelyProdigality and Stinginess: the latter of these terms we attach invariably tothose who are over careful about Wealth, but the former we apply sometimes witha complex notion; that is to say, we give the name to those who fail ofself-control and spend money on the unrestrained gratification of theirpassions; and this is why they are thought to be most base, because they havemany vices at once.
It must be noted, however, that this is not a strict and proper use of theterm, since its natural etymological meaning is to denote him who has oneparticular evil, viz. the wasting his substance: he is unsaved (as the termliterally denotes) who is wasting away by his own fault; and this he really maybe said to be; the destruction of his substance is thought to be a kind ofwasting of himself, since these things are the means of living. Well, this isour acceptation of the term Prodigality.
Again. Whatever things are for use may be used well or ill, and Wealth belongsto this class. He uses each particular thing best who has the virtue to whoseprovince it belongs: so that he will use Wealth best who has the virtuerespecting Wealth, that is to say, the Liberal man.
Expenditure and giving are thought to be the using of money, but receiving andkeeping one would rather call the possessing of it. And so the giving to properpersons is more characteristic of the Liberal man, than the receiving fromproper quarters and forbearing to receive from the contrary. In fact generally,doing well by others is more characteristic of virtue than being done well by,and doing things positively honourable than forbearing to do thingsdishonourable; and any one may see that the doing well by others and doingthings positively honourable attaches to the act of giving, but to that ofreceiving only the being done well by or forbearing to do what isdishonourable.
Besides, thanks are given to him who gives, not to him who merely forbears toreceive, and praise even more. Again, forbearing to receive is easier thangiving, the case of being too little freehanded with one’s own beingcommoner than taking that which is not one’s own.
And again, it is they who give that are denominated Liberal, while they whoforbear to receive are commended, not on the score of Liberality but of justdealing, while for receiving men are not, in fact, praised at all.
And the Liberal are liked almost best of all virtuous characters, because theyare profitable to others, and this their profitableness consists in theirgiving.
Furthermore: all the actions done in accordance with virtue are honourable, anddone from the motive of honour: and the Liberal man, therefore, will give froma motive of honour, and will give rightly; I mean, to proper persons, in rightproportion, at right times, and whatever is included in the term “rightgiving:” and this too with positive pleasure, or at least without pain,since whatever is done in accordance with virtue is pleasant or at least notunpleasant, most certainly not attended with positive pain.
But the man who gives to improper people, or not from a motive of honour butfrom some other cause, shall be called not Liberal but something else. Neithershall he be so denominated who does it with pain: this being a sign that hewould prefer his wealth to the honourable action, and this is no part of theLiberal man’s character; neither will such an one receive from impropersources, because the so receiving is not characteristic of one who values notwealth: nor again will he be apt to ask, because one who does kindnesses toothers does not usually receive them willingly; but from proper sources (hisown property, for instance) he will receive, doing this not as honourable butas necessary, that he may have somewhat to give: neither will he be careless ofhis own, since it is his wish through these to help others in need: nor will hegive to chance people, that he may have wherewith to give to those to whom heought, at right times, and on occasions when it is honourable so to do.
Again, it is a trait in the Liberal man’s character even to exceed verymuch in giving so as to leave too little for himself, it being characteristicof such an one not to have a thought of self.
Now Liberality is a term of relation to a man’s means, for theLiberal-ness depends not on the amount of what is given but on the moral stateof the giver which gives in proportion to his means. There is then no reasonwhy he should not be the more Liberal man who gives the less amount, if he hasless to give out of.
Again, they are thought to be more Liberal who have inherited, not acquired forthemselves, their means; because, in the first place, they have neverexperienced want, and next, all people love most their own works, just asparents do and poets.
It is not easy for the Liberal man to be rich, since he is neither apt toreceive nor to keep but to lavish, and values not wealth for its own sake butwith a view to giving it away. Hence it is commonly charged upon fortune thatthey who most deserve to be rich are least so. Yet this happens reasonablyenough; it is impossible he should have wealth who does not take any care tohave it, just as in any similar case.
Yet he will not give to improper people, nor at wrong times, and so on: becausehe would not then be acting in accordance with Liberality, and if he spent uponsuch objects, would have nothing to spend on those on which he ought: for, as Ihave said before, he is Liberal who spends in proportion to his means, and onproper objects, while he who does so in excess is prodigal (this is the reasonwhy we never call despots prodigal, because it does not seem to be easy forthem by their gifts and expenditure to go beyond their immense possessions).
To sum up then. Since Liberality is a mean state in respect of the giving andreceiving of wealth, the Liberal man will give and spend on proper objects, andin proper proportion, in great things and in small alike, and all this withpleasure to himself; also he will receive from right sources, and in rightproportion: because, as the virtue is a mean state in respect of both, he willdo both as he ought, and, in fact, upon proper giving follows the correspondentreceiving, while that which is not such is contrary to it. (Now those whichfollow one another come to co-exist in the same person, those which arecontraries plainly do not.)
Again, should it happen to him to spend money beyond what is needful, orotherwise than is well, he will be vexed, but only moderately and as he ought;for feeling pleasure and pain at right objects, and in right manner, is aproperty of Virtue.
The Liberal man is also a good man to have for a partner in respect of wealth:for he can easily be wronged, since he values not wealth, and is more vexed atnot spending where he ought to have done so than at spending where he oughtnot, and he relishes not the maxim of Simonides.
But the Prodigal man goes wrong also in these points, for he is neither pleasednor pained at proper objects or in proper manner, which will become more plainas we proceed.
We have said already that Prodigality and Stinginess are respectively states ofexcess and defect, and this in two things, giving and receiving (expenditure ofcourse we class under giving). Well now, Prodigality exceeds in giving andforbearing to receive and is deficient in receiving, while Stinginess isdeficient in giving and exceeds in receiving, but it is in small things.
The two parts of Prodigality, to be sure, do not commonly go together; it isnot easy, I mean, to give to all if you receive from none, because privateindividuals thus giving will soon find their means run short, and such are infact thought to be prodigal. He that should combine both would seem to be nolittle superior to the Stingy man: for he may be easily cured, both byadvancing in years, and also by the want of means, and he may come thus to themean: he has, you see, already the facts of the Liberal man, he givesand forbears to receive, only he does neither in right manner or well. So if hecould be wrought upon by habituation in this respect, or change in any otherway, he would be a real Liberal man, for he will give to those to whom heshould, and will forbear to receive whence he ought not. This is the reason toowhy he is thought not to be low in moral character, because to exceed in givingand in forbearing to receive is no sign of badness or meanness, but only offolly.
Well then, he who is Prodigal in this fashion is thought far superior to theStingy man for the aforementioned reasons, and also because he does good tomany, but the Stingy man to no one, not even to himself. But most Prodigals, ashas been said, combine with their other faults that of receiving from impropersources, and on this point are Stingy: and they become grasping, because theywish to spend and cannot do this easily, since their means soon run short andthey are necessitated to get from some other quarter; and then again, becausethey care not for what is honourable, they receive recklessly, and from allsources indifferently, because they desire to give but care not how or whence.
And for this reason their givings are not Liberal, inasmuch as they are nothonourable, nor purely disinterested, nor done in right fashion; but theyoftentimes make those rich who should be poor, and to those who are quietrespectable kind of people they will give nothing, but to flatterers, or thosewho subserve their pleasures in any way, they will give much. And thereforemost of them are utterly devoid of self-restraint; for as they are open-handedthey are liberal in expenditure upon the unrestrained gratification of theirpassions, and turn off to their pleasures because they do not live withreference to what is honourable.
Thus then the Prodigal, if unguided, slides into these faults; but if he couldget care bestowed on him he might come to the mean and to what is right.
Stinginess, on the contrary, is incurable: old age, for instance, andincapacity of any kind, is thought to make people Stingy; and it is morecongenial to human nature than Prodigality, the mass of men being fond of moneyrather than apt to give: moreover it extends far and has many phases, the modesof stinginess being thought to be many. For as it consists of two things,defect of giving and excess of receiving, everybody does not have it entire,but it is sometimes divided, and one class of persons exceed in receiving, theother are deficient in giving. I mean those who are designated by suchappellations as sparing, close-fisted, niggards, are all deficient in giving;but other men’s property they neither desire nor are willing to receive,in some instances from a real moderation and shrinking from what is base.
There are some people whose motive, either supposed or alleged, for keepingtheir property is this, that they may never be driven to do anythingdishonourable: to this class belongs the skinflint, and every one of similarcharacter, so named from the excess of not-giving. Others again decline toreceive their neighbour’s goods from a motive of fear; their notion beingthat it is not easy to take other people’s things yourself without theirtaking yours: so they are content neither to receive nor give.
The other class again who are Stingy in respect of receiving exceed in thatthey receive anything from any source; such as they who work at illiberalemployments, brothel keepers, and such-like, and usurers who lend small sums atlarge interest: for all these receive from improper sources, and improperamounts. Their common characteristic is base-gaining, since they all submit todisgrace for the sake of gain and that small; because those who receive greatthings neither whence they ought, nor what they ought (as for instance despotswho sack cities and plunder temples), we denominate wicked, impious, andunjust, but not Stingy.
Now the dicer and bath-plunderer and the robber belong to the class of theStingy, for they are given to base gain: both busy themselves and submit todisgrace for the sake of gain, and the one class incur the greatest dangers forthe sake of their booty, while the others make gain of their friends to whomthey ought to be giving.
So both classes, as wishing to make gain from improper sources, are given tobase gain, and all such receivings are Stingy. And with good reason isStinginess called the contrary of Liberality: both because it is a greater evilthan Prodigality, and because men err rather in this direction than in that ofthe Prodigality which we have spoken of as properly and completely such.
Let this be considered as what we have to say respecting Liberality and thecontrary vices.
Next in order would seem to come a dissertation on Magnificence, this beingthought to be, like liberality, a virtue having for its object-matter Wealth;but it does not, like that, extend to all transactions in respect of Wealth,but only applies to such as are expensive, and in these circumstances itexceeds liberality in respect of magnitude, because it is (what the very namein Greek hints at) fitting expense on a large scale: this term is of courserelative: I mean, the expenditure of equipping and commanding a trireme is notthe same as that of giving a public spectacle: “fitting” of coursealso is relative to the individual, and the matter wherein and upon which hehas to spend. And a man is not denominated Magnificent for spending as heshould do in small or ordinary things, as, for instance,
“Oft to the wandering beggar did I give,”
but for doing so in great matters: that is to say, the Magnificent man isliberal, but the liberal is not thereby Magnificent. The falling short of sucha state is called Meanness, the exceeding it Vulgar Profusion, Want of Taste,and so on; which are faulty, not because they are on an excessive scale inrespect of right objects but, because they show off in improper objects, and inimproper manner: of these we will speak presently. The Magnificent man is likea man of skill, because he can see what is fitting, and can spend largely ingood taste; for, as we said at the commencement, the confirmed habit isdetermined by the separate acts of working, and by its object-matter.
Well, the expenses of the Magnificent man are great and fitting: such also arehis works (because this secures the expenditure being not great merely, butbefitting the work). So then the work is to be proportionate to the expense,and this again to the work, or even above it: and the Magnificent man willincur such expenses from the motive of honour, this being common to all thevirtues, and besides he will do it with pleasure and lavishly; excessiveaccuracy in calculation being Mean. He will consider also how a thing may bedone most beautifully and fittingly, rather, than for how much it may be done,and how at the least expense.
So the Magnificent man must be also a liberal man, because the liberal man willalso spend what he ought, and in right manner: but it is the Great, that is tosay tke large scale, which is distinctive of the Magnificent man, theobject-matter of liberality being the same, and without spending more moneythan another man he will make the work more magnificent. I mean, the excellenceof a possession and of a work is not the same: as a piece of property thatthing is most valuable which is worth most, gold for instance; but as a workthat which is great and beautiful, because the contemplation of such an objectis admirable, and so is that which is Magnificent. So the excellence of a workis Magnificence on a large scale. There are cases of expenditure which we callhonourable, such as are dedicatory offerings to the gods, and the furnishingtheir temples, and sacrifices, and in like manner everything that has referenceto the Deity, and all such public matters as are objects of honourableambition, as when men think in any case that it is their duty to furnish achorus for the stage splendidly, or fit out and maintain a trireme, or give ageneral public feast.
Now in all these, as has been already stated, respect is had also to the rankand the means of the man who is doing them: because they should beproportionate to these, and befit not the work only but also the doer of thework. For this reason a poor man cannot be a Magnificent man, since he has notmeans wherewith to spend largely and yet becomingly; and if he attempts it heis a fool, inasmuch as it is out of proportion and contrary to propriety,whereas to be in accordance with virtue a thing must be done rightly.
Such expenditure is fitting moreover for those to whom such things previouslybelong, either through themselves or through their ancestors or people withwhom they are connected, and to the high-born or people of high repute, and soon: because all these things imply greatness and reputation.
So then the Magnificent man is pretty much as I have described him, andMagnificence consists in such expenditures: because they are the greatest andmost honourable: and of private ones such as come but once for all, marriage towit, and things of that kind; and any occasion which engages the interest ofthe community in general, or of those who are in power; and what concernsreceiving and despatching strangers; and gifts, and repaying gifts: because theMagnificent man is not apt to spend upon himself but on the public good, andgifts are pretty much in the same case as dedicatory offerings.
It is characteristic also of the Magnificent man to furnish his house suitablyto his wealth, for this also in a way reflects credit; and again, to spendrather upon such works as are of long duration, these being most honourable.And again, propriety in each case, because the same things are not suitable togods and men, nor in a temple and a tomb. And again, in the case ofexpenditures, each must be great of its kind, and great expense on a greatobject is most magnificent, that is in any case what is great in theseparticular things.
There is a difference too between greatness of a work and greatness ofexpenditure: for instance, a very beautiful ball or cup is magnificent as apresent to a child, while the price of it is small and almost mean. Thereforeit is characteristic of the Magnificent man to do magnificently whatever he isabout: for whatever is of this kind cannot be easily surpassed, and bears aproper proportion to the expenditure.
Such then is the Magnificent man.
The man who is in the state of excess, called one of Vulgar Profusion, is inexcess because he spends improperly, as has been said. I mean in casesrequiring small expenditure he lavishes much and shows off out of taste; givinghis club a feast fit for a wedding-party, or if he has to furnish a chorus fora comedy, giving the actors purple to wear in the first scene, as did theMegarians. And all such things he will do, not with a view to that which isreally honourable, but to display his wealth, and because he thinks he shall beadmired for these things; and he will spend little where he ought to spendmuch, and much where he should spend little.
The Mean man will be deficient in every case, and even where he has spent themost he will spoil the whole effect for want of some trifle; he isprocrastinating in all he does, and contrives how he may spend the least, anddoes even that with lamentations about the expense, and thinking that he doesall things on a greater scale than he ought.
Of course, both these states are faulty, but they do not involve disgracebecause they are neither hurtful to others nor very unseemly.
The very name of Great-mindedness implies, that great things are itsobject-matter; and we will first settle what kind of things. It makes nodifference, of course, whether we regard the moral state in the abstract or asexemplified in an individual.
Well then, he is thought to be Great-minded who values himself highly and atthe same time justly, because he that does so without grounds is foolish, andno virtuous character is foolish or senseless. Well, the character I havedescribed is Great-minded. The man who estimates himself lowly, and at the sametime justly, is modest; but not Great-minded, since this latter quality impliesgreatness, just as beauty implies a large bodily conformation while smallpeople are neat and well made but not beautiful.
Again, he who values himself highly without just grounds is a Vain man: thoughthe name must not be applied to every case of unduly high self-estimation. Hethat values himself below his real worth is Small-minded, and whether thatworth is great, moderate, or small, his own estimate falls below it. And he isthe strongest case of this error who is really a man of great worth, for whatwould he have done had his worth been less?
The Great-minded man is then, as far as greatness is concerned, at the summit,but in respect of propriety he is in the mean, because he estimates himself athis real value (the other characters respectively are in excess and defect).Since then he justly estimates himself at a high, or rather at the highestpossible rate, his character will have respect specially to one thing: thisterm “rate” has reference of course to external goods: and of thesewe should assume that to be the greatest which we attribute to the gods, andwhich is the special object of desire to those who are in power, and which isthe prize proposed to the most honourable actions: now honour answers to thesedescriptions, being the greatest of external goods. So the Great-minded manbears himself as he ought in respect of honour and dishonour. In fact, withoutneed of words, the Great-minded plainly have honour for their object-matter:since honour is what the great consider themselves specially worthy of, andaccording to a certain rate.
The Small-minded man is deficient, both as regards himself, and also as regardsthe estimation of the Great-minded: while the Vain man is in excess as regardshimself, but does not get beyond the Great-minded man. Now the Great-mindedman, being by the hypothesis worthy of the greatest things, must be of thehighest excellence, since the better a man is the more is he worth, and he whois best is worth the most: it follows then, that to be truly Great-minded a manmust be good, and whatever is great in each virtue would seem to belong to theGreat-minded. It would no way correspond with the character of the Great-mindedto flee spreading his hands all abroad; nor to injure any one; for with whatobject in view will he do what is base, in whose eyes nothing is great? inshort, if one were to go into particulars, the Great-minded man would showquite ludicrously unless he were a good man: he would not be in fact deservingof honour if he were a bad man, honour being the prize of virtue and given tothe good.
This virtue, then, of Great-mindedness seems to be a kind of ornament of allthe other virtues, in that it makes them better and cannot be without them; andfor this reason it is a hard matter to be really and truly Great-minded; for itcannot be without thorough goodness and nobleness of character.
Honour then and dishonour are specially the object-matter of the Great-mindedman: and at such as is great, and given by good men, he will be pleasedmoderately as getting his own, or perhaps somewhat less for no honour can bequite adequate to perfect virtue: but still he will accept this because theyhave nothing higher to give him. But such as is given by ordinary people and ontrifling grounds he will entirely despise, because these do not come up to hisdeserts: and dishonour likewise, because in his case there cannot be justground for it.
Now though, as I have said, honour is specially the object-matter of theGreat-minded man, I do not mean but that likewise in respect of wealth andpower, and good or bad fortune of every kind, he will bear himself withmoderation, fall out how they may, and neither in prosperity will he beoverjoyed nor in adversity will he be unduly pained. For not even in respect ofhonour does he so bear himself; and yet it is the greatest of all such objects,since it is the cause of power and wealth being choice-worthy, for certainlythey who have them desire to receive honour through them. So to whom honoureven is a small thing to him will all other things also be so; and this is whysuch men are thought to be supercilious.
It seems too that pieces of good fortune contribute to form this character ofGreat-mindedness: I mean, the nobly born, or men of influence, or the wealthy,are considered to be entitled to honour, for they are in a position of eminenceand whatever is eminent by good is more entitled to honour: and this is whysuch circumstances dispose men rather to Great-mindedness, because they receivehonour at the hands of some men.
Now really and truly the good man alone is entitled to honour; only if a manunites in himself goodness with these external advantages he is thought to bemore entitled to honour: but they who have them without also having virtue arenot justified in their high estimate of themselves, nor are they rightlydenominated Great-minded; since perfect virtue is one of the indispensableconditions to such & character.
Further, such men become supercilious and insolent, it not being easy to bearprosperity well without goodness; and not being able to bear it, and possessedwith an idea of their own superiority to others, they despise them, and do justwhatever their fancy prompts; for they mimic the Great-minded man, though theyare not like him, and they do this in such points as they can, so without doingthe actions which can only flow from real goodness they despise others. Whereasthe Great-minded man despises on good grounds (for he forms his opinionstruly), but the mass of men do it at random.
Moreover, he is not a man to incur little risks, nor does he court danger,because there are but few things he has a value for; but he will incur greatdangers, and when he does venture he is prodigal of his life as knowing thatthere are terms on which it is not worth his while to live. He is the sort ofman to do kindnesses, but he is ashamed to receive them; the former putting aman in the position of superiority, the latter in that of inferiority;accordingly he will greatly overpay any kindness done to him, because theoriginal actor will thus be laid under obligation and be in the position of theparty benefited. Such men seem likewise to remember those they have donekindnesses to, but not those from whom they have received them: because he whohas received is inferior to him who has done the kindness and our friend wishesto be superior; accordingly he is pleased to hear of his own kind acts but notof those done to himself (and this is why, in Homer, Thetis does not mention toJupiter the kindnesses she had done him, nor did the Lacedæmonians to theAthenians but only the benefits they had received).
Further, it is characteristic of the Great-minded man to ask favours not atall, or very reluctantly, but to do a service very readily; and to bear himselfloftily towards the great or fortunate, but towards people of middle stationaffably; because to be above the former is difficult and so a grand thing, butto be above the latter is easy; and to be high and mighty towards the former isnot ignoble, but to do it towards those of humble station would be low andvulgar; it would be like parading strength against the weak.
And again, not to put himself in the way of honour, nor to go where others arethe chief men; and to be remiss and dilatory, except in the case of some greathonour or work; and to be concerned in few things, and those great and famous.It is a property of him also to be open, both in his dislikes and his likings,because concealment is a consequent of fear. Likewise to be careful for realityrather than appearance, and talk and act openly (for his contempt for othersmakes him a bold man, for which same reason he is apt to speak the truth,except where the principle of reserve comes in), but to be reserved towards thegenerality of men.
And to be unable to live with reference to any other but a friend; becausedoing so is servile, as may be seen in that all flatterers are low and men inlow estate are flatterers. Neither is his admiration easily excited, becausenothing is great in his eyes; nor does he bear malice, since rememberinganything, and specially wrongs, is no part of Great-mindedness, but ratheroverlooking them; nor does he talk of other men; in fact, he will not speakeither of himself or of any other; he neither cares to be praised himself norto have others blamed; nor again does he praise freely, and for this reason heis not apt to speak ill even of his enemies except to show contempt andinsolence.
And he is by no means apt to make laments about things which cannot be helped,or requests about those which are trivial; because to be thus disposed withrespect to these things is consequent only upon real anxiety about them. Again,he is the kind of man to acquire what is beautiful and unproductive rather thanwhat is productive and profitable: this being rather the part of an independentman.
Also slow motion, deep-toned voice, and deliberate style of speech, are thoughtto be characteristic of the Great-minded man: for he who is earnest about fewthings is not likely to be in a hurry, nor he who esteems nothing great to bevery intent: and sharp tones and quickness are the result of these.
This then is my idea of the Great-minded man; and he who is in the defect is aSmall-minded man, he who is in the excess a Vain man. However, as we observedin respect of the last character we discussed, these extremes are not thoughtto be vicious exactly, but only mistaken, for they do no harm.
The Small-minded man, for instance, being really worthy of good depriveshimself of his deserts, and seems to have somewhat faulty from not having asufficiently high estimate of his own desert, in fact from self-ignorance:because, but for this, he would have grasped after what he really is entitledto, and that is good. Still such characters are not thought to be foolish, butrather laggards. But the having such an opinion of themselves seems to have adeteriorating effect on the character: because in all cases men’s aimsare regulated by their supposed desert, and thus these men, under a notion oftheir own want of desert, stand aloof from honourable actions and courses, andsimilarly from external goods.
But the Vain are foolish and self-ignorant, and that palpably: because theyattempt honourable things, as though they were worthy, and then they aredetected. They also set themselves off, by dress, and carriage, and such-likethings, and desire that their good circumstances may be seen, and they talk ofthem under the notion of receiving honour thereby. Small-mindedness rather thanVanity is opposed to Great-mindedness, because it is more commonly met with andis worse.
Well, the virtue of Great-mindedness has for its object great Honour, as wehave said: and there seems to be a virtue having Honour also for its object (aswe stated in the former book), which may seem to bear to Great-mindedness thesame relation that Liberality does to Magnificence: that is, both these virtuesstand aloof from what is great but dispose us as we ought to be disposedtowards moderate and small matters. Further: as in giving and receiving ofwealth there is a mean state, an excess, and a defect, so likewise in graspingafter Honour there is the more or less than is right, and also the doing sofrom right sources and in right manner.
For we blame the lover of Honour as aiming at Honour more than he ought, andfrom wrong sources; and him who is destitute of a love of Honour as notchoosing to be honoured even for what is noble. Sometimes again we praise thelover of Honour as manly and having a love for what is noble, and him who hasno love for it as being moderate and modest (as we noticed also in the formerdiscussion of these virtues).
It is clear then that since “Lover of so and so” is a term capableof several meanings, we do not always denote the same quality by the term“Lover of Honour;” but when we use it as a term of commendation wedenote more than the mass of men are; when for blame more than a man should be.
And the mean state having no proper name the extremes seem to dispute for it asunoccupied ground: but of course where there is excess and defect there must bealso the mean. And in point of fact, men do grasp at Honour more than theyshould, and less, and sometimes just as they ought; for instance, this state ispraised, being a mean state in regard of Honour, but without any appropriatename. Compared with what is called Ambition it shows like a want of love forHonour, and compared with this it shows like Ambition, or compared with both,like both faults: nor is this a singular case among the virtues. Here theextreme characters appear to be opposed, because the mean has no nameappropriated to it.
Meekness is a mean state, having for its object-matter Anger: and as thecharacter in the mean has no name, and we may almost say the same of theextremes, we give the name of Meekness (leaning rather to the defect, which hasno name either) to the character in the mean.
The excess may be called an over-aptness to Anger: for the passion is Anger,and the producing causes many and various. Now he who is angry at what and withwhom he ought, and further, in right manner and time, and for proper length oftime, is praised, so this Man will be Meek since Meekness is praised. For thenotion represented by the term Meek man is the being imperturbable, and notbeing led away by passion, but being angry in that manner, and at those things,and for that length of time, which Reason may direct. This character however isthought to err rather on the side of defect, inasmuch as he is not apt to takerevenge but rather to make allowances and forgive. And the defect, call itAngerlessness or what you will, is blamed: I mean, they who are not angry atthings at which they ought to be angry are thought to be foolish, and they whoare angry not in right manner, nor in right time, nor with those with whom theyought; for a man who labours under this defect is thought to have noperception, nor to be pained, and to have no tendency to avenge himself,inasmuch as he feels no anger: now to bear with scurrility in one’s ownperson, and patiently see one’s own friends suffer it, is a slavishthing.
As for the excess, it occurs in all forms; men are angry with those with whom,and at things with which, they ought not to be, and more than they ought, andtoo hastily, and for too great a length of time. I do not mean, however, thatthese are combined in any one person: that would in fact be impossible, becausethe evil destroys itself, and if it is developed in its full force it becomesunbearable.
Now those whom we term the Passionate are soon angry, and with people with whomand at things at which they ought not, and in an excessive degree, but theysoon cool again, which is the best point about them. And this results fromtheir not repressing their anger, but repaying their enemies (in that they showtheir feeings by reason of their vehemence), and then they have done with it.
The Choleric again are excessively vehement, and are angry at everything, andon every occasion; whence comes their Greek name signifying that their cholerlies high.
The Bitter-tempered are hard to reconcile and keep their anger for a longwhile, because they repress the feeling: but when they have revenged themselvesthen comes a lull; for the vengeance destroys their anger by producing pleasurein lieu of pain. But if this does not happen they keep the weight on theirminds: because, as it does not show itself, no one attempts to reason it away,and digesting anger within one’s self takes time. Such men are very greatnuisances to themselves and to their best friends.
Again, we call those Cross-grained who are angry at wrong objects, and inexcessive degree, and for too long a time, and who are not appeased withoutvengeance or at least punishing the offender.
To Meekness we oppose the excess rather than the defect, because it is of morecommon occurrence: for human nature is more disposed to take than to forgorevenge. And the Cross-grained are worse to live with [than they who are toophlegmatic].
Now, from what has been here said, that is also plain which was said before. Imean, it is no easy matter to define how, and with what persons, and at whatkind of things, and how long one ought to be angry, and up to what point aperson is right or is wrong. For he that transgresses the strict rule only alittle, whether on the side of too much or too little, is not blamed: sometimeswe praise those who are deficient in the feeling and call them Meek, sometimeswe call the irritable Spirited as being well qualified for government. So it isnot easy to lay down, in so many words, for what degree or kind oftransgression a man is blameable: because the decision is in particulars, andrests therefore with the Moral Sense. Thus much, however, is plain, that themean state is praiseworthy, in virtue of which we are angry with those withwhom, and at those things with which, we ought to be angry, and in rightmanner, and so on; while the excesses and defects are blameable, slightly so ifonly slight, more so if greater, and when considerable very blameable.
It is clear, therefore, that the mean state is what we are to hold to.
This then is to be taken as our account of the various moral states which haveAnger for their object-matter.
Next, as regards social intercourse and interchange of words and acts, some menare thought to be Over-Complaisant who, with a view solely to giving pleasure,agree to everything and never oppose, but think their line is to give no painto those they are thrown amongst: they, on the other hand, are called Cross andContentious who take exactly the contrary line to these, and oppose ineverything, and have no care at all whether they give pain or not.
Now it is quite clear of course, that the states I have named are blameable,and that the mean between them is praiseworthy, in virtue of which a man willlet pass what he ought as he ought, and also will object in like manner.However, this state has no name appropriated, but it is most like Friendship;since the man who exhibits it is just the kind of man whom we would call theamiable friend, with the addition of strong earnest affection; but then this isthe very point in which it differs from Friendship, that it is quiteindependent of any feeling or strong affection for those among whom the manmixes: I mean, that he takes everything as he ought, not from any feeling oflove or hatred, but simply because his natural disposition leads him to do so;he will do it alike to those whom he does know and those whom he does not, andthose with whom he is intimate and those with whom he is not; only in each caseas propriety requires, because it is not fitting to care alike for intimatesand strangers, nor again to pain them alike.
It has been stated in a general way that his social intercourse will beregulated by propriety, and his aim will be to avoid giving pain and tocontribute to pleasure, but with a constant reference to what is noble andexpedient.
His proper object-matter seems to be the pleasures and pains which arise out ofsocial intercourse, but whenever it is not honourable or even hurtful to him tocontribute to pleasure, in these instances he will run counter and prefer togive pain.
Or if the things in question involve unseemliness to the doer, and this notinconsiderable, or any harm, whereas his opposition will cause some littlepain, here he will not agree but will run counter.
Again, he will regulate differently his intercourse with great men and withordinary men, and with all people according to the knowledge he has of them;and in like manner, taking in any other differences which may exist, giving toeach his due, and in itself preferring to give pleasure and cautious not togive pain, but still guided by the results, I mean by what is noble andexpedient according as they preponderate.
Again, he will inflict trifling pain with a view to consequent pleasure.
Well, the man bearing the mean character is pretty well such as I havedescribed him, but he has no name appropriated to him: of those who try to givepleasure, the man who simply and disinterestedly tries to be agreeable iscalled Over-Complaisant, he who does it with a view to secure some profit inthe way of wealth, or those things which wealth may procure, is a Flatterer: Ihave said before, that the man who is “always non-content” is Crossand Contentious. Here the extremes have the appearance of being opposed to oneanother, because the mean has no appropriate name.
The mean state which steers clear of Exaggeration has pretty much the sameobject-matter as the last we described, and likewise has no name appropriatedto it. Still it may be as well to go over these states: because, in the firstplace, by a particular discussion of each we shall be better acquainted withthe general subject of moral character, and next we shall be the more convincedthat the virtues are mean states by seeing that this is universally the case.
In respect then of living in society, those who carry on this intercourse witha view to pleasure and pain have been already spoken of; we will now go on tospeak of those who are True or False, alike in their words and deeds and in theclaims which they advance.
Now the Exaggerator is thought to have a tendency to lay claim to thingsreflecting credit on him, both when they do not belong to him at all and alsoin greater degree than that in which they really do: whereas the Reserved man,on the contrary, denies those which really belong to him or else depreciatesthem, while the mean character being a Plain-matter-of-fact person is Truthfulin life and word, admitting the existence of what does really belong to him andmaking it neither greater nor less than the truth.
It is possible of course to take any of these lines either with or without somefurther view: but in general men speak, and act, and live, each according tohis particular character and disposition, unless indeed a man is acting fromany special motive.
Now since falsehood is in itself low and blameable, while truth is noble andpraiseworthy, it follows that the Truthful man (who is also in the mean) ispraiseworthy, and the two who depart from strict truth are both blameable, butespecially the Exaggerator.
We will now speak of each, and first of the Truthful man: I call him Truthful,because we are not now meaning the man who is true in his agreements nor insuch matters as amount to justice or injustice (this would come within theprovince of a different virtue), but, in such as do not involve any suchserious difference as this, the man we are describing is true in life and wordsimply because he is in a certain moral state.
And he that is such must be judged to be a good man: for he that has a love forTruth as such, and is guided by it in matters indifferent, will be so likewiseeven more in such as are not indifferent; for surely he will have a dread offalsehood as base, since he shunned it even in itself: and he that is of such acharacter is praiseworthy, yet he leans rather to that which is below thetruth, this having an appearance of being in better taste because exaggerationsare so hateful.
As for the man who lays claim to things above what really belongs to himwithout any special motive, he is like a base man because he would nototherwise have taken pleasure in falsehood, but he shows as a fool rather thanas a knave. But if a man does this with a special motive, suppose forhonour or glory, as the Braggart does, then he is not so very blameworthy, butif, directly or indirectly, for pecuniary considerations, he is more unseemly.
Now the Braggart is such not by his power but by his purpose, that is to say,in virtue of his moral state, and because he is a man of a certain kind; justas there are liars who take pleasure in falsehood for its own sake while otherslie from a desire of glory or gain. They who exaggerate with a view to glorypretend to such qualities as are followed by praise or highest congratulation;they who do it with a view to gain assume those which their neighbours canavail themselves of, and the absence of which can be concealed, as aman’s being a skilful soothsayer or physician; and accordingly most menpretend to such things and exaggerate in this direction, because the faults Ihave mentioned are in them.
The Reserved, who depreciate their own qualities, have the appearance of beingmore refined in their characters, because they are not thought to speak with aview to gain but to avoid grandeur: one very common trait in such characters istheir denying common current opinions, as Socrates used to do. There are peoplewho lay claim falsely to small things and things the falsity of theirpretensions to which is obvious; these are called Factotums and are verydespicable.
This very Reserve sometimes shows like Exaggeration; take, for instance, theexcessive plainness of dress affected by the Lacedæmonians: in fact, bothexcess and the extreme of deficiency partake of the nature of Exaggeration. Butthey who practise Reserve in moderation, and in cases in which the truth is notvery obvious and plain, give an impression of refinement. Here it is theExaggerator (as being the worst character) who appears to be opposed to theTruthful Man.
Next, as life has its pauses and in them admits of pastime combined withJocularity, it is thought that in this respect also there is a kind of fittingintercourse, and that rules may be prescribed as to the kind of things oneshould say and the manner of saying them; and in respect of hearing likewise(and there will be a difference between the saying and hearing such and suchthings). It is plain that in regard to these things also there will be anexcess and defect and a mean.
Now they who exceed in the ridiculous are judged to be Buffoons and Vulgar,catching at it in any and every way and at any cost, and aiming rather atraising laughter than at saying what is seemly and at avoiding to pain theobject of their wit. They, on the other hand, who would not for the world makea joke themselves and are displeased with such as do are thought to be Clownishand Stern. But they who are Jocular in good taste are denominated by a Greekterm expressing properly ease of movement, because such are thought to be, asone may say, motions of the moral character; and as bodies are judged of bytheir motions so too are moral characters.
Now as the ridiculous lies on the surface, and the majority of men take morepleasure than they ought in Jocularity and Jesting, the Buffoons too get thisname of Easy Pleasantry, as if refined and gentlemanlike; but that they differfrom these, and considerably too, is plain from what has been said.
One quality which belongs to the mean state is Tact: it is characteristic of aman of Tact to say and listen to such things as are fit for a good man and agentleman to say and listen to: for there are things which are becoming forsuch a one to say and listen to in the way of Jocularity, and there is adifference between the Jocularity of the Gentleman and that of the Vulgarian;and again, between that of the educated and uneducated man. This you may seefrom a comparison of the Old and New Comedy: in the former obscene talk madethe fun; in the latter it is rather innuendo: and this is no slight differenceas regards decency.
Well then, are we to characterise him who jests well by his saying what isbecoming a gentleman, or by his avoiding to pain the object of his wit, or evenby his giving him pleasure? or will not such a definition be vague, sincedifferent things are hateful and pleasant to different men?
Be this as it may, whatever he says such things will he also listen to, sinceit is commonly held that a man will do what he will bear to hear: this must,however, be limited; a man will not do quite all that he will hear: becausejesting is a species of scurrility and there are some points of scurrilityforbidden by law; it may be certain points of jesting should have been also soforbidden. So then the refined and gentlemanlike man will bear himself thus asbeing a law to himself. Such is the mean character, whether denominated the manof Tact or of Easy Pleasantry.
But the Buffoon cannot resist the ridiculous, sparing neither himself nor anyone else so that he can but raise his laugh, saying things of such kind as noman of refinement would say and some which he would not even tolerate if saidby others in his hearing.
The Clownish man is for such intercourse wholly useless: inasmuch ascontributing nothing jocose of his own he is savage with all who do.
Yet some pause and amusement in life are generally judged to be indispensable.
The three mean states which have been described do occur in life, and theobject-matter of all is interchange of words and deeds. They differ, in thatone of them is concerned with truth, and the other two with the pleasurable:and of these two again, the one is conversant with the jocosities of life, theother with all other points of social intercourse.
To speak of Shame as a Virtue is incorrect, because it is much more like afeeling than a moral state. It is defined, we know, to be “a kind of fearof disgrace,” and its effects are similar to those of the fear of danger,for they who feel Shame grow red and they who fear death turn pale. So both areevidently in a way physical, which is thought to be a mark of a feeling ratherthan a moral state.
Moreover, it is a feeling not suitable to every age, but only to youth: we dothink that the young should be Shamefaced, because since they live at the beckand call of passion they do much that is wrong and Shame acts on them as acheck. In fact, we praise such young men as are Shamefaced, but no one wouldever praise an old man for being given to it, inasmuch as we hold that he oughtnot to do things which cause Shame; for Shame, since it arises at low badactions, does not at all belong to the good man, because such ought not to bedone at all: nor does it make any difference to allege that some things aredisgraceful really, others only because they are thought so; for neither shouldbe done, so that a man ought not to be in the position of feeling Shame. Intruth, to be such a man as to do anything disgraceful is the part of a faultycharacter. And for a man to be such that he would feel Shame if he should doanything disgraceful, and to think that this constitutes him a good man, isabsurd: because Shame is felt at voluntary actions only, and a good man willnever voluntarily do what is base.
True it is, that Shame may be good on a certain supposition, as “if a manshould do such things, he would feel Shame:” but then the Virtues aregood in themselves, and not merely in supposed cases. And, granted thatimpudence and the not being ashamed to do what is disgraceful is base, it doesnot the more follow that it is good for a man to do such things and feel Shame.
Nor is Self-Control properly a Virtue, but a kind of mixed state: however, allabout this shall be set forth in a future Book.
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BOOK V
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Now the points for our enquiry in respect of Justice and Injustice are, whatkind of actions are their object-matter, and what kind of a mean state Justiceis, and between what points the abstract principle of it, i.e. the Just, is amean. And our enquiry shall be, if you please, conducted in the same method aswe have observed in the foregoing parts of this Treatise.
We see then that all men mean by the term Justice a moral state such that inconsequence of it men have the capacity of doing what is just, and actually doit, and wish it:[1]similarly also with respect to Injustice, a moral state such that inconsequence of it men do unjustly and wish what is unjust: let us also becontent then with these as a ground-work sketched out.
I mention the two, because the same does not hold with regard to States whetherof mind or body as with regard to Sciences or Faculties: I mean that whereas itis thought that the same Faculty or Science embraces contraries, a State willnot: from health, for instance, not the contrary acts are done but the healthyones only; we say a man walks healthily when he walks as the healthy man would.
However, of the two contrary states the one may be frequently known from theother, and oftentimes the states from their subject-matter: if it be seenclearly what a good state of body is, then is it also seen what a bad state is,and from the things which belong to a good state of body the good state itselfis seen, and vice versâ. If, for instance, the good state is firmness offlesh it follows that the bad state is flabbiness of flesh; and whatever causesfirmness of flesh is connected with the good state.
It follows moreover in general,[2]that if of two contrary terms the one is used in many senses so also will theother be; as, for instance, if “the Just,” then also “theUnjust.” Now Justice and Injustice do seem to be used respectively inmany senses, but, because the line of demarcation between these is very fineand minute,[3]it commonly escapes notice that they are thus used, and it is not plain andmanifest as where the various significations of terms are widely different forin these last the visible difference is great, for instance, the wordκλεὶς is used equivocally to denote the bone which isunder the neck of animals and the instrument with which people close doors.
Let it be ascertained then in how many senses the term “Unjust man”is used. Well, he who violates the law, and he who is a grasping man, and theunequal man, are all thought to be Unjust and so manifestly the Just man willbe, the man who acts according to law, and the equal man “The Just”then will be the lawful and the equal, and “the Unjust” theunlawful and the unequal.
Well, since the Unjust man is also a grasping man, he will be so, of course,with respect to good things, but not of every kind, only those which are thesubject-matter of good and bad fortune and which are in themselves always goodbut not always to the individual.[4]Yet men pray for and pursue these things: this they should not do but pray thatthings which are in the abstract good may be so also to them, and choose whatis good for themselves.
But the Unjust man does not always choose actually the greater part, but evensometimes the less; as in the case of things which are simply evil: still,since the less evil is thought to be in a manner a good and the grasping isafter good, therefore even in this case he is thought to be a grasping man,i.e. one who strives for more good than fairly falls to his share: ofcourse he is also an unequal man, this being an inclusive and common term.
We said that the violator of Law is Unjust, and the keeper of the Law Just:further, it is plain that all Lawful things are in a manner Just, because byLawful we understand what have been defined by the legislative power and eachof these we say is Just. The Laws too give directions on all points, aimingeither at the common good of all, or that of the best, or that of those inpower (taking for the standard real goodness or adopting some other estimate);in one way we mean by Just, those things which are apt to produce and preservehappiness and its ingredients for the social community.
Further, the Law commands the doing the deeds not only of the brave man (as notleaving the ranks, nor flying, nor throwing away one’s arms), but thosealso of the perfectly self-mastering man, as abstinence from adultery andwantonness; and those of the meek man, as refraining from striking others orusing abusive language: and in like manner in respect of the other virtues andvices commanding some things and forbidding others, rightly if it is a goodlaw, in a way somewhat inferior if it is one extemporised.
Now this Justice is in fact perfect Virtue, yet not simply so but as exercisedtowards one’s neighbour: and for this reason Justice is thoughtoftentimes to be the best of the Virtues, and
“neither Hesper nor the Morning-starSo worthy of our admiration:”
and in a proverbial saying we express the same;
“All virtue is in Justice comprehended.”
And it is in a special sense perfect Virtue because it is the practice ofperfect Virtue. And perfect it is because he that has it is able to practisehis virtue towards his neighbour and not merely on himself; I mean, there aremany who can practise virtue in the regulation of their own personal conductwho are wholly unable to do it in transactions with their neighbour. And forthis reason that saying of Bias is thought to be a good one,
“Rule will show what a man is;”
for he who bears Rule is necessarily in contact with others, i.e. in acommunity. And for this same reason Justice alone of all the Virtues is thoughtto be a good to others, because it has immediate relation to some other person,inasmuch as the Just man does what is advantageous to another, either to hisruler or fellow-subject. Now he is the basest of men who practises vice notonly in his own person,[5]but towards his friends also; but he the best who practises virtue not merelyin his own person but towards his neighbour, for this is a matter of somedifficulty.
However, Justice in this sense is not a part of Virtue but is co-extensive withVirtue; nor is the Injustice which answers to it a part of Vice butco-extensive with Vice. Now wherein Justice in this sense differs from Virtueappears from what has been said: it is the same really, but the point of viewis not the same: in so far as it has respect to one’s neighbour it isJustice, in so far as it is such and such a moral state it is simply Virtue.
But the object of our enquiry is Justice, in the sense in which it is a part ofVirtue (for there is such a thing, as we commonly say), and likewise withrespect to particular Injustice. And of the existence of this last thefollowing consideration is a proof: there are many vices by practising which aman acts unjustly, of course, but does not grasp at more than his share ofgood; if, for instance, by reason of cowardice he throws away his shield, or byreason of ill-temper he uses abusive language, or by reason of stinginess doesnot give a friend pecuniary assistance; but whenever he does a grasping action,it is often in the way of none of these vices, certainly not in all of them,still in the way of some vice or other (for we blame him), and in the way ofInjustice. There is then some kind of Injustice distinct from that co-extensivewith Vice and related to it as a part to a whole, and some “Unjust”related to that which is co-extensive with violation of the law as a part to awhole.
Again, suppose one man seduces a man’s wife with a view to gain andactually gets some advantage by it,[6]and another does the same from impulse of lust, at an expense of money anddamage; this latter will be thought to be rather destitute of self-mastery thana grasping man, and the former Unjust but not destitute of self-mastery: nowwhy? plainly because of his gaining.
Again, all other acts of Injustice we refer to some particular depravity, as,if a man commits adultery, to abandonment to his passions; if he deserts hiscomrade, to cowardice; if he strikes another, to anger: but if he gains by theact to no other vice than to Injustice.
Thus it is clear that there is a kind of Injustice different from and besidesthat which includes all Vice, having the same name because the definition is inthe same genus; for both have their force in dealings with others, but the oneacts upon honour, or wealth, or safety, or by whatever one name we can includeall these things, and is actuated by pleasure attendant on gain, while theother acts upon all things which constitute the sphere of the good man’saction.
Now that there is more than one kind of Justice, and that there is one which isdistinct from and besides that which is co-extensive with, Virtue, is plain: wemust next ascertain what it is, and what are its characteristics.
Well, the Unjust has been divided into the unlawful and the unequal, and theJust accordingly into the lawful and the equal: the aforementioned Injustice isin the way of the unlawful. And as the unequal and the more[7]are not the same, but differing as part to whole (because all more is unequal,but not all unequal more), so the Unjust and the Injustice we are now in searchof are not the same with, but other than, those before mentioned, the one beingthe parts, the other the wholes; for this particular Injustice is a part of theInjustice co-extensive with Vice, and likewise this Justice of the Justiceco-extensive with Virtue. So that what we have now to speak of is theparticular Justice and Injustice, and likewise the particular Just and Unjust.
Here then let us dismiss any further consideration of the Justice ranking asco-extensive with Virtue (being the practice of Virtue in all its bearingstowards others), and of the co-relative Injustice (being similarly the practiceof Vice). It is clear too, that we must separate off the Just and the Unjustinvolved in these: because one may pretty well say that most lawful things arethose which naturally result in action from Virtue in its fullest sense,because the law enjoins the living in accordance with each Virtue and forbidsliving in accordance with each Vice. And the producing causes of Virtue in allits bearings are those enactments which have been made respecting education forsociety.
By the way, as to individual education, in respect of which a man is simplygood without reference to others, whether it is the province ofπολιτικὴ or some other science we mustdetermine at a future time: for it may be it is not the same thing to be a goodman and a good citizen in every case.[8]
Now of the Particular Justice, and the Just involved in it, one species is thatwhich is concerned in the distributions of honour, or wealth, or such otherthings as are to be shared among the members of the social community (becausein these one man as compared with another may have either an equal or anunequal share), and the other is that which is Corrective in the varioustransactions between man and man.
And of this latter there are two parts: because of transactions some arevoluntary and some involuntary; voluntary, such as follow; selling, buying,use, bail, borrowing, deposit, hiring: and this class is called voluntarybecause the origination of these transactions is voluntary.
The involuntary again are either such as effect secrecy; as theft, adultery,poisoning, pimping, kidnapping of slaves, assassination, false witness; oraccompanied with open violence; as insult, bonds, death, plundering, maiming,foul language, slanderous abuse.
Well, the unjust man we have said is unequal, and the abstract“Unjust” unequal: further, it is plain that there is some mean ofthe unequal, that is to say, the equal or exact half (because in whateveraction there is the greater and the less there is also the equal, i.e. theexact half). If then the Unjust is unequal the Just is equal, which all mustallow without further proof: and as the equal is a mean the Just must be also amean. Now the equal implies two terms at least: it follows then that the Justis both a mean and equal, and these to certain persons; and, in so far as it isa mean, between certain things (that is, the greater and the less), and, so faras it is equal, between two, and in so far as it is just it is so to certainpersons. The Just then must imply four terms at least, for those[9]to which it is just are two, and the terms representing the things are two.
And there will be the same equality between the terms representing the persons,as between those representing the things: because as the latter are to oneanother so are the former: for if the persons are not equal they must not haveequal shares; in fact this is the very source of all the quarrelling andwrangling in the world, when either they who are equal have and get awarded tothem things not equal, or being not equal those things which are equal. Again,the necessity of this equality of ratios is shown by the common phrase“according to rate,” for all agree that the Just in distributionsought to be according to some rate: but what that rate is to be, all do notagree; the democrats are for freedom, oligarchs for wealth, others fornobleness of birth, and the aristocratic party for virtue.
The Just, then, is a certain proportionable thing. For proportion does notapply merely to number in the abstract,[10]but to number generally, since it is equality of ratios, and implies four termsat least (that this is the case in what may be called discrete proportion isplain and obvious, but it is true also in continual proportion, for this usesthe one term as two, and mentions it twice; thus A:B:C may be expressedA:B::B:C. In the first, B is named twice; and so, if, as in the second, B isactually written twice, the proportionals will be four): and the Just likewiseimplies four terms at the least, and the ratio between the two pair of terms isthe same, because the persons and the things are divided similarly. It willstand then thus, A:B::C:D, and then permutando A:C::B:D, and then (supposing Cand D to represent the things) A+C:B+D::A:B. The distribution in factconsisting in putting together these terms thus: and if they are put togetherso as to preserve this same ratio, the distribution puts them togetherjustly.[11]So then the joining together of the first and third and second and fourthproportionals is the Just in the distribution, and this Just is the meanrelatively to that which violates the proportionate, for the proportionate is amean and the Just is proportionate. Now mathematicians call this kind ofproportion geometrical: for in geometrical proportion the whole is to the wholeas each part to each part. Furthermore this proportion is not continual,because the person and thing do not make up one term.
The Just then is this proportionate, and the Unjust that which violates theproportionate; and so there comes to be the greater and the less: which in factis the case in actual transactions, because he who acts unjustly has thegreater share and he who is treated unjustly has the less of what is good: butin the case of what is bad this is reversed: for the less evil compared withthe greater comes to be reckoned for good, because the less evil is morechoice-worthy than the greater, and what is choice-worthy is good, and the moreso the greater good.
This then is the one species of the Just.
And the remaining one is the Corrective, which arises in voluntary as well asinvoluntary transactions. Now this just has a different form from theaforementioned; for that which is concerned in distribution of common propertyis always according to the aforementioned proportion: I mean that, if thedivision is made out of common property, the shares will bear the sameproportion to one another as the original contributions did: and the Unjustwhich is opposite to this Just is that which violates the proportionate.
But the Just which arises in transactions between men is an equal in a certainsense, and the Unjust an unequal, only not in the way of that proportion but ofarithmetical.[12]Because it makes no difference whether a robbery, for instance, is committed bya good man on a bad or by a bad man on a good, nor whether a good or a bad manhas committed adultery: the law looks only to the difference created by theinjury and treats the men as previously equal, where the one does and the othersuffers injury, or the one has done and the other suffered harm. And so thisUnjust, being unequal, the judge endeavours to reduce to equality again,because really when the one party has been wounded and the other has struckhim, or the one kills and the other dies, the suffering and the doing aredivided into unequal shares; well, the judge tries to restore equality bypenalty, thereby taking from the gain.
For these terms gain and loss are applied to these cases, though perhaps theterm in some particular instance may not be strictly proper, as gain, forinstance, to the man who has given a blow, and loss to him who has received it:still, when the suffering has been estimated, the one is called loss and theother gain.
And so the equal is a mean between the more and the less, which represent gainand loss in contrary ways (I mean, that the more of good and the less of evilis gain, the less of good and the more of evil is loss): between which theequal was stated to be a mean, which equal we say is Just: and so theCorrective Just must be the mean between loss and gain. And this is the reasonwhy, upon a dispute arising, men have recourse to the judge: going to the judgeis in fact going to the Just, for the judge is meant to be the personificationof the Just.[13]And men seek a judge as one in the mean, which is expressed in a name given bysome to judges (μεσίδιοι, ormiddle-men) under the notion that if they can hit on the mean they shall hit onthe Just. The Just is then surely a mean since the judge is also.
So it is the office of a judge to make things equal, and the line, as it were,having been unequally divided, he takes from the greater part that by which itexceeds the half, and adds this on to the less. And when the whole is dividedinto two exactly equal portions then men say they have their own, when theyhave gotten the equal; and the equal is a mean between the greater and the lessaccording to arithmetical equality.
This, by the way, accounts for the etymology of the term by which we in Greekexpress the ideas of Just and Judge;(δίκαιον quasiδίχαιον, that is in two parts, andδικάστης quasiδιχάστης, he who divides into twoparts). For when from one of two equal magnitudes somewhat has been taken andadded to the other, this latter exceeds the former by twice that portion: if ithad been merely taken from the former and not added to the latter, then thelatter would have exceeded the former only by that one portion; but in theother case, the greater exceeds the mean by one, and the mean exceeds also byone that magnitude from which the portion was taken. By this illustration,then, we obtain a rule to determine what one ought to take from him who has thegreater, and what to add to him who has the less. The excess of the mean overthe less must be added to the less, and the excess of the greater over the meanbe taken from the greater.
Thus let there be three straight lines equal to one another. From one of themcut off a portion, and add as much to another of them. The whole line thus madewill exceed the remainder of the first-named line, by twice the portion added,and will exceed the untouched line by that portion.[14]And these terms loss and gain are derived from voluntary exchange: that is tosay, the having more than what was one’s own is called gaining, and thehaving less than one’s original stock is called losing; for instance, inbuying or selling, or any other transactions which are guaranteed by law: butwhen the result is neither more nor less, but exactly the same as there wasoriginally,[15]people say they have their own, and neither lose nor gain.
So then the Just we have been speaking of is a mean between loss and gainarising in involuntary transactions; that is, it is the having the same afterthe transaction as one had before it took place.
There are people who have a notion that Reciprocation is simply just, as thePythagoreans said: for they defined the Just simply and without qualificationas “That which reciprocates with another.” But this simpleReciprocation will not fit on either to the Distributive Just, or theCorrective (and yet this is the interpretation they put on the Rhadamanthianrule of Just,
If a man should suffer what he hath done, then there would be straightforwardjustice;”)
for in many cases differences arise: as, for instance, suppose one in authorityhas struck a man, he is not to be struck in turn; or if a man has struck one inauthority, he must not only be struck but punished also.[16]And again, the voluntariness or involuntariness of actions makes a greatdifference.
But in dealings of exchange such a principle of Justice as this Reciprocationforms the bond of union, but then it must be Reciprocation according toproportion and not exact equality, because by proportionate reciprocity ofaction the social community is held together, For either Reciprocation of evilis meant, and if this be not allowed it is thought to be a servile condition ofthings: or else Reciprocation of good, and if this be not effected then thereis no admission to participation which is the very bond of their union.
And this is the moral of placing the Temple of the Graces(χάριτες) in the public streets; to impressthe notion that there may be requital, this being peculiar toχάρις[17]because a man ought to requite with a good turn the man who has done him afavour and then to become himself the originator of anotherχάρις, by doing him a favour.
Now the acts of mutual giving in due proportion may be represented by thediameters of a parallelogram, at the four angles of which the parties and theirwares are so placed that the side connecting the parties be opposite to thatconnecting the wares, and each party be connected by one side with his ownware, as in the accompanying diagram.
The builder is to receive from the shoemaker of his ware, and to give him ofhis own: if then there be first proportionate equality, and then theReciprocation takes place, there will be the just result which we are speakingof: if not, there is not the equal, nor will the connection stand: for there isno reason why the ware of the one may not be better than that of the other, andtherefore before the exchange is made they must have been equalised. And thisis so also in the other arts: for they would have been destroyed entirely ifthere were not a correspondence in point of quantity and quality between theproducer and the consumer. For, we must remember, no dealing arises between twoof the same kind, two physicians, for instance; but say between a physician andagriculturist, or, to state it generally, between those who are different andnot equal, but these of course must have been equalised before the exchange cantake place.
It is therefore indispensable that all things which can be exchanged should becapable of comparison, and for this purpose money has come in, and comes to bea kind of medium, for it measures all things and so likewise the excess anddefect; for instance, how many shoes are equal to a house or a given quantityof food. As then the builder to the shoemaker, so many shoes must be to thehouse (or food, if instead of a builder an agriculturist be the exchangingparty); for unless there is this proportion there cannot be exchange ordealing, and this proportion cannot be unless the terms are in some way equal;hence the need, as was stated above, of some one measure of all things. Nowthis is really and truly the Demand for them, which is the common bond of allsuch dealings. For if the parties were not in want at all or not similarly ofone another’s wares, there would either not be any exchange, or at leastnot the same.
And money has come to be, by general agreement, a representative of Demand: andthe account of its Greek name νομισμα isthis, that it is what it is not naturally but by custom or law(νόμος), and it rests with us to change its value, ormake it wholly useless.
Very well then, there will be Reciprocation when the terms have been equalisedso as to stand in this proportion; Agriculturist : Shoemaker : : wares ofShoemaker : wares of Agriculturist; but you must bring them to this form ofproportion when they exchange, otherwise the one extreme will combine bothexceedings of the mean:[18]but when they have exactly their own then they are equal and have dealings,because the same equality can come to be in their case. Let A represent anagriculturist, C food, B a shoemaker, D his wares equalised with A’s.Then the proportion will be correct, A:B::C:D; now Reciprocation will bepracticable, if it were not, there would have been no dealing.
Now that what connects men in such transactions is Demand, as being some onething, is shown by the fact that, when either one does not want the other orneither want one another, they do not exchange at all: whereas they do[19]when one wants what the other man has, wine for instance, giving in return cornfor exportation.
And further, money is a kind of security to us in respect of exchange at somefuture time (supposing that one wants nothing now that we shall have it when wedo): the theory of money being that whenever one brings it one can receivecommodities in exchange: of course this too is liable to depreciation, for itspurchasing power is not always the same, but still it is of a more permanentnature than the commodities it represents. And this is the reason why allthings should have a price set upon them, because thus there may be exchange atany time, and if exchange then dealing. So money, like a measure, making allthings commensurable equalises them: for if there was not exchange there wouldnot have been dealing, nor exchange if there were not equality, nor equality ifthere were not the capacity of being commensurate: it is impossible that thingsso greatly different should be really commensurate, but we can approximatesufficiently for all practical purposes in reference to Demand. The commonmeasure must be some one thing, and also from agreement (for which reason it iscalled νόμισμα), for this makes all thingscommensurable: in fact, all things are measured by money. Let B represent tenminæ, A a house worth five minæ, or in other words half B, C a bed worth 1/10thof B: it is clear then how many beds are equal to one house, namely, five.
It is obvious also that exchange was thus conducted before the existence ofmoney: for it makes no difference whether you give for a house five beds or theprice of five beds.
We have now said then what the abstract Just and Unjust are, and these havingbeen defined it is plain that just acting is a mean between acting unjustly andbeing acted unjustly towards: the former being equivalent to having more, andthe latter to having less.
But Justice, it must be observed, is a mean state not after the same manner asthe forementioned virtues, but because it aims at producing the mean, whileInjustice occupies both the extremes.
And Justice is the moral state in virtue of which the just man is said to havethe aptitude for practising the Just in the way of moral choice, and for makingdivision between, himself and another, or between two other men, not so as togive to himself the greater and to his neighbour the less share of what ischoice-worthy and contrariwise of what is hurtful, but what is proportionablyequal, and in like manner when adjudging the rights of two other men.
Injustice is all this with respect to the Unjust: and since the Unjust isexcess or defect of what is good or hurtful respectively, in violation of theproportionate, therefore Injustice is both excess and defect because it aims atproducing excess and defect; excess, that is, in a man’s own case of whatis simply advantageous, and defect of what is hurtful: and in the case of othermen in like manner generally speaking, only that the proportionate is violatednot always in one direction as before but whichever way it happens in the givencase. And of the Unjust act the less is being acted unjustly towards, and thegreater the acting unjustly towards others.[20]
Let this way of describing the nature of Justice and Injustice, and likewisethe Just and the Unjust generally, be accepted as sufficient.
[Again, since a man may do unjust acts and not yet have formed a character ofinjustice, the question arises whether a man is unjust in each particular formof injustice, say a thief, or adulterer, or robber, by doing acts of a givencharacter.
We may say, I think, that this will not of itself make any difference; a manmay, for instance, have had connection with another’s wife, knowing wellwith whom he was sinning, but he may have done it not of deliberate choice butfrom the impulse of passion: of course he acts unjustly, but he has notnecessarily formed an unjust character: that is, he may have stolen yet not bea thief; or committed an act of adultery but still not be an adulterer, and soon in other cases which might be enumerated.][21]
Of the relation which Reciprocation bears to the Just we have already spoken:and here it should be noticed that the Just which we are investigating is boththe Just in the abstract and also as exhibited in Social Relations, whichlatter arises in the case of those who live in communion with a view toindependence and who are free and equal either proportionately ornumerically.[22]
It follows then that those who are not in this position have not amongthemselves the Social Just, but still Just of some kind and resembling thatother. For Just implies mutually acknowledged law, and law the possibility ofinjustice, for adjudication is the act of distinguishing between the Just andthe Unjust.
And among whomsoever there is the possibility of injustice among these there isthat of acting unjustly; but it does not hold conversely that injusticeattaches to all among whom there is the possibility of acting unjustly, sinceby the former we mean giving one’s self the larger share of what isabstractedly good and the less of what is abstractedly evil.
This, by the way, is the reason why we do not allow a man to govern, butPrinciple, because a man governs for himself and comes to be a despot: but theoffice of a ruler is to be guardian of the Just and therefore of the Equal.Well then, since he seems to have no peculiar personal advantage, supposing hima Just man, for in this case he does not allot to himself the larger share ofwhat is abstractedly good unless it falls to his share proportionately (forwhich reason he really governs for others, and so Justice, men say, is a goodnot to one’s self so much as to others, as was mentioned before),therefore some compensation must be given him, as there actually is in theshape of honour and privilege; and wherever these are not adequate there rulersturn into despots.
But the Just which arises in the relations of Master and Father, is notidentical with, but similar to, these; because there is no possibility ofinjustice towards those things which are absolutely one’s own; and aslave or child (so long as this last is of a certain age and not separated intoan independent being), is, as it were, part of a man’s self, and no manchooses to hurt himself, for which reason there cannot be injustice towardsone’s own self: therefore neither is there the social Unjust or Just,which was stated to be in accordance with law and to exist between those amongwhom law naturally exists, and these were said to be they to whom belongsequality of ruling and being ruled.
Hence also there is Just rather between a man and his wife than between a manand his children or slaves; this is in fact the Just arising in domesticrelations: and this too is different from the Social Just.
Further, this last-mentioned Just is of two kinds, natural and conventional;the former being that which has everywhere the same force and does not dependupon being received or not; the latter being that which originally may be thisway or that indifferently but not after enactment: for instance, the price ofransom being fixed at a mina, or the sacrificing a goat instead of two sheep;and again, all cases of special enactment, as the sacrificing to Brasidas as ahero; in short, all matters of special decree.
But there are some men who think that all the Justs are of this latter kind,and on this ground: whatever exists by nature, they say, is unchangeable andhas everywhere the same force; fire, for instance, burns not here only but inPersia as well, but the Justs they see changed in various places.
Now this is not really so, and yet it is in a way (though among the godsperhaps by no means): still even amongst ourselves there is somewhat existingby nature: allowing that everything is subject to change, still there is thatwhich does exist by nature, and that which does not.[23]
Nay, we may go further, and say that it is practically plain what among thingswhich can be otherwise does exist by nature, and what does not but is dependentupon enactment and conventional, even granting that both are alike subject tobe changed: and the same distinctive illustration will apply to this and othercases; the right hand is naturally the stronger, still some men may becomeequally strong in both.
A parallel may be drawn between the Justs which depend upon convention andexpedience, and measures; for wine and corn measures are not equal in allplaces, but where men buy they are large, and where these same sell again theyare smaller: well, in like manner the Justs which are not natural, but of humaninvention, are not everywhere the same, for not even the forms of governmentare, and yet there is one only which by nature would be best in all places.
Now of Justs and Lawfuls each bears to the acts which embody and exemplify itthe relation of an universal to a particular; the acts being many, but each ofthe principles only singular because each is an universal. And so there is adifference between an unjust act and the abstract Unjust, and the just act andthe abstract Just: I mean, a thing is unjust in itself, by nature or byordinance; well, when this has been embodied in act, there is an unjust act,but not till then, only some unjust thing.[24]And similarly of a just act. (Perhapsδικαιοπράγημαis more correctly the common or generic term for just act, the wordδικαίωμα, which I have here used,meaning generally and properly the act corrective of the unjust act.) Now as toeach of them, what kinds there are, and how many, and what is theirobject-matter, we must examine afterwards.
For the present we proceed to say that, the Justs and the Unjusts being whathave been mentioned, a man is said to act unjustly or justly when he embodiesthese abstracts in voluntary actions, but when in involuntary, then he neitheracts unjustly or justly except accidentally; I mean that the being just orunjust is really only accidental to the agents in such cases.
So both unjust and just actions are limited by the being voluntary or thecontrary: for when an embodying of the Unjust is voluntary, then it is blamedand is at the same time also an unjust action: but, if voluntariness does notattach, there will be a thing which is in itself unjust but not yet an unjustaction.
By voluntary, I mean, as we stated before, whatsoever of things in his ownpower a man does with knowledge, and the absence of ignorance as to the personto whom, or the instrument with which, or the result with which he does; as,for instance, whom he strikes, what he strikes him with, and with what probableresult; and each of these points again, not accidentally nor by compulsion; assupposing another man were to seize his hand and strike a third person with it,here, of course, the owner of the hand acts not voluntarily, because it did notrest with him to do or leave undone: or again, it is conceivable that theperson struck may be his father, and he may know that it is a man, or even oneof the present company, whom he is striking, but not know that it is hisfather. And let these same distinctions be supposed to be carried into the caseof the result and in fact the whole of any given action. In fine then, that isinvoluntary which is done through ignorance, or which, not resulting fromignorance, is not in the agent’s control or is done on compulsion.
I mention these cases, because there are many natural things which we do andsuffer knowingly but still no one of which is either voluntary or involuntary,growing old, or dying, for instance.
Again, accidentality may attach to the unjust in like manner as to the justacts. For instance, a man may have restored what was deposited with him, butagainst his will and from fear of the consequences of a refusal: we must notsay that he either does what is just, or does justly, except accidentally: andin like manner the man who through compulsion and against his will fails torestore a deposit, must be said to do unjustly, or to do what is unjust,accidentally only.
Again, voluntary actions we do either from deliberate choice or without it;from it, when we act from previous deliberation; without it, when without anyprevious deliberation. Since then hurts which may be done in transactionsbetween man and man are threefold, those mistakes which are attended withignorance are, when a man either does a thing not to the man to whom he meantto do it, or not the thing he meant to do, or not with the instrument, or notwith the result which he intended: either he did not think he should hit him atall, or not with this, or this is not the man he thought he should hit, or hedid not think this would be the result of the blow but a result has followedwhich he did not anticipate; as, for instance, he did it not to wound butmerely to prick him; or it is not the man whom, or the way in which, he meant.
Now when the hurt has come about contrary to all reasonable expectation, it isa Misadventure; when though not contrary to expectation yet without anyviciousness, it is a Mistake; for a man makes a mistake when the origination ofthe cause rests with himself, he has a misadventure when it is external tohimself. When again he acts with knowledge, but not from previous deliberation,it is an unjust action; for instance, whatever happens to men from anger orother passions which are necessary or natural: for when doing these hurts ormaking these mistakes they act unjustly of course and their actions are unjust,still they are not yet confirmed unjust or wicked persons by reason of these,because the hurt did not arise from depravity in the doer of it: but when itdoes arise from deliberate choice, then the doer is a confirmed unjust anddepraved man.
And on this principle acts done from anger are fairly judged not to be frommalice prepense, because it is not the man who acts in wrath who is theoriginator really but he who caused his wrath. And again, the question at issuein such cases is not respecting the fact but respecting the justice of thecase, the occasion of anger being a notion of injury.[25]I mean, that the parties do not dispute about the fact, as in questions ofcontract (where one of the two must be a rogue, unless real forgetfulness canbe pleaded), but, admitting the fact, they dispute on which side the justice ofthe case lies (the one who plotted against the other, i.e. the realaggressor, of course, cannot be ignorant),[26]so that the one thinks there is injustice committed while the otherdoes not.
Well then, a man acts unjustly if he has hurt another of deliberate purpose,and he who commits such acts of injustice is ipso facto an unjustcharacter when they are in violation of the proportionate or the equal; and inlike manner also a man is a just character when he acts justly of deliberatepurpose, and he does act justly if he acts voluntarily.
Then as for involuntary acts of harm, they are either such as are excusable orsuch as are not: under the former head come all errors done not merely inignorance but from ignorance; under the latter all that are done not fromignorance but in ignorance caused by some passion which is neither natural norfairly attributable to human infirmity.
Now a question may be raised whether we have spoken with sufficientdistinctness as to being unjustly dealt with, and dealing unjustly towardsothers.
First, whether the case is possible which Euripides has put, saying somewhatstrangely,
“My mother he hath slain; the tale is short,Either he willingly did slay her willing,Or else with her will but against his own.”
I mean then, is it really possible for a person to be unjustly dealt with withhis own consent, or must every case of being unjustly dealt with be against thewill of the sufferer as every act of unjust dealing is voluntary?
And next, are cases of being unjustly dealt with to be ruled all one way asevery act of unjust dealing is voluntary? or may we say that some cases arevoluntary and some involuntary?
Similarly also as regards being justly dealt with: all just acting isvoluntary, so that it is fair to suppose that the being dealt with unjustly orjustly must be similarly opposed, as to being either voluntary or involuntary.
Now as for being justly dealt with, the position that every case of this isvoluntary is a strange one, for some are certainly justly dealt with withouttheir will.[27]The fact is a man may also fairly raise this question, whether in every case hewho has suffered what is unjust is therefore unjustly dealt with, or ratherthat the case is the same with suffering as it is with acting; namely that inboth it is possible to participate in what is just, but only accidentally.Clearly the case of what is unjust is similar: for doing things in themselvesunjust is not identical with acting unjustly, nor is suffering them the same asbeing unjustly dealt with. So too of acting justly and being justly dealt with,since it is impossible to be unjustly dealt with unless some one else actsunjustly or to be justly dealt with unless some one else acts justly.
Now if acting unjustly is simply “hurting another voluntarily” (bywhich I mean, knowing whom you are hurting, and wherewith, and how you arehurting him), and the man who fails of self-control voluntarily hurts himself,then this will be a case of being voluntarily dealt unjustly with, and it willbe possible for a man to deal unjustly with himself. (This by the way is one ofthe questions raised, whether it is possible for a man to deal unjustly withhimself.) Or again, a man may, by reason of failing of self-control, receivehurt from another man acting voluntarily, and so here will be another case ofbeing unjustly dealt with voluntarily.
The solution, I take it, is this: the definition of being unjustly dealt withis not correct, but we must add, to the hurting with the knowledge of theperson hurt and the instrument and the manner of hurting him, the fact of itsbeing against the wish of the man who is hurt.
So then a man may be hurt and suffer what is in itself unjust voluntarily, butunjustly dealt with voluntarily no man can be: since no man wishes to be hurt,not even he who fails of self-control, who really acts contrary to his wish:for no man wishes for that which he does not think to be good, and theman who fails of self-control does not what he thinks he ought to do.
And again, he that gives away his own property (as Homer says Glaucus gave toDiomed, “armour of gold for brass, armour worth a hundred oxen for thatwhich was worth but nine”) is not unjustly dealt with, because the givingrests entirely with himself; but being unjustly dealt with does not, there mustbe some other person who is dealing unjustly towards him.
With respect to being unjustly dealt with then, it is clear that it is notvoluntary.
There remain yet two points on which we purposed to speak: first, is hechargeable with an unjust act who in distribution has given the largershare to one party contrary to the proper rate, or he that has thelarger share? next, can a man deal unjustly by himself?
In the first question, if the first-named alternative is possible and it is thedistributor who acts unjustly and not he who has the larger share, thensupposing that a person knowingly and willingly gives more to another than tohimself here is a case of a man dealing unjustly by himself; which, in fact,moderate men are thought to do, for it is a characteristic of the equitable manto take less than his due.
Is not this the answer? that the case is not quite fairly stated, because ofsome other good, such as credit or the abstract honourable, in the supposedcase the man did get the larger share. And again, the difficulty is solved byreference to the definition of unjust dealing: for the man suffers nothingcontrary to his own wish, so that, on this score at least, he is not unjustlydealt with, but, if anything, he is hurt only.
It is evident also that it is the distributor who acts unjustly and not the manwho has the greater share: because the mere fact of the abstract Unjustattaching to what a man does, does not constitute unjust action, but the doingthis voluntarily: and voluntariness attaches to that quarter whence is theorigination of the action, which clearly is in the distributor not in thereceiver. And again the term doing is used in several senses; in one senseinanimate objects kill, or the hand, or the slave by his master’sbidding; so the man in question does not act unjustly but does things which arein themselves unjust.
Again, suppose that a man has made a wrongful award in ignorance; in the eye ofthe law he does not act unjustly nor is his awarding unjust, but yet he is in acertain sense: for the Just according to law and primary or natural Just arenot coincident: but, if he knowingly decided unjustly, then he himself as wellas the receiver got the larger share, that is, either of favour from thereceiver or private revenge against the other party: and so the man who decidedunjustly from these motives gets a larger share, in exactly the same sense as aman would who received part of the actual matter of the unjust action: becausein this case the man who wrongly adjudged, say a field, did not actually getland but money by his unjust decision.
Now men suppose that acting Unjustly rests entirely with themselves, andconclude that acting Justly is therefore also easy. But this is not really so;to have connection with a neighbour’s wife, or strike one’sneighbour, or give the money with one’s hand, is of course easy and restswith one’s self: but the doing these acts with certain inwarddispositions neither is easy nor rests entirely with one’s self. And inlike way, the knowing what is Just and what Unjust men think no great instanceof wisdom because it is not hard to comprehend those things of which the lawsspeak. They forget that these are not Just actions, except accidentally: to beJust they must be done and distributed in a certain manner: and this is a moredifficult task than knowing what things are wholesome; for in this branch ofknowledge it is an easy matter to know honey, wine, hellebore, cautery, or theuse of the knife, but the knowing how one should administer these with a viewto health, and to whom and at what time, amounts in fact to being a physician.
From this very same mistake they suppose also, that acting Unjustly is equallyin the power of the Just man, for the Just man no less, nay even more, than theUnjust, may be able to do the particular acts; he may be able to haveintercourse with a woman or strike a man; or the brave man to throw away hisshield and turn his back and run this way or that. True: but then it is not themere doing these things which constitutes acts of cowardice or injustice(except accidentally), but the doing them with certain inward dispositions:just as it is not the mere using or not using the knife, administering or notadministering certain drugs, which constitutes medical treatment or curing, butdoing these things in a certain particular way.
Again the abstract principles of Justice have their province among those whopartake of what is abstractedly good, and can have too much or too little ofthese.[28]Now there are beings who cannot have too much of them, as perhaps the gods;there are others, again, to whom no particle of them is of use, those who areincurably wicked to whom all things are hurtful; others to whom they are usefulto a certain degree: for this reason then the province of Justice is amongMen.
We have next to speak of Equity and the Equitable, that is to say, of therelations of Equity to Justice and the Equitable to the Just; for when we lookinto the matter the two do not appear identical nor yet different in kind; andwe sometimes commend the Equitable and the man who embodies it in his actions,so that by way of praise we commonly transfer the term also to other actsinstead of the term good, thus showing that the more Equitable a thing is thebetter it is: at other times following a certain train of reasoning we arriveat a difficulty, in that the Equitable though distinct from the Just is yetpraiseworthy; it seems to follow either that the Just is not good or theEquitable not Just, since they are by hypothesis different; or if both are goodthen they are identical.
This is a tolerably fair statement of the difficulty which on these groundsarises in respect of the Equitable; but, in fact, all these may be reconciledand really involve no contradiction: for the Equitable is Just, being alsobetter than one form of Just, but is not better than the Just as though it weredifferent from it in kind: Just and Equitable then are identical, and, bothbeing good, the Equitable is the better of the two.
What causes the difficulty is this; the Equitable is Just, but not the Justwhich is in accordance with written law, being in fact a correction of thatkind of Just. And the account of this is, that every law is necessarilyuniversal while there are some things which it is not possible to speak ofrightly in any universal or general statement. Where then there is a necessityfor general statement, while a general statement cannot apply rightly to allcases, the law takes the generality of cases, being fully aware of the errorthus involved; and rightly too notwithstanding, because the fault is not in thelaw, or in the framer of the law, but is inherent in the nature of the thing,because the matter of all action is necessarily such.
When then the law has spoken in general terms, and there arises a case ofexception to the general rule, it is proper, in so far as the lawgiver omitsthe case and by reason of his universality of statement is wrong, to set rightthe omission by ruling it as the lawgiver himself would rule were he therepresent, and would have provided by law had he foreseen the case would arise.And so the Equitable is Just but better than one form of Just; I do not meanthe abstract Just but the error which arises out of the universality ofstatement: and this is the nature of the Equitable, “a correction of Law,where Law is defective by reason of its universality.”
This is the reason why not all things are according to law, because there arethings about which it is simply impossible to lay down a law, and so we wantspecial enactments for particular cases. For to speak generally, the rule ofthe undefined must be itself undefined also, just as the rule to measureLesbian building is made of lead: for this rule shifts according to the form ofeach stone and the special enactment according to the facts of the case inquestion.
It is clear then what the Equitable is; namely that it is Just but better thanone form of Just: and hence it appears too who the Equitable man is: he is onewho has a tendency to choose and carry out these principles, and who is not aptto press the letter of the law on the worse side but content to waive hisstrict claims though backed by the law: and this moral state is Equity, being aspecies of Justice, not a different moral state from Justice.
The answer to the second of the two questions indicated above, “whetherit is possible for a man to deal unjustly by himself,” is obvious fromwhat has been already stated.
In the first place, one class of Justs is those which are enforced by law inaccordance with Virtue in the most extensive sense of the term: for instance,the law does not bid a man kill himself; and whatever it does not bid itforbids: well, whenever a man does hurt contrary to the law (unless by way ofrequital of hurt), voluntarily, i.e. knowing to whom he does it and wherewith,he acts Unjustly. Now he that from rage kills himself, voluntarily, does thisin contravention of Right Reason, which the law does not permit. He thereforeacts Unjustly: but towards whom? towards the Community, not towards himself(because he suffers with his own consent, and no man can be Unjustly dealt withwith his own consent), and on this principle the Community punishes him; thatis a certain infamy is attached to the suicide as to one who acts Unjustlytowards the Community.
Next, a man cannot deal Unjustly by himself in the sense in which a man isUnjust who only does Unjust acts without being entirely bad (for the two thingsare different, because the Unjust man is in a way bad, as the coward is, not asthough he were chargeable with badness in the full extent of the term, and sohe does not act Unjustly in this sense), because if it were so then it would bepossible for the same thing to have been taken away from and added to the sameperson:[29]but this is really not possible, the Just and the Unjust always implying aplurality of persons.
Again, an Unjust action must be voluntary, done of deliberate purpose, andaggressive (for the man who hurts because he has first suffered and is merelyrequiting the same is not thought to act Unjustly), but here the man does tohimself and suffers the same things at the same time.
Again, it would imply the possibility of being Unjustly dealt with withone’s own consent.
And, besides all this, a man cannot act Unjustly without his act falling undersome particular crime; now a man cannot seduce his own wife, commit a burglaryon his own premises, or steal his own property.
After all, the general answer to the question is to allege what was settledrespecting being Unjustly dealt with with one’s own consent.
It is obvious, moreover, that being Unjustly dealt by and dealing Unjustly byothers are both wrong; because the one is having less, the other having more,than the mean, and the case is parallel to that of the healthy in the healingart, and that of good condition in the art of training: but still the dealingUnjustly by others is the worst of the two, because this involves wickednessand is blameworthy; wickedness, I mean, either wholly, or nearly so (for notall voluntary wrong implies injustice), but the being Unjustly dealt by doesnot involve wickedness or injustice.
In itself then, the being Unjustly dealt by is the least bad, but accidentallyit may be the greater evil of the two. However, scientific statement cannottake in such considerations; a pleurisy, for instance, is called a greaterphysical evil than a bruise: and yet this last may be the greater accidentally;it may chance that a bruise received in a fall may cause one to be captured bythe enemy and slain.
Further: Just, in the way of metaphor and similitude, there may be I do not saybetween a man and himself exactly but between certain parts of his nature; butnot Just of every kind, only such as belongs to the relation of master andslave, or to that of the head of a family. For all through this treatise therational part of the Soul has been viewed as distinct from the irrational.
Now, taking these into consideration, there is thought to be a possibility ofinjustice towards one’s self, because herein it is possible for men tosuffer somewhat in contradiction of impulses really their own; and so it isthought that there is Just of a certain kind between these parts mutually, asbetween ruler and ruled.
Let this then be accepted as an account of the distinctions which we recogniserespecting Justice and the rest of the moralvirtues.[30]
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BOOK VI
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Having stated in a former part of this treatise that men should choose the meaninstead of either the excess or defect, and that the mean is according to thedictates of Right Reason; we will now proceed to explain this term.
For in all the habits which we have expressly mentioned, as likewise in all theothers, there is, so to speak, a mark with his eye fixed on which the man whohas Reason tightens or slacks his rope;[1]and there is a certain limit of those mean states which we say are inaccordance with Right Reason, and lie between excess on the one hand and defecton the other.
Now to speak thus is true enough but conveys no very definite meaning: as, infact, in all other pursuits requiring attention and diligence on which skilland science are brought to bear; it is quite true of course to say that men areneither to labour nor relax too much or too little, but in moderation, and asRight Reason directs; yet if this were all a man had he would not be greatlythe wiser; as, for instance, if in answer to the question, what are properapplications to the body, he were to be told, “Oh! of course, whateverthe science of medicine, and in such manner as the physician, directs.”
And so in respect of the mental states it is requisite not merely that thisshould be true which has been already stated, but further that it should beexpressly laid down what Right Reason is, and what is the definition of it.
Now in our division of the Excellences of the Soul, we said there were twoclasses, the Moral and the Intellectual: the former we have already gonethrough; and we will now proceed to speak of the others, premising a few wordsrespecting the Soul itself. It was stated before, you will remember, that theSoul consists of two parts, the Rational, and Irrational: we must now make asimilar division of the Rational.
Let it be understood then that there are two parts of the Soul possessed ofReason; one whereby we realise those existences whose causes cannot beotherwise than they are, and one whereby we realise those which can beotherwise than they are,[2](for there must be, answering to things generically different, genericallydifferent parts of the soul naturally adapted to each, since these parts of thesoul possess their knowledge in virtue of a certain resemblance andappropriateness in themselves to the objects of which they arepercipients);[3]and let us name the former, “that which is apt to know,” thelatter, “that which is apt to calculate” (because deliberating andcalculating are the same, and no one ever deliberates about things which cannotbe otherwise than they are: and so the Calculative will be one part of theRational faculty of the soul).
We must discover, then, which is the best state of each of these, because thatwill be the Excellence of each; and this again is relative to the work each hasto do.[4]
There are in the Soul three functions on which depend moral action and truth;Sense, Intellect, Appetition, whether vague Desire or definite Will. Now ofthese Sense is the originating cause of no moral action, as is seen from thefact that brutes have Sense but are in no way partakers of moralaction.[5]
[Intellect and Will are thus connected,] what in the Intellectual operation isAffirmation and Negation that in the Will is Pursuit and Avoidance, And so,since Moral Virtue is a State apt to exercise Moral Choice and Moral Choice isWill consequent on deliberation, the Reason must be true and the Will right, toconstitute good Moral Choice, and what the Reason affirms the Will mustpursue.[6]
Now this Intellectual operation and this Truth is what bears upon Moral Action;of course truth and falsehood must be the good and the bad of that IntellectualOperation which is purely Speculative, and concerned neither with action norproduction, because this is manifestly the work of every Intellectual faculty,while of the faculty which is of a mixed Practical and Intellectual nature, thework is that Truth which, as I have described above, corresponds to the rightmovement of the Will.
Now the starting-point of moral action is Moral Choice, (I mean, what actuallysets it in motion, not the final cause,)[7]and of Moral Choice, Appetition, and Reason directed to a certain result: andthus Moral Choice is neither independent of intellect, i. e. intellectualoperation, nor of a certain moral state: for right or wrong action cannot be,independently of operation of the Intellect, and moral character.
But operation of the Intellect by itself moves nothing, only when directed to acertain result, i. e. exercised in Moral Action: (I say nothing of its beingexercised in production, because this function is originated by the former: forevery one who makes makes with a view to somewhat further; and that which is ormay be made, is not an End in itself, but only relatively to somewhat else, andbelonging to some one:[8]whereas that which is or may be done is an End in itself, because acting wellis an End in itself, and this is the object of the Will,) and so Moral Choiceis either[9]Intellect put in a position of Will-ing, or Appetition subjected to anIntellectual Process. And such a Cause is Man.
But nothing which is done and past can be the object of Moral Choice; forinstance, no man chooses to have sacked Troy; because, in fact, no one everdeliberates about what is past, but only about that which is future, and whichmay therefore be influenced, whereas what has been cannot not have been: and soAgathon is right in saying
“Of this alone is Deity bereft,To make undone whatever hath been done.”
Thus then Truth is the work of both the Intellectual Parts of the Soul; thosestates therefore are the Excellences of each in which each will best attaintruth.
Commencing then from the point stated above we will now speak of theseExcellences again. Let those faculties whereby the Soul attains truth inAffirmation or Negation, be assumed to be in number five:[10]viz. Art, Knowledge, Practical Wisdom, Science, Intuition: (Suppositionand Opinion I do not include, because by these one may go wrong.)
What Knowledge is, is plain from the following of considerations, if one is tospeak accurately, instead of being led away by resemblances. For we allconceive that what we strictly speaking know, cannot be otherwise than it is,because as to those things which can be otherwise than they are, we areuncertain whether they are or are not, the moment they cease to be within thesphere of our actual observation.
So then, whatever comes within the range of Knowledge is by necessity, andtherefore eternal, (because all things are so which exist necessarily,) and alleternal things are without beginning, and indestructible.
Again, all Knowledge is thought to be capable of being taught, and what comeswithin its range capable of being learned. And all teaching is based uponprevious knowledge; (a statement you will find in the Analytics also,)[11]for there are two ways of teaching, by Syllogism and by Induction. In fact.Induction is the source of universal propositions, and Syllogism reasons fromthese universals.[12]Syllogism then may reason from principles which cannot be themselves provedSyllogistically: and therefore must by Induction.
So Knowledge is “a state or mental faculty apt to demonstratesyllogistically,” &c. as in the Analytics:[13]because a man, strictly and properly speaking, knows, when heestablishes his conclusion in a certain way, and the principles are known tohim: for if they are not better known to him than the conclusion, suchknowledge as he has will be merely accidental.
Let thus much be accepted as a definition of Knowledge.
Matter which may exist otherwise than it actually does in any given case(commonly called Contingent) is of two kinds, that which is the object ofMaking, and that which is the object of Doing; now Making and Doing are twodifferent things (as we show in the exoteric treatise), and so that state ofmind, conjoined with Reason, which is apt to Do, is distinct from that alsoconjoined with Reason, which is apt to Make: and for this reason they are notincluded one by the other, that is, Doing is not Making, nor Making Doing.[14]Now[15]as Architecture is an Art, and is the same as “a certain state of mind,conjoined with Reason, which is apt to Make,” and as there is no Artwhich is not such a state, nor any such state which is not an Art, Art, in itsstrict and proper sense, must be “a state of mind, conjoined with trueReason, apt to Make.”
Now all Art has to do with production, and contrivance, and seeing how any ofthose things may be produced which may either be or not be, and the originationof which rests with the maker and not with the thing made.
And, so neither things which exist or come into being necessarily, nor thingsin the way of nature, come under the province of Art, because these areself-originating. And since Making and Doing are distinct, Art must beconcerned with the former and not the latter. And in a certain sense Art andFortune are concerned with the same things, as, Agathon says by the way,
“Art Fortune loves, and is of her beloved.”
So Art, as has been stated, is “a certain state of mind, apt to Make,conjoined with true Reason;” its absence, on the contrary, is the samestate conjoined with false Reason, and both are employed upon Contingentmatter.
As for Practical Wisdom, we shall ascertain its nature by examining to whatkind of persons we in common language ascribe it.[16]
It is thought then to be the property of the Practically Wise man to be able todeliberate well respecting what is good and expedient for himself, not in anydefinite line,[17]as what is conducive to health or strength, but what to living well. A proof ofthis is that we call men Wise in this or that, when they calculate well with aview to some good end in a case where there is no definite rule. And so, in ageneral way of speaking, the man who is good at deliberation will bePractically Wise. Now no man deliberates respecting things which cannot beotherwise than they are, nor such as lie not within the range of his ownaction: and so, since Knowledge requires strict demonstrative reasoning, ofwhich Contingent matter does not admit (I say Contingent matter, because allmatters of deliberation must be Contingent and deliberation cannot take placewith respect to things which are Necessarily), Practical Wisdom cannot beKnowledge nor Art; nor the former, because what falls under the province ofDoing must be Contingent; not the latter, because Doing and Making aredifferent in kind.
It remains then that it must be “a state of mind true, conjoined withReason, and apt to Do, having for its object those things which are good or badfor Man:” because of Making something beyond itself is always the object,but cannot be of Doing because the very well-doing is in itself an End.
For this reason we think Pericles and men of that stamp to be Practically Wise,because they can see what is good for themselves and for men in general, and wealso think those to be such who are skilled in domestic management or civilgovernment. In fact, this is the reason why we call the habit of perfectedself-mastery by the name which in Greek it bears, etymologically signifying“that which preserves the Practical Wisdom:” for what it doespreserve is the Notion I have mentioned, i.e. of one’s own trueinterest.[18]
For it is not every kind of Notion which the pleasant and the painful corruptand pervert, as, for instance, that “the three angles of everyrectilineal triangle are equal to two right angles,” but only thosebearing on moral action.
For the Principles of the matters of moral action are the final cause ofthem:[19]now to the man who has been corrupted by reason of pleasure or pain thePrinciple immediately becomes obscured, nor does he see that it is his duty tochoose and act in each instance with a view to this final cause and by reasonof it: for viciousness has a tendency to destroy the moral Principle: and soPractical Wisdom must be “a state conjoined with reason, true, havinghuman good for its object, and apt to do.”
Then again Art admits of degrees of excellence, but Practical Wisdom doesnot:[20]and in Art he who goes wrong purposely is preferable to him who does sounwittingly,[21]but not so in respect of Practical Wisdom or the other Virtues. It plainly isthen an Excellence of a certain kind, and not an Art.
Now as there are two parts of the Soul which have Reason, it must be theExcellence of the Opinionative [which we called before calculative ordeliberative], because both Opinion and Practical Wisdom are exercised uponContingent matter. And further, it is not simply a state conjoined with Reason,as is proved by the fact that such a state may be forgotten and so lost whilePractical Wisdom cannot.
Now Knowledge is a conception concerning universals and Necessary matter, andthere are of course certain First Principles in all trains of demonstrativereasoning (that is of all Knowledge because this is connected with reasoning):that faculty, then, which takes in the first principles of that which comesunder the range of Knowledge, cannot be either Knowledge, or Art, or PracticalWisdom: not Knowledge, because what is the object of Knowledge must be derivedfrom demonstrative reasoning; not either of the other two, because they areexercised upon Contingent matter only. Nor can it be Science which takes inthese, because the Scientific Man must in some cases depend on demonstrativeReasoning.
It comes then to this: since the faculties whereby we always attain truth andare never deceived when dealing with matter Necessary or even Contingent areKnowledge, Practical Wisdom, Science, and Intuition, and the faculty whichtakes in First Principles cannot be any of the three first; the last, namelyIntuition, must be it which performs this function.
Science is a term we use principally in two meanings: in the first place, inthe Arts we ascribe it to those who carry their arts to the highestaccuracy;[22]Phidias, for instance, we call a Scientific or cunning sculptor; Polycleitus aScientific or cunning statuary; meaning, in this instance, nothing else byScience than an excellence of art: in the other sense, we think some to beScientific in a general way, not in any particular line or in any particularthing, just as Homer says of a man in his Margites; “Him the Gods madeneither a digger of the ground, nor ploughman, nor in any other wayScientific.”
So it is plain that Science must mean the most accurate of all Knowledge; butif so, then the Scientific man must not merely know the deductions from theFirst Principles but be in possession of truth respecting the First Principles.So that Science must be equivalent to Intuition and Knowledge; it is, so tospeak, Knowledge of the most precious objects, with a headon.[23]
I say of the most precious things, because it is absurd to supposeπολιτικὴ,[24]or Practical Wisdom, to be the highest, unless it can be shown that Man is themost excellent of all that exists in the Universe. Now if “healthy”and “good” are relative terms, differing when applied to men or tofish, but “white” and “straight” are the same always,men must allow that the Scientific is the same always, but the Practically Wisevaries: for whatever provides all things well for itself, to this they wouldapply the term Practically Wise, and commit these matters to it; which is thereason, by the way, that they call some brutes Practically Wise, such that isas plainly have a faculty of forethought respecting their own subsistence.
And it is quite plain that Science andπολιτικὴ cannot be identical: becauseif men give the name of Science to that faculty which is employed upon what isexpedient for themselves, there will be many instead of one, because there isnot one and the same faculty employed on the good of all animals collectively,unless in the same sense as you may say there is one art of healing withrespect to all living beings.
If it is urged that man is superior to all other animals, that makes nodifference: for there are many other things more Godlike in their nature thanMan, as, most obviously, the elements of which the Universe iscomposed.[25]
It is plain then that Science is the union of Knowledge and Intuition, and hasfor its objects those things which are most precious in their nature.Accordingly, Anexagoras, Thales, and men of that stamp, people call Scientific,but not Practically Wise because they see them ignorant of what concernsthemselves; and they say that what they know is quite out of the common runcertainly, and wonderful, and hard, and very fine no doubt, but still uselessbecause they do not seek after what is good for them as men.
But Practical Wisdom is employed upon human matters, and such as are objects ofdeliberation (for we say, that to deliberate well is most peculiarly the workof the man who possesses this Wisdom), and no man deliberates about thingswhich cannot be otherwise than they are, nor about any save those that havesome definite End and this End good resulting from Moral Action; and the man towhom we should give the name of Good in Counsel, simply and withoutmodification, is he who in the way of calculation has a capacity for attainingthat of practical goods which is the best for Man.
Nor again does Practical Wisdom consist in a knowledge of general principlesonly, but it is necessary that one should know also the particular details,because it is apt to act, and action is concerned with details: for whichreason sometimes men who have not much knowledge are more practical than otherswho have; among others, they who derive all they know from actual experience:suppose a man to know, for instance, that light meats are easy of digestion andwholesome, but not what kinds of meat are light, he will not produce a healthystate; that man will have a much better chance of doing so, who knows that theflesh of birds is light and wholesome. Since then Practical Wisdom is apt toact, one ought to have both kinds of knowledge, or, if only one, the knowledgeof details rather than of Principles. So there will be in respect of PracticalWisdom the distinction of supreme andsubordinate.[26]
Further: πολιτικὴ and Practical Wisdomare the same mental state, but the point of view is not the same.
Of Practical Wisdom exerted upon a community that which I would call theSupreme is the faculty of Legislation; the subordinate, which is concerned withthe details, generally has the common nameπολιτικὴ, and its functions are Actionand Deliberation (for the particular enactment is a matter of action, being theultimate issue of this branch of Practical Wisdom, and therefore peoplecommonly say, that these men alone are really engaged in government, becausethey alone act, filling the same place relatively to legislators, that workmendo to a master).[27]
Again, that is thought to be Practical Wisdom in the most proper sense whichhas for its object the interest of the Individual: and this usuallyappropriates the common name: the others are called respectively DomesticManagement, Legislation, Executive Government divided into two branches,Deliberative and Judicial.[28]Now of course, knowledge for one’s self is one kind of knowledge, but itadmits of many shades of difference: and it is a common notion that the man whoknows and busies himself about his own concerns merely is the man of PracticalWisdom, while they who extend their solicitude to society at large areconsidered meddlesome.
Euripides has thus embodied this sentiment; “How,” says one of hisCharacters, “How foolish am I, who whereas I might have shared equally,idly numbered among the multitude of the army *** for them that are busy andmeddlesome [Jove hates],” because the generality of mankind seek theirown good and hold that this is their proper business. It is then from thisopinion that the notion has arisen that such men are the Practically-Wise. Andyet it is just possible that the good of the individual cannot be securedindependently of connection with a family or a community. And again, how a manshould manage his own affairs is sometimes not quite plain, and must be made amatter of enquiry.[29]
A corroboration of what I have said is[30]the fact, that the young come to be geometricians, and mathematicians, andScientific in such matters, but it is not thought that a young man can come tobe possessed of Practical Wisdom: now the reason is, that this Wisdom has forits object particular facts, which come to be known from experience, which ayoung man has not because it is produced only by length of time.
By the way, a person might also enquire,[31]why a boy may be made a mathematician but not Scientific or a naturalphilosopher. Is not this the reason? that mathematics are taken in by theprocess of abstraction, but the principles of Science[32]and natural philosophy must be gained by experiment; and the latter young mentalk of but do not realise, while the nature of the former is plain and clear.
Again, in matter of practice, error attaches either to the general rule, in theprocess of deliberation, or to the particular fact: for instance, this would bea general rule, “All water of a certain gravity is bad;” theparticular fact, “this water is of that gravity.”
And that Practical Wisdom is not Knowledge is plain, for it has to do with theultimate issue,[33]as has been said, because every object of action is of this nature.
To Intuition it is opposed, for this takes in those principles which cannot beproved by reasoning, while Practical Wisdom is concerned with the ultimateparticular fact which cannot be realised by Knowledge but by Sense; I do notmean one of the five senses, but the same by which we take in the mathematicalfact, that no rectilineal figure can be contained by less than three lines,i.e. that a triangle is the ultimate figure, because here also is a stoppingpoint.
This however is Sense rather than Practical Wisdom, which is of anotherkind.[34]
Now the acts of enquiring and deliberating differ, though deliberating is akind of enquiring. We ought to ascertain about Good Counsel likewise what itis, whether a kind of Knowledge, or Opinion, or Happy Conjecture, or some otherkind of faculty. Knowledge it obviously is not, because men do not enquireabout what they know, and Good Counsel is a kind of deliberation, and the manwho is deliberating is enquiring and calculating.
Neither is it Happy Conjecture; because this is independent of reasoning, and arapid operation; but men deliberate a long time, and it is a common saying thatone should execute speedily what has been resolved upon in deliberation, butdeliberate slowly.
Quick perception of causes[35]again is a different faculty from good counsel, for it is a species of HappyConjecture. Nor is Good Counsel Opinion of any kind.
Well then, since he who deliberates ill goes wrong, and he who deliberates welldoes so rightly, it is clear that Good Counsel is rightness of some kind, butnot of Knowledge nor of Opinion: for Knowledge cannot be called right becauseit cannot be wrong, and Rightness of Opinion is Truth: and again, all which isthe object of opinion is definitely markedout.[36]
Still, however, Good Counsel is not independent of Reason, Does it remain thenthat it is a rightness of Intellectual Operation simply, because this does notamount to an assertion; and the objection to Opinion was that it is not aprocess of enquiry but already a definite assertion; whereas whosoeverdeliberates, whether well or ill, is engaged in enquiry and calculation.
Well, Good Counsel is a Rightness of deliberation, and so the first questionmust regard the nature and objects of deliberation. Now remember Rightness isan equivocal term; we plainly do not mean Rightness of any kind whatever; theἀκρατὴς, for instance, or the bad man,will obtain by his calculation what he sets before him as an object, and so hemay be said to have deliberated rightly in one sense, but will haveattained a great evil. Whereas to have deliberated well is thought to be agood, because Good Counsel is Rightness of deliberation of such a nature as isapt to attain good.
But even this again you may get by false reasoning, and hit upon the righteffect though not through right means,[37]your middle term being fallacious: and so neither will this be yet Good Counselin consequence of which you get what you ought but not through proper means.
Again, one man may hit on a thing after long deliberation, another quickly. Andso that before described will not be yet Good Counsel, but the Rightness mustbe with reference to what is expedient; and you must have a proper end in view,pursue it in a right manner and right time.
Once more. One may deliberate well either generally or towards some particularEnd.[38]Good counsel in the general then is that which goes right towards that which isthe End in a general way of consideration; in particular, that which does sotowards some particular End.
Since then deliberating well is a quality of men possessed of Practical Wisdom,Good Counsel must be “Rightness in respect of what conduces to a givenEnd, of which[39]Practical Wisdom is the true conception.”
There is too the faculty of Judiciousness, and also its absence, in virtue ofwhich we call men Judicious or the contrary.
Now Judiciousness is neither entirely identical with Knowledge or Opinion (forthen all would have been Judicious), nor is it any one specific science, asmedical science whose object matter is things wholesome; or geometry whoseobject matter is magnitude: for it has not for its object things which alwaysexist and are immutable, nor of those things which come into being just anywhich may chance; but those in respect of which a man might doubt anddeliberate.
And so it has the same object matter as Practical Wisdom; yet the two facultiesare not identical, because Practical Wisdom has the capacity for commanding andtaking the initiative, for its End is “what one should do or notdo:” but Judiciousness is only apt to decide upon suggestions (though wedo in Greek put “well” on to the faculty and its concrete noun,these really mean exactly the same as the plain words), and Judiciousness isneither the having Practical Wisdom, nor attaining it: but just as learning istermed συνιέναι when a man uses hisknowledge, so judiciousness consists in employing the Opinionative faculty injudging concerning those things which come within the province of PracticalWisdom, when another enunciates them; and not judging merely, but judging well(for εὐ and καλῶς mean exactly the samething). And the Greek name of this faculty is derived from the use of the termσυνιέναι in learning:μανθάνειν andσυνιέναι being often used assynonymous.
The faculty called γνώμη,[40]in right of which we call menεὐγνώμονες, or say theyhave γνώμη, is “the right judgment of theequitable man.” A proof of which is that we most commonly say that theequitable man has a tendency to make allowance, and the making allowance incertain cases is equitable. Andσυγγνώμη (the word denoting allowance)is right γνώμη having a capacity of making equitabledecisions, By “right” I mean that of the Truthful man.
Now all these mental states[41]tend to the same object, as indeed common language leads us to expect: I mean,we speak of γνώμη, Judiciousness, Practical Wisdom,and Practical Intuition, attributing the possession ofγνώμη and Practical Intuition to the same Individualswhom we denominate Practically-Wise and Judicious: because all these facultiesare employed upon the extremes,[42]i.e. on particular details; and in right of his aptitude for deciding on thematters which come within the province of the Practically-Wise, a man isJudicious and possessed of good γνώμη; i.e. he isdisposed to make allowance, for considerations of equity are entertained by allgood men alike in transactions with their fellows.
And all matters of Moral Action belong to the class of particulars, otherwisecalled extremes: for the man of Practical Wisdom must know them, andJudiciousness and γνώμη are concerned with matters ofMoral Actions, which are extremes.
Intuition, moreover, takes in the extremes at both ends:[43]I mean, the first and last terms must be taken in not by reasoning but byIntuition [so that Intuition comes to be of two kinds], and that which belongsto strict demonstrative reasonings takes in immutable, i.e. Necessary, firstterms; while that which is employed in practical matters takes in the extreme,the Contingent, and the minor Premiss:[44]for the minor Premisses are the source of the Final Cause, Universals beingmade up out of Particulars.[45]To take in these, of course, we must have Sense, i.e. in other words PracticalIntuition.
And for this reason these are thought to be simply gifts of nature; and whereasno man is thought to be Scientific by nature, men are thought to haveγνώμη, and Judiciousness, and Practical Intuition: aproof of which is that we think these faculties are a consequence even ofparticular ages, and this given age has Practical Intuition andγνώμη, we say, as if under the notion that nature isthe cause. And thus Intuition is both the beginning and end, because the proofsare based upon the one kind of extremes and concern the other.
And so[46]one should attend to the undemonstrable dicta and opinions of the skilful, theold and the Practically-Wise, no less than to those which are based on strictreasoning, because they see aright, having gained their power of moral visionfrom experience.
Well, we have now stated the nature and objects of Practical Wisdom and Sciencerespectively, and that they belong each to a different part of the Soul. But Ican conceive a person questioning their utility. “Science,” hewould say, “concerns itself with none of the causes of human happiness(for it has nothing to do with producing anything): Practical Wisdom has thisrecommendation, I grant, but where is the need of it, since its province isthose things which are just and honourable, and good for man, and these are thethings which the good man as such does; but we are not a bit the more apt to dothem because we know them, since the Moral Virtues are Habits; just as we arenot more apt to be healthy or in good condition from mere knowledge of whatrelates to these (I mean,[47]of course, things so called not from their producing health, etc., but fromtheir evidencing it in a particular subject), for we are not more apt to behealthy and in good condition merely from knowing the art of medicine ortraining.
“If it be urged that knowing what is good does not by itself makea Practically-Wise man but becoming good; still this Wisdom will be nouse either to those that are good, and so have it already, or to those who haveit not; because it will make no difference to them whether they have itthemselves or put themselves under the guidance of others who have; and wemight be contented to be in respect of this as in respect of health: for thoughwe wish to be healthy still we do not set about learning the art of healing.
“Furthermore, it would seem to be strange that, though lower in the scalethan Science, it is to be its master; which it is, because whatever producesresults takes the rule and directs in each matter.”
This then is what we are to talk about, for these are the only points nowraised.
Now first we say that being respectively Excellences of different parts of theSoul they must be choice-worthy, even on the supposition that they neither ofthem produce results.
In the next place we say that they do produce results; that Sciencemakes Happiness, not as the medical art but as healthiness makeshealth:[48]because, being a part of Virtue in its most extensive sense, it makes a manhappy by being possessed and by working.
Next, Man’s work as Man is accomplished by virtue of PracticalWisdom and Moral Virtue, the latter giving the right aim and direction, theformer the right means to its attainment;[49]but of the fourth part of the Soul, the mere nutritive principle, there is nosuch Excellence, because nothing is in its power to do or leaveundone.[50]
As to our not being more apt to do what is noble and just by reason ofpossessing Practical Wisdom, we must begin a little higherup,[51]taking this for our starting-point. As we say that men may do things inthemselves just and yet not be just men; for instance, when men do what thelaws require of them, either against their will, or by reason of ignorance orsomething else, at all events not for the sake of the things themselves; andyet they do what they ought and all that the good man should do; so it seemsthat to be a good man one must do each act in a particular frame of mind, Imean from Moral Choice and for the sake of the things themselves which aredone. Now it is Virtue which makes the Moral Choice right, but whatever isnaturally required to carry out that Choice comes under the province not ofVirtue but of a different faculty. We must halt, as it were, awhile, and speakmore clearly on these points.
There is then a certain faculty, commonly named Cleverness, of such a nature asto be able to do and attain whatever conduces to any given purpose: nowif that purpose be a good one the faculty is praiseworthy; if otherwise, itgoes by a name which, denoting strictly the ability, implies the willingness todo anything; we accordingly call the Practically-Wise Clever, and alsothose who can and will do anything.[52]
Now Practical Wisdom is not identical with Cleverness, nor is it without thispower of adapting means to ends: but this Eye of the Soul (as we may call it)does not attain its proper state without goodness, as we have said before andas is quite plain, because the syllogisms into which Moral Action may beanalysed have for their Major Premiss,[53]“since —— is the End and the Chief Good”[54](fill up the blank with just anything you please, for we merely want to exhibitthe Form, so that anything will do), but how this blank should be filledis seen only by the good man: because Vice distorts the moral vision and causesmen to be deceived in respect of practicalprinciples.[55]
It is clear, therefore, that a man cannot be a Practically-Wise, without beinga good, man.
We must enquire again also about Virtue: for it may be divided into NaturalVirtue and Matured, which two bear to each other a relation similar to thatwhich Practical Wisdom bears to Cleverness, one not of identity butresemblance. I speak of Natural Virtue, because men hold that each of the moraldispositions attach to us all somehow by nature: we have dispositions[56]towards justice, self-mastery and courage, for instance, immediately from ourbirth: but still we seek Goodness in its highest sense as something distinctfrom these, and that these dispositions should attach to us in a somewhatdifferent fashion.[57]Children and brutes have these natural states, but then they are plainlyhurtful unless combined with an intellectual element: at least thus much ismatter of actual experience and observation, that as a strong body destitute ofsight must, if set in motion, fall violently because it has not sight, so it isalso in the case we are considering: but if it can get the intellectual elementit then excels in acting. Just so the Natural State of Virtue, being like thisstrong body, will then be Virtue in the highest sense when it too is combinedwith the intellectual element.
So that, as in the case of the Opinionative faculty, there are two forms,Cleverness and Practical Wisdom; so also in the case of the Moral there aretwo, Natural Virtue and Matured; and of these the latter cannot be formedwithout Practical Wisdom.[58]
This leads some to say that all the Virtues are merely intellectual PracticalWisdom, and Socrates was partly right in his enquiry and partly wrong: wrong inthat he thought all the Virtues were merely intellectual Practical Wisdom,right in saying they were not independent of that faculty.
A proof of which is that now all, in defining Virtue, add on the“state” [mentioning also to what standard it has reference, namelythat] “which is accordant with Right Reason:” now“right” means in accordance with Practical Wisdom. So then all seemto have an instinctive notion that that state which is in accordance withPractical Wisdom is Virtue; however, we must make a slight change in theirstatement, because that state is Virtue, not merely which is in accordance withbut which implies the possession of Right Reason; which, upon such matters, isPractical Wisdom. The difference between us and Socrates is this: he thoughtthe Virtues were reasoning processes (i.e. that they were all instancesof Knowledge in its strict sense), but we say they imply the possession ofReason.
From what has been said then it is clear that one cannot be, strictly speaking,good without Practical Wisdom nor Practically-Wise without moral goodness.
And by the distinction between Natural and Matured Virtue one can meet thereasoning by which it might be argued “that the Virtues are separablebecause the same man is not by nature most inclined to all at once so that hewill have acquired this one before he has that other:” we would replythat this is possible with respect to the Natural Virtues but not with respectto those in right of which a man is denominated simply good: because they willall belong to him together with the one faculty of Practical Wisdom.
It is plain too that even had it not been apt to act we should have needed it,because it is the Excellence of a part of the Soul; and that the moral choicecannot be right independently of Practical Wisdom and Moral Goodness; becausethis gives the right End, that causes the doing these things which conduce tothe End.
Then again, it is not Master of Science (i.e. of the superior part of theSoul), just as neither is the healing art Master of health; for it does notmake use of it, but looks how it may come to be: so it commands for the sake ofit but does not command it.
The objection is, in fact, about as valid as if a man should sayπολιτικὴ governs the gods because itgives orders about all things in the communty.
On ἐπισπήμη, from I. Post. Analyt.chap. i. and ii.
(Such parts only are translated as throw light on the Ethics.)
All teaching, and all intellectual learning, proceeds on the basis of previousknowledge, as will appear on an examination of all. The Mathematical Sciences,and every other system, draw their conclusions in this method. So too ofreasonings, whether by syllogism, or induction: for both teach through what ispreviously known, the former assuming the premisses as from wise men, thelatter proving universals from the evidentness of the particulars. In likemanner too rhetoricians persuade, either through examples (which amounts toinduction), or through enthymemes (which amounts to syllogism). CHAP. II
Well, we suppose that we know things (in the strict and proper sense ofthe word) when we suppose ourselves to know the cause by reason of which thething is to be the cause of it; and that this cannot be otherwise. It is plainthat the idea intended to be conveyed by the term knowing is somethingof this kind; because they who do not really know suppose themselves thusrelated to the matter in hand and they who do know really are so that ofwhatsoever there is properly speaking Knowledge this cannot be otherwise thanit is Whether or no there is another way of knowing we will say afterwards, butwe do say that we know through demonstration, by which I mean a syllogism aptto produce Knowledge, i.e. in right of which through having it, we know.
If Knowledge then is such as we have described it, the Knowledge produced bydemonstrative reasoning must be drawn from premisses true andfirst, and incapable of syllogistic proof, and betterknown, and prior in order of time, and causes of theconclusion, for so the principles will be akin to the conclusiondemonstrated.
(Syllogism, of course there may be without such premisses, but it will not bedemonstration because it will not produce knowledge).
True, they must be, because it is impossible to know that which is not.
First, that is indemonstrable, because, if demonstrable, he cannot besaid to know them who has no demonstration of them for knowing suchthings as are demonstrable is the same as having demonstration of them.
Causes they must be, and better known, and prior in time,causes, because we then know when we are acquainted with the cause, andprior, if causes, and known beforehand, not merely comprehendedin idea but known to exist (The terms prior, and better known, bear two sensesfor prior by nature and prior relatively to ourselves are not thesame, nor better known by nature, and better known to us I mean,by prior and better known relatively to ourselves, such things asare nearer to sensation, but abstractedly so such as are further Those arefurthest which are most universal those nearest which are particulars, andthese are mutually opposed.)
And by first, I mean principles akin to the conclusion, forprinciple means the same as first And the principle or first step indemonstration is a proposition incapable of syllogistic proof, i.e. oneto which there is none prior. Now of such syllogistic principles I call that aθέσις which you cannot demonstrate, and which isunnecessary with a view to learning something else. That which is necessary inorder to learn something else is an Axiom.
Further, since one is to believe and know the thing by having a syllogism ofthe kind called demonstration, and what constitutes it to be such is the natureof the premisses, it is necessary not merely to know before, but toknow better than the conclusion, either all or at least some of, theprinciples, because that which is the cause of a quality inhering in somethingelse always inheres itself more as the cause of our loving is itself morelovable. So, since the principles are the cause of our knowing and behoving weknow and believe them more, because by reason of them we know also theconclusion following.
Further: the man who is to have the Knowledge which comes through demonstrationmust not merely know and believe his principles better than he does hisconclusion, but he must believe nothing more firmly than the contradictories ofthose principles out of which the contrary fallacy may be constructed: since hewho knows, is to be simply and absolutely infallible.
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BOOK VII
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Next we must take a different point to start from,[1]and observe that of what is to be avoided in respect of moral character thereare three forms; Vice, Imperfect Self-Control, and Brutishness. Of the twoformer it is plain what the contraries are, for we call the one Virtue, theother Self-Control; and as answering to Brutishness it will be most suitable toassign Superhuman, i.e. heroical and godlike Virtue, as, in Homer, Priam saysof Hector “that he was very excellent, nor was he like the offspring ofmortal man, but of a god.” and so, if, as is commonly said, men areraised to the position of gods by reason of very high excellence in Virtue, thestate opposed to the Brutish will plainly be of this nature: because as brutesare not virtuous or vicious so neither are gods; but the state of these issomething more precious than Virtue, of the former something different in kindfrom Vice.
And as, on the one hand, it is a rare thing for a man to be godlike (a term theLacedæmonians are accustomed to use when they admire a man exceedingly;σεῖος ἀνὴρ they call him), sothe brutish man is rare; the character is found most among barbarians, and somecases of it are caused by disease or maiming; also such men as exceed in viceall ordinary measures we therefore designate by this opprobrious term. Well, wemust in a subsequent place make some mention of this disposition, and Vice hasbeen spoken of before: for the present we must speak of Imperfect Self-Controland its kindred faults of Softness and Luxury, on the one hand, and ofSelf-Control and Endurance on the other; since we are to conceive of them, notas being the same states exactly as Virtue and Vice respectively, nor again asdiffering in kind.
And we should adopt the same course as before, i.e. state the phenomena, and,after raising and discussing difficulties which suggest themselves, thenexhibit, if possible, all the opinions afloat respecting these affections ofthe moral character; or, if not all, the greater part and the most important:for we may consider we have illustrated the matter sufficiently when thedifficulties have been solved, and such theories as are most approved are leftas a residuum.
The chief points may be thus enumerated. It is thought,
I. That Self-Control and Endurance belong to the class of things good andpraiseworthy, while Imperfect Self-Control and Softness belong to that ofthings low and blameworthy.
II. That the man of Self-Control is identical with the man who is apt to abideby his resolution, and the man of Imperfect Self-Control with him who is apt todepart from his resolution.
III. That the man of Imperfect Self-Control does things at the instigation ofhis passions, knowing them to be wrong, while the man of Self-Control, knowinghis lusts to be wrong, refuses, by the influence of reason, to follow theirsuggestions.
IV. That the man of Perfected Self-Mastery unites the qualities of Self-Controland Endurance, and some say that every one who unites these is a man of PerfectSelf-Mastery, others do not.
V. Some confound the two characters of the man who has no Self-Control,and the man of Imperfect Self-Control, while others distinguish betweenthem.
VI. It is sometimes said that the man of Practical Wisdom cannot be a man ofImperfect Self-Control, sometimes that men who are Practically Wise and Cleverare of Imperfect Self-Control.
VII. Again, men are said to be of Imperfect Self-Control, not simply but withthe addition of the thing wherein, as in respect of anger, of honour, and gain.
These then are pretty well the common statements.
Now a man may raise a question as to the nature of the right conception inviolation of which a man fails of Self-Control.
That he can so fail when knowing in the strict sense what is right somesay is impossible: for it is a strange thing, as Socrates thought, that whileKnowledge is present in his mind something else should master him and drag himabout like a slave. Socrates in fact contended generally against the theory,maintaining there is no such state as that of Imperfect Self-Control, for thatno one acts contrary to what is best conceiving it to be best but by reason ofignorance what is best.
With all due respect to Socrates, his account of the matter is at variance withplain facts, and we must enquire with respect to the affection, if it be causedby ignorance what is the nature of the ignorance: for that the man so failingdoes not suppose his acts to be right before he is under the influence ofpassion is quite plain.[2]
There are people who partly agree with Socrates and partly not: that nothingcan be stronger than Knowledge they agree, but that no man acts incontravention of his conviction of what is better they do not agree; and sothey say that it is not Knowledge, but only Opinion, which the man in questionhas and yet yields to the instigation of his pleasures.
But then, if it is Opinion and not Knowledge, that is it the opposingconception be not strong but only mild (as in the case of real doubt), the notabiding by it in the face of strong lusts would be excusable: but wickedness isnot excusable, nor is anything which deserves blame.
Well then, is it Practical Wisdom which in this case offers opposition: forthat is the strongest principle? The supposition is absurd, for we shall havethe same man uniting Practical Wisdom and Imperfect Self-Control, and surely nosingle person would maintain that it is consistent with the character ofPractical Wisdom to do voluntarily what is very wrong; and besides we haveshown before that the very mark of a man of this character is aptitude to act,as distinguished from mere knowledge of what is right; because he is a manconversant with particular details, and possessed of all the other virtues.
Again, if the having strong and bad lusts is necessary to the idea of the manof Self-Control, this character cannot be identical with the man of PerfectedSelf-Mastery, because the having strong desires or bad ones does not enter intothe idea of this latter character: and yet the man of Self-Control must havesuch: for suppose them good; then the moral state which should hinder a manfrom following their suggestions must be bad, and so Self-Control would not bein all cases good: suppose them on the other hand to be weak and not wrong, itwould be nothing grand; nor anything great, supposing them to be wrong andweak.
Again, if Self-Control makes a man apt to abide by all opinions withoutexception, it may be bad, as suppose the case of a false opinion: and ifImperfect Self-Control makes a man apt to depart from all without exception, weshall have cases where it will be good; take that of Neoptolemus in thePhiloctetes of Sophocles, for instance: he is to be praised for not abiding bywhat he was persuaded to by Ulysses, because he was pained at being guilty offalsehood.
Or again, false sophistical reasoning presents a difficulty: for because menwish to prove paradoxes that they may be counted clever when they succeed, thereasoning that has been used becomes a difficulty: for the intellect isfettered; a man being unwilling to abide by the conclusion because it does notplease his judgment, but unable to advance because he cannot disentangle theweb of sophistical reasoning.
Or again, it is conceivable on this supposition that folly joined withImperfect Self-Control may turn out, in a given case, goodness: for by reasonof his imperfection of self-control a man acts in a way which contradicts hisnotions; now his notion is that what is really good is bad and ought not to bedone; and so he will eventually do what is good and not what is bad.
Again, on the same supposition, the man who acting on conviction pursues andchooses things because they are pleasant must be thought a better man than hewho does so not by reason of a quasi-rational conviction but of ImperfectSelf-Control: because he is more open to cure by reason of the possibility ofhis receiving a contrary conviction. But to the man of Imperfect Self-Controlwould apply the proverb, “when water chokes, what should a man drinkthen?” for had he never been convinced at all in respect of what hedoes,[3]then by a conviction in a contrary direction he might have stopped in hiscourse; but now though he has had convictions he notwithstanding acts againstthem.
Again, if any and every thing is the object-matter of Imperfect and PerfectSelf-Control, who is the man of Imperfect Self-Control simply? because no oneunites all cases of it, and we commonly say that some men are so simply, notadding any particular thing in which they are so.
Well, the difficulties raised are pretty near such as I have described them,and of these theories we must remove some and leave others as established;because the solving of a difficulty is a positive act of establishing somethingas true.
Now we must examine first whether men of Imperfect Self-Control act with aknowledge of what is right or not: next, if with such knowledge, in what sense;and next what are we to assume is the object-matter of the man of ImperfectSelf-Control, and of the man of Self-Control; I mean, whether pleasure and painof all kinds or certain definite ones; and as to Self-Control and Endurance,whether these are designations of the same character or different. And in likemanner we must go into all questions which are connected with the present.
But the real starting point of the enquiry is, whether the two characters ofSelf-Control and Imperfect Self-Control are distinguished by theirobject-matter, or their respective relations to it. I mean, whether the man ofImperfect Self-Control is such simply by virtue of having such and suchobject-matter; or not, but by virtue of his being related to it in such andsuch a way, or by virtue of both: next, whether Self-Control and ImperfectSelf-Control are unlimited in their object-matter: because he who is designatedwithout any addition a man of Imperfect Self-Control is not unlimited in hisobject-matter, but has exactly the same as the man who has lost allSelf-Control: nor is he so designated because of his relation to thisobject-matter merely (for then his character would be identical with that justmentioned, loss of all Self-Control), but because of his relation to it beingsuch and such. For the man who has lost all Self-Control is led on withdeliberate moral choice, holding that it is his line to pursue pleasure as itrises: while the man of Imperfect Self-Control does not think that he ought topursue it, but does pursue it all the same.
Now as to the notion that it is True Opinion and not Knowledge in contraventionof which men fail in Self-Control, it makes no difference to the point inquestion, because some of those who hold Opinions have no doubt about them butsuppose themselves to have accurate Knowledge; if then it is urged that menholding Opinions will be more likely than men who have Knowledge to act incontravention of their conceptions, as having but a moderate belief in them; wereply, Knowledge will not differ in this respect from Opinion: because some menbelieve their own Opinions no less firmly than others do their positiveKnowledge: Heraclitus is a case in point.
Rather the following is the account of it: the term knowing has twosenses; both the man who does not use his Knowledge, and he who does, are saidto know: there will be a difference between a man’s actingwrongly, who though possessed of Knowledge does not call it into operation, andhis doing so who has it and actually exercises it: the latter is a strangecase, but the mere having, if not exercising, presents no anomaly.
Again, as there are two kinds of propositions affectingaction,[4]universal and particular, there is no reason why a man may not act against hisKnowledge, having both propositions in his mind, using the universal but notthe particular, for the particulars are the objects of moral action.
There is a difference also in universalpropositions;[5]a universal proposition may relate partly to a man’s self and partly tothe thing in question: take the following for instance; “dry food is goodfor every man,” this may have the two minor premisses, “this is aman,” and “so and so is dry food;” but whether a givensubstance is so and so a man either has not the Knowledge or does not exert it.According to these different senses there will be an immense difference, sothat for a man to know in the one sense, and yet act wrongly, would benothing strange, but in any of the other senses it would be a matter forwonder.
Again, men may have Knowledge in a way different from any of those which havebeen now stated: for we constantly see a man’s state so differing byhaving and not using Knowledge, that he has it in a sense and also has not;when a man is asleep, for instance, or mad, or drunk: well, men under theactual operation of passion are in exactly similar conditions; for anger, lust,and some other such-like things, manifestly make changes even in the body, andin some they even cause madness; it is plain then that we must say the men ofImperfect Self-Control are in a state similar to these.
And their saying what embodies Knowledge is no proof of their actually thenexercising it, because they who are under the operation of these passionsrepeat demonstrations; or verses ofEmpedocles,[6]just as children, when first learning, string words together, but as yet knownothing of their meaning, because they must grow into it, and this is a processrequiring time: so that we must suppose these men who fail in Self-Control tosay these moral sayings just as actors do.
Furthermore, a man may look at the account of the phænomenon in the followingway, from an examination of the actual working of the mind: All action may beanalysed into a syllogism, in which the one premiss is an universal maxim andthe other concerns particulars of which Sense [moral or physical, as the casemay be] is cognisant: now when one results from these two, it followsnecessarily that, as far as theory goes the mind must assert the conclusion,and in practical propositions the man must act accordingly.
For instance, let the universal be, “All that is sweet should betasted,” the particular, “This is sweet;” it followsnecessarily that he who is able and is not hindered should not only draw, butput in practice, the conclusion “This is to be tasted.” When thenthere is in the mind one universal proposition forbidding to taste, and theother “All that is sweet is pleasant” with its minor “This issweet” (which is the one that really works), and desire happens to be inthe man, the first universal bids him avoid this but the desire leads him on totaste; for it has the power of moving the various organs: and so it resultsthat he fails in Self-Control, in a certain sense under the influence of Reasonand Opinion not contrary in itself to Reason but only accidentally so; becauseit is the desire that is contrary to Right Reason, but not theOpinion:[7]and so for this reason brutes are not accounted of Imperfect Self-Control,because they have no power of conceiving universals but only of receiving andretaining particular impressions.
As to the manner in which the ignorance is removed and the man of ImperfectSelf-Control recovers his Knowledge, the account is the same as with respect tohim who is drunk or asleep, and is not peculiar to this affection, sophysiologists[8]are the right people to apply to. But whereas the minor premiss of everypractical syllogism is an opinion on matter cognisable by Sense and determinesthe actions; he who is under the influence of passion either has not this, orso has it that his having does not amount to knowing but merely saying,as a man when drunk might repeat Empedocles’ verses; and because theminor term[9]is neither universal, nor is thought to have the power of producing Knowledgein like manner as the universal term: and so the result which Socrates wasseeking comes out, that is to say, the affection does not take place in thepresence of that which is thought to be specially and properly Knowledge, noris this dragged about by reason of the affection, but in the presence of thatKnowledge which is conveyed by Sense.
Let this account then be accepted of the question respecting the failure inSelf-Control, whether it is with Knowledge, and the manner in which suchfailure is possible or not, though a man possesses Knowledge.
The next question to be discussed is whether there is a character to bedesignated by the term “of Imperfect Self-Control” simply, orwhether all who are so are to be accounted such, in respect of some particularthing; and, if there is such a character, what is his object-matter.
Now that pleasures and pains are the object-matter of men of Self-Control andof Endurance, and also of men of Imperfect Self-Control and Softness, is plain.
Further, things which produce pleasure are either necessary, or objects ofchoice in themselves but yet admitting of excess. All bodily things whichproduce pleasure are necessary; and I call such those which relate to food andother grosser appetities, in short such bodily things as we assumed were theObject-matter of absence of Self-Control and of Perfected Self-Mastery.
The other class of objects are not necessary, but objects of choice inthemselves: I mean, for instance, victory, honour, wealth, and such-like goodor pleasant things. And those who are excessive in their liking for such thingscontrary to the principle of Right Reason which is in their own breasts we donot designate men of Imperfect Self-Control simply, but with the addition ofthe thing wherein, as in respect of money, or gain, or honour, or anger, andnot simply; because we consider them as different characters and only havingthat title in right of a kind of resemblance (as when we add to a man’sname “conqueror in the Olympic games” the account of him as Mandiffers but little from the account of him as the Man who conquered in theOlympic games, but still it is different). And a proof of the real differencebetween these so designated with an addition and those simply so called isthis, that Imperfect Self-Control is blamed, not as an error merely but also asbeing a vice, either wholly or partially; but none of these other cases is soblamed.
But of those who have for their object-matter the bodily enjoyments, which wesay are also the object-matter of the man of Perfected Self-Mastery and the manwho has lost all Self-Control, he that pursues excessive pleasures and too muchavoids[10]things which are painful (as hunger and thirst, heat and cold, and everythingconnected with touch and taste), not from moral choice but in spite of hismoral choice and intellectual conviction, is termed “a man of ImperfectSelf-Control,” not with the addition of any particular object-matter aswe do in respect of want of control of anger but simply.
And a proof that the term is thus applied is that the kindred term“Soft” is used in respect of these enjoyments but not in respect ofany of those others. And for this reason we put into the same rank the man ofImperfect Self-Control, the man who has lost it entirely, the man who has it,and the man of Perfected Self-Mastery; but not any of those other characters,because the former have for their object-matter the same pleasures and pains:but though they have the same object-matter, they are not related to it in thesame way, but two of them act upon moral choice, two without it. And so weshould say that man is more entirely given up to his passions who pursuesexcessive pleasures, and avoids moderate pains, being either not at all, or atleast but little, urged by desire, than the man who does so because his desireis very strong: because we think what would the former be likely to do if hehad the additional stimulus of youthful lust and violent pain consequent on thewant of those pleasures which we have denominated necessary?
Well then, since of desires and pleasures there are some which are in kindhonourable and good (because things pleasant are divisible, as we said before,into such as are naturally objects of choice, such as are naturally objects ofavoidance, and such as are in themselves indifferent, money, gain, honour,victory, for instance); in respect of all such and those that are indifferent,men are blamed not merely[11]for being affected by or desiring or liking them, but for exceeding in any wayin these feelings.
And so they are blamed, whosoever in spite of Reason are mastered by, that ispursue, any object, though in its nature noble and good; they, for instance,who are more earnest than they should be respecting honour, or their childrenor parents; not but what these are good objects and men are praised for beingearnest about them: but still they admit of excess; for instance, if any one,as Niobe did, should fight even against the gods, or feel towards his father asSatyrus, who got therefrom the nickname ofφιλοπάτωρ, because he was thoughtto be very foolish.
Now depravity there is none in regard of these things, for the reason assignedabove, that each of them in itself is a thing naturally choice-worthy, yet theexcesses in respect of them are wrong and matter for blame: and similarly thereis no Imperfect Self-Control in respect of these things; that being not merelya thing that should be avoided but blameworthy.
But because of the resemblance of the affection to the Imperfection ofSelf-Control the term is used with the addition in each case of the particularobject-matter, just as men call a man a bad physician, or bad actor, whom theywould not think of calling simply bad. As then in these cases we do not applythe term simply because each of the states is not a vice, but only like a vicein the way of analogy,[12]so it is plain that in respect of Imperfect Self-Control and Self-Control wemust limit the names to those states which have the same object-matter asPerfected Self-Mastery and utter loss of Self-Control, and that we do apply itto the case of anger only in the way of resemblance: for which reason, with anaddition, we designate a man of Imperfect Self-Control in respect of anger, asof honour or of gain.
As there are some things naturally pleasant, and of these two kinds; those,namely, which are pleasant generally, and those which are so relatively toparticular kinds of animals and men; so there are others which are notnaturally pleasant but which come to be so in consequence either of maimings,or custom, or depraved natural tastes: and one may observe moral states similarto those we have been speaking of, having respectively these classes of thingsfor their object-matter.
I mean the Brutish, as in the case of the female who, they say, would rip upwomen with child and eat the foetus; or the tastes which are found among thesavage tribes bordering on the Pontus, some liking raw flesh, and some beingcannibals, and some lending one another their children to make feasts of; orwhat is said of Phalaris. These are instances of Brutish states, caused in someby disease or madness; take, for instance, the man who sacrificed and ate hismother, or him who devoured the liver of his fellow-servant. Instances again ofthose caused by disease or by custom, would be, plucking out of hair, or eatingone’s nails, or eating coals and earth.[13]Now wherever nature is really the cause no one would think of calling men ofImperfect Self-Control, ... nor, in like manner, such as are in a diseasedstate through custom.
The having any of these inclinations is something foreign to what isdenominated Vice, just as Brutishness is: and when a man has them his masteringthem is not properly Self-Control, nor his being mastered by them Imperfectionof Self-Control in the proper sense, but only in the way of resemblance; justas we may say a man of ungovernable wrath fails of Self-Control in respect ofanger but not simply fails of Self-Control. For all excessive folly, cowardice,absence of Self-Control, or irritability, are either Brutish or morbid. Theman, for instance, who is naturally afraid of all things, even if a mouseshould stir, is cowardly after a Brutish sort; there was a man again who, byreason of disease, was afraid of a cat: and of the fools, they who arenaturally destitute of Reason and live only by Sense are Brutish, as are sometribes of the far-off barbarians, while others who are so by reason ofdiseases, epileptic or frantic, are in morbid states.
So then, of these inclinations, a man may sometimes merely have one withoutyielding to it: I mean, suppose that Phalaris had restrained his unnaturaldesire to eat a child: or he may both have and yield to it. As then Vice whensuch as belongs to human nature is called Vice simply, while the other is socalled with the addition of “brutish” or “morbid,” butnot simply Vice, so manifestly there is Brutish and Morbid Imperfection ofSelf-Control, but that alone is entitled to the name without any qualificationwhich is of the nature of utter absence of Self-Control, as it is found in Man.
It is plain then that the object-matter of Imperfect Self-Control andSelf-Control is restricted to the same as that of utter absence of Self-Controland that of Perfected Self-Mastery, and that the rest is the object-matter of adifferent species so named metaphorically and not simply: we will now examinethe position, “that Imperfect Self-Control in respect of Anger is lessdisgraceful than that in respect of Lusts.”
In the first place, it seems that Anger does in a way listen to Reason butmishears it; as quick servants who run out before they have heard the whole ofwhat is said and then mistake the order; dogs, again, bark at the slighteststir, before they have seen whether it be friend or foe; just so Anger, byreason of its natural heat and quickness, listening to Reason, but withouthaving heard the command of Reason, rushes to its revenge. That is to say,Reason or some impression on the mind shows there is insolence orcontempt[14]in the offender, and then Anger, reasoning as it were that one ought to fightagainst what is such, fires up immediately: whereas Lust, if Reason or Sense,as the case may be, merely says a thing is sweet, rushes to the enjoyment ofit: and so Anger follows Reason in a manner, but Lust does not and is thereforemore disgraceful: because he that cannot control his anger yields in a mannerto Reason, but the other to his Lust and not to Reason at all.
Again, a man is more excusable for following such desires as are natural, justas he is for following such Lusts as are common to all and to that degree inwhich they are common. Now Anger and irritability are more natural than Lustswhen in excess and for objects not necessary. (This was the ground of thedefence the man made who beat his father, “My father,” he said,“used to beat his, and his father his again, and this little fellowhere,” pointing to his child, “will beat me when he is grown a man:it runs in the family.” And the father, as he was being dragged along,bid his son leave off beating him at the door, because he had himself been usedto drag his father so far and no farther.)
Again, characters are less unjust in proportion as they involve lessinsidiousness. Now the Angry man is not insidious, nor is Anger, but quiteopen: but Lust is: as they say of Venus,
“Cyprus-born Goddess, weaver of deceits”
Or Homer of the girdle called the Cestus,
“Persuasiveness cheating e’en the subtlest mind.”
And so since this kind of Imperfect Self-Control is more unjust, it is alsomore disgraceful than that in respect of Anger, and is simply ImperfectSelf-Control, and Vice in a certain sense.
Again, no man feels pain in being insolent, but every one who acts throughAnger does act with pain; and he who acts insolently does it with pleasure. Ifthen those things are most unjust with which we have most right to be angry,then Imperfect Self-Control, arising from Lust, is more so than that arisingfrom Anger: because in Anger there is noinsolence.[15]
Well then, it is clear that Imperfect Self-Control in respect of Lusts is moredisgraceful than that in respect of Anger, and that the object-matter ofSelf-Control, and the Imperfection of it, are bodily Lusts and pleasures; butof these last we must take into account the differences; for, as was said atthe commencement, some are proper to the human race and natural both in kindand degree, others Brutish, and others caused by maimings and diseases.
Now the first of these only are the object-matter of Perfected Self-Mastery andutter absence of Self-Control; and therefore we never attribute either of thesestates to Brutes (except metaphorically, and whenever any one kind of animaldiffers entirely from another in insolence, mischievousness, or voracity),because they have not moral choice or process of deliberation, but are quitedifferent from that kind of creature just as are madmen from other men.
Brutishness is not so low in the scale as Vice, yet it is to be regarded withmore fear: because it is not that the highest principle has been corrupted, asin the human creature, but the subject has it not at all.
It is much the same, therefore, as if one should compare an inanimate with ananimate being, which were the worse: for the badness of that which has noprinciple of origination is always less harmful; now Intellect is a principleof origination. A similar case would be the comparing injustice and an unjustman together: for in different ways each is the worst: a bad man would produceten thousand times as much harm as a bad brute.
Now with respect to the pleasures and pains which come to a man through Touchand Taste, and the desiring or avoiding such (which we determined before toconstitute the object-matter of the states of utter absence of Self-Control andPerfected Self-Mastery), one may be so disposed as to yield to temptations towhich most men would be superior, or to be superior to those to which most menwould yield: in respect of pleasures, these characters will be respectively theman of Imperfect Self-Control, and the man of Self-Control; and, in respect ofpains, the man of Softness and the man of Endurance: but the moral state ofmost men is something between the two, even though they lean somewhat to theworse characters.
Again, since of the pleasures indicated some are necessary and some are not,others are so to a certain degree but not the excess or defect of them, andsimilarly also of Lusts and pains, the man who pursues the excess of pleasantthings, or such as are in themselves excess, or from moral choice, for theirown sake, and not for anything else which is to result from them, is a manutterly void of Self-Control: for he must be incapable of remorse, and soincurable, because he that has not remorse is incurable. (He that has toolittle love of pleasure is the opposite character, and the man of PerfectedSelf-Mastery the mean character.) He is of a similar character who avoids thebodily pains, not because he cannot, but because he chooses notto, withstand them.
But of the characters who go wrong without choosing so to do, the one isled on by reason of pleasure, the other because he avoids the pain it wouldcost him to deny his lust; and so they are different the one from the other.Now every one would pronounce a man worse for doing something base without anyimpulse of desire, or with a very slight one, than for doing the same from theimpulse of a very strong desire; for striking a man when not angry than if hedid so in wrath: because one naturally says, “What would he have done hadhe been under the influence of passion?” (and on this ground, by the bye,the man utterly void of Self-Control is worse than he who has it imperfectly).However, of the two characters which have been mentioned,[16][as included in that of utter absence of Self-Control], the one is ratherSoftness, the other properly the man of no Self-Control.
Furthermore, to the character of Imperfect Self-Control is opposed that ofSelf-Control, and to that of Softness that of Endurance: because Enduranceconsists in continued resistance but Self-Control in actual mastery, andcontinued resistance and actual mastery are as different as not being conqueredis from conquering; and so Self-Control is more choice-worthy than Endurance.
Again, he who fails when exposed to those temptations against which the commonrun of men hold out, and are well able to do so, is Soft and Luxurious (Luxurybeing a kind of Softness): the kind of man, I mean, to let his robe drag in thedirt to avoid the trouble of lifting it, and who, aping the sick man, does nothowever suppose himself wretched though he is like a wretched man. So it is toowith respect to Self-Control and the Imperfection of it: if a man yields topleasures or pains which are violent and excessive it is no matter for wonder,but rather for allowance if he made what resistance he could (instances are,Philoctetes in Theodectes’ drama when wounded by the viper; or Cercyon inthe Alope of Carcinus, or men who in trying to suppress laughter burst into aloud continuous fit of it, as happened, you remember, to Xenophantus), but itis a matter for wonder when a man yields to and cannot contend against thosepleasures or pains which the common herd are able to resist; always supposinghis failure not to be owing to natural constitution or disease, I mean, as theScythian kings are constitutionally Soft, or the natural difference between thesexes.
Again, the man who is a slave to amusement is commonly thought to be destituteof Self-Control, but he really is Soft; because amusement is an act ofrelaxing, being an act of resting, and the character in question is one ofthose who exceed due bounds in respect of this.
Moreover of Imperfect Self-Control there are two forms, Precipitancy andWeakness: those who have it in the latter form though they have maderesolutions do not abide by them by reason of passion; the others are led bypassion because they have never formed any resolutions at all: while there aresome who, like those who by tickling themselves beforehand get rid ofticklishness, having felt and seen beforehand the approach of temptation, androused up themselves and their resolution, yield not to passion; whether thetemptation be somewhat pleasant or somewhat painful. The Precipitate form ofImperfect Self-Control they are most liable to who are constitutionally of asharp or melancholy temperament: because the one by reason of the swiftness,the other by reason of the violence, of their passions, do not wait for Reason,because they are disposed to follow whatever notion is impressed upon theirminds.
Again, the man utterly destitute of Self-Control, as was observed before, isnot given to remorse: for it is part of his character that he abides by hismoral choice: but the man of Imperfect Self-Control is almost made up ofremorse: and so the case is not as we determined it before, but the former isincurable and the latter may be cured: for depravity is like chronic diseases,dropsy and consumption for instance, but Imperfect Self-Control is like acutedisorders: the former being a continuous evil, the latter not so. And, in fact,Imperfect Self-Control and Confirmed Vice are different in kind: the latterbeing imperceptible to its victim, the former notso.[17]
But, of the different forms of Imperfect Self-Control, those are better who arecarried off their feet by a sudden access of temptation than they who haveReason but do not abide by it; these last being overcome by passion less indegree, and not wholly without premeditation as are the others: for the man ofImperfect Self-Control is like those who are soon intoxicated and by littlewine and less than the common run of men.
Well then, that Imperfection of Self-Control is not Confirmed Viciousness isplain: and yet perhaps it is such in a way, because in one sense it is contraryto moral choice and in another the result of it:[18]at all events, in respect of the actions, the case is much like what Demodocussaid of the Miletians. “The people of Miletus are not fools, but they dojust the kind of things that fools do;” and so they of ImperfectSelf-Control are not unjust, but they do unjust acts.
But to resume. Since the man of Imperfect Self-Control is of such a characteras to follow bodily pleasures in excess and in defiance of Right Reason,without acting on any deliberate conviction, whereas the man utterly destituteof Self-Control does act upon a conviction which rests on his naturalinclination to follow after these pleasures; the former may be easily persuadedto a different course, but the latter not: for Virtue and Vice respectivelypreserve and corrupt the moral principle; now the motive is the principle orstarting point in moral actions, just as axioms and postulates are inmathematics: and neither in morals nor mathematics is it Reason which is apt toteach the principle; but Excellence, either natural or acquired by custom, inholding right notions with respect to the principle. He who does this in moralsis the man of Perfected Self-Mastery, and the contrary character is the manutterly destitute of Self-Control.
Again, there is a character liable to be taken off his feet in defiance ofRight Reason because of passion; whom passion so far masters as to prevent hisacting in accordance with Right Reason, but not so far as to make him beconvinced that it is his proper line to follow after such pleasures withoutlimit: this character is the man of Imperfect Self- Control, better than he whois utterly destitute of it, and not a bad man simply and without qualification:because in him the highest and best part, i.e. principle, is preserved: andthere is another character opposed to him who is apt to abide by hisresolutions, and not to depart from them; at all events, not at the instigationof passion.
It is evident then from all this, that Self-Control is a good state and theImperfection of it a bad one.
Next comes the question, whether a man is a man of Self-Control for abiding byhis conclusions and moral choice be they of what kind they may, or only by theright one; or again, a man of Imperfect Self-Control for not abiding by hisconclusions and moral choice be they of whatever kind; or, to put the case wedid before, is he such for not abiding by false conclusions and wrong moralchoice?
Is not this the truth, that incidentally it is by conclusions and moralchoice of any kind that the one character abides and the other does not, butper se true conclusions and right moral choice:[19]to explain what is meant by incidentally, and per se; suppose a manchooses or pursues this thing for the sake of that, he is said to pursue andchoose that per se, but this only incidentally. For the term perse we use commonly the word “simply,” and so, in a way, it isopinion of any kind soever by which the two characters respectively abide ornot, but he is “simply” entitled to the designations who abides ornot by the true opinion.
There are also people, who have a trick of abiding by their, own opinions, whoare commonly called Positive, as they who are hard to be persuaded, and whoseconvictions are not easily changed: now these people bear some resemblance tothe character of Self-Control, just as the prodigal to the liberal or the rashman to the brave, but they are different in many points. The man ofSelf-Control does not change by reason of passion and lust, yet when occasionso requires he will be easy of persuasion: but the Positive man changes not atthe call of Reason, though many of this class take up certain desires and areled by their pleasures. Among the class of Positive are the Opinionated, theIgnorant, and the Bearish: the first, from the motives of pleasure and pain: Imean, they have the pleasurable feeling of a kind of victory in not havingtheir convictions changed, and they are pained when their decrees, so to speak,are reversed: so that, in fact, they rather resemble the man of ImperfectSelf-Control than the man of Self-Control.
Again, there are some who depart from their resolutions not by reason of anyImperfection of Self-Control; take, for instance, Neoptolemus in thePhiloctetes of Sophocles. Here certainly pleasure was the motive of hisdeparture from his resolution, but then it was one of a noble sort: for to betruthful was noble in his eyes and he had been persuaded by Ulysses to lie.
So it is not every one who acts from the motive of pleasure who is utterlydestitute of Self-Control or base or of Imperfect Self-Control, only he whoacts from the impulse of a base pleasure.
Moreover as there is a character who takes less pleasure than he ought inbodily enjoyments, and he also fails to abide by the conclusion of hisReason,[20]the man of Self-Control is the mean between him and the man of ImperfectSelf-Control: that is to say, the latter fails to abide by them because ofsomewhat too much, the former because of somewhat too little; while the man ofSelf-Control abides by them, and never changes by reason of anything else thansuch conclusions.
Now of course since Self-Control is good both the contrary States must be bad,as indeed they plainly are: but because the one of them is seen in few persons,and but rarely in them, Self-Control comes to be viewed as if opposed only tothe Imperfection of it, just as Perfected Self-Mastery is thought to be opposedonly to utter want of Self-Control.
Again, as many terms are used in the way of similitude, so people have come totalk of the Self-Control of the man of Perfected Self-Mastery in the way ofsimilitude: for the man of Self-Control and the man of Perfected Self-Masteryhave this in common, that they do nothing against Right Reason on the impulseof bodily pleasures, but then the former has bad desires, the latter not; andthe latter is so constituted as not even to feel pleasure contrary to hisReason, the former feels but does not yield to it.
Like again are the man of Imperfect Self-Control and he who is utterlydestitute of it, though in reality distinct: both follow bodily pleasures, butthe latter under a notion that it is the proper line for him to take, hisformer without any such notion.
And it is not possible for the same man to be at once a man of Practical Wisdomand of Imperfect Self-Control: because the character of Practical Wisdomincludes, as we showed before, goodness of moral character. And again, it isnot knowledge merely, but aptitude for action, which constitutes PracticalWisdom: and of this aptitude the man of Imperfect Self-Control is destitute.But there is no reason why the Clever man should not be of ImperfectSelf-Control: and the reason why some men are occasionally thought to be men ofPractical Wisdom, and yet of Imperfect Self-Control, is this, that Clevernessdiffers from Practical Wisdom in the way I stated in a former book, and is verynear it so far as the intellectual element is concerned but differs in respectof the moral choice.
Nor is the man of Imperfect Self-Control like the man who both has and callsinto exercise his knowledge, but like the man who, having it, is overpowered bysleep or wine. Again, he acts voluntarily (because he knows, in a certainsense, what he does and the result of it), but he is not a confirmed bad man,for his moral choice is good, so he is at all events only half bad. Nor is heunjust, because he does not act with deliberate intent: for of the two chiefforms of the character, the one is not apt to abide by his deliberateresolutions, and the other, the man of constitutional strength of passion, isnot apt to deliberate at all.
So in fact the man of Imperfect Self-Control is like a community which makesall proper enactments, and has admirable laws, only does not act on them,verifying the scoff of Anaxandrides,
“That State did will it, which cares nought for laws;”
whereas the bad man is like one which acts upon its laws, but thenunfortunately they are bad ones.
Imperfection of Self-Control and Self-Control, after all, are above the averagestate of men; because he of the latter character is more true to his Reason,and the former less so, than is in the power of most men.
Again, of the two forms of Imperfect Self-Control that is more easily curedwhich they have who are constitutionally of strong passions, than that of thosewho form resolutions and break them; and they that are so through habituationthan they that are so naturally; since of course custom is easier to changethan nature, because the very resemblance of custom to nature is whatconstitutes the difficulty of changing it; as Evenus says,
“Practice, I say, my friend, doth long endure,And at the last is even very nature.”
We have now said then what Self-Control is, what Imperfection of Self-Control,what Endurance, and what Softness, and how these states are mutually related.
To consider the subject of Pleasure and Pain falls within the province of theSocial-Science Philosopher, since he it is who has to fix the Master-End whichis to guide us in dominating any object absolutely evil or good.
But we may say more: an enquiry into their nature is absolutely necessary.First, because we maintained that Moral Virtue and Moral Vice are bothconcerned with Pains and Pleasures: next, because the greater part of mankindassert that Happiness must include Pleasure (which by the way accounts for theword they use, μακάριος;χαίρειν being the root of that word).
Now some hold that no one Pleasure is good, either in itself or as a matter ofresult, because Good and Pleasure are not identical. Others that some Pleasuresare good but the greater number bad. There is yet a third view; granting thatevery Pleasure is good, still the Chief Good cannot possibly be Pleasure.
In support of the first opinion (that Pleasure is utterly not-good) it is urgedthat:
1. Every Pleasure is a sensible process towards a complete state; but no suchprocess is akin to the end to be attained: e.g. no process of buildingto the completed house.
2. The man of Perfected Self-Mastery avoids Pleasures.
3. The man of Practical Wisdom aims at avoiding Pain, not at attainingPleasure.
4. Pleasures are an impediment to thought, and the more so the more keenly theyare felt. An obvious instance will readily occur.
5. Pleasure cannot be referred to any Art: and yet every good is the result ofsome Art.
6. Children and brutes pursue Pleasures.
In support of the second (that not all Pleasures are good), That there are somebase and matter of reproach, and some even hurtful: because some things thatare pleasant produce disease.
In support of the third (that Pleasure is not the Chief Good), That it is notan End but a process towards creating an End.
This is, I think, a fair account of current views on the matter.
But that the reasons alleged do not prove it either to be not-good or the ChiefGood is plain from the following considerations.
First. Good being either absolute or relative, of course the natures and statesembodying it will be so too; therefore also the movements and the processes ofcreation. So, of those which are thought to be bad some will be bad absolutely,but relatively not bad, perhaps even choice-worthy; some not even choice-worthyrelatively to any particular person, only at certain times or for a short timebut not in themselves choice-worthy.
Others again are not even Pleasures at all though they produce that impressionon the mind: all such I mean as imply pain and whose purpose is cure; those ofsick people, for instance.
Next, since Good may be either an active working or a state, those[κινήσεις orγενέσεις] which tend to place us inour natural state are pleasant incidentally because of that tendency: but theactive working is really in the desires excited in the remaining (sound) partof our state or nature: for there are Pleasures which have no connection withpain or desire: the acts of contemplative intellect, for instance, in whichcase there is no deficiency in the nature or state of him who performs theacts.
A proof of this is that the same pleasant thing does not produce the sensationof Pleasure when the natural state is being filled up or completed as when itis already in its normal condition: in this latter case what give the sensationare things pleasant per se, in the former even those things which arecontrary. I mean, you find people taking pleasure in sharp or bitter things ofwhich no one is naturally or in itself pleasant; of course not therefore thePleasures arising from them, because it is obvious that as is theclassification of pleasant things such must be that of the Pleasures arisingfrom them.
Next, it does not follow that there must be something else better than anygiven pleasure because (as some say) the End must be better than the processwhich creates it. For it is not true that all Pleasures are processes or evenattended by any process, but (some are) active workings or even Ends: in factthey result not from our coming to be something but from our using our powers.Again, it is not true that the End is, in every case, distinct from theprocess: it is true only in the case of such processes as conduce to theperfecting of the natural state.
For which reason it is wrong to say that Pleasure is “a sensible processof production.” For “process etc.” should be substituted“active working of the natural state,” for “sensible”“unimpeded.” The reason of its being thought to be a “processetc.” is that it is good in the highest sense: people confusing“active working” and “process,” whereas they really aredistinct.
Next, as to the argument that there are bad Pleasures because some things whichare pleasant are also hurtful to health, it is the same as saying that somehealthful things are bad for “business.” In this sense, of course,both may be said to be bad, but then this does not make them out to be badsimpliciter: the exercise of the pure Intellect sometimes hurts aman’s health: but what hinders Practical Wisdom or any state whatever is,not the Pleasure peculiar to, but some Pleasure foreign to it: the Pleasuresarising from the exercise of the pure Intellect or from learning only promoteeach.
Next. “No Pleasure is the work of any Art.” What else would youexpect? No active working is the work of any Art, only the faculty of soworking. Still the perfumer’s Art or the cook’s are thought tobelong to Pleasure.
Next. “The man of Perfected Self-Mastery avoids Pleasures.”“The man of Practical Wisdom aims at escaping Pain rather than atattaining Pleasure.”
“Children and brutes pursue Pleasures.”
One answer will do for all.
We have already said in what sense all Pleasures are good per se and inwhat sense not all are good: it is the latter class that brutes and childrenpursue, such as are accompanied by desire and pain, that is the bodilyPleasures (which answer to this description) and the excesses of them: inshort, those in respect of which the man utterly destitute of Self-Control isthus utterly destitute. And it is the absence of the pain arising from thesePleasures that the man of Practical Wisdom aims at. It follows that thesePleasures are what the man of Perfected Self-Mastery avoids: for obviously hehas Pleasures peculiarly his own.
Then again, it is allowed that Pain is an evil and a thing to be avoided partlyas bad per se, partly as being a hindrance in some particular way. Nowthe contrary of that which is to be avoided, quâ it is to be avoided,i.e. evil, is good. Pleasure then must be a good.
The attempted answer of Speusippus, “that Pleasure may be opposed and yetnot contrary to Pain, just as the greater portion of any magnitude is contraryto the less but only opposed to the exact half,” will not hold: for hecannot say that Pleasure is identical with evil of any kind.
Again. Granting that some Pleasures are low, there is no reason why someparticular Pleasure may not be very good, just as some particular Science maybe although there are some which are low.
Perhaps it even follows, since each state may have active working unimpeded,whether the active workings of all be Happiness or that of some one of them,that this active working, if it be unimpeded, must be choice-worthy: nowPleasure is exactly this. So that the Chief Good may be Pleasure of some kind,though most Pleasures be (let us assume) low per se.
And for this reason all men think the happy life is pleasant, and interweavePleasure with Happiness. Reasonably enough: because Happiness is perfect, butno impeded active working is perfect; and therefore the happy man needs as anaddition the goods of the body and the goods external and fortune that in thesepoints he may not be fettered. As for those who say that he who is beingtortured on the wheel, or falls into great misfortunes is happy provided onlyhe be good, they talk nonsense, whether they mean to do so or not. On the otherhand, because fortune is needed as an addition, some hold good fortune to beidentical with Happiness: which it is not, for even this in excess is ahindrance, and perhaps then has no right to be called good fortune since it isgood only in so far as it contributes to Happiness.
The fact that all animals, brute and human alike, pursue Pleasure, is somepresumption of its being in a sense the Chief Good;
(“There must be something in what most folks say,”) only as one andthe same nature or state neither is nor is thought to be the best, so neitherdo all pursue the same Pleasure, Pleasure nevertheless all do. Nay further,what they pursue is, perhaps, not what they think nor what they would say theypursue, but really one and the same: for in all there is some instinct abovethemselves. But the bodily Pleasures have received the name exclusively,because theirs is the most frequent form and that which is universally partakenof; and so, because to many these alone are known they believe them to be theonly ones which exist.
It is plain too that, unless Pleasure and its active working be good, it willnot be true that the happy man’s life embodies Pleasure: for why will hewant it on the supposition that it is not good and that he can live even withPain? because, assuming that Pleasure is not good, then Pain is neither evilnor good, and so why should he avoid it?
Besides, the life of the good man is not more pleasurable than any other unlessit be granted that his active workings are so too.
Some enquiry into the bodily Pleasures is also necessary for those who say thatsome Pleasures, to be sure, are highly choice-worthy (the good ones to wit),but not the bodily Pleasures; that is, those which are the object-matter of theman utterly destitute of Self-Control.
If so, we ask, why are the contrary Pains bad? they cannot be (on theirassumption) because the contrary of bad is good.
May we not say that the necessary bodily Pleasures are good in the sense inwhich that which is not-bad is good? or that they are good only up to a certainpoint? because such states or movements as cannot have too much of the bettercannot have too much of Pleasure, but those which can of the former can also ofthe latter. Now the bodily Pleasures do admit of excess: in fact the low badman is such because he pursues the excess of them instead of those which arenecessary (meat, drink, and the objects of other animal appetites do givepleasure to all, but not in right manner or degree to all). But his relation toPain is exactly the contrary: it is not excessive Pain, but Pain at all, thathe avoids [which makes him to be in this way too a bad low man], because onlyin the case of him who pursues excessive Pleasure is Pain contrary to excessivePleasure.
It is not enough however merely to state the truth, we should also show how thefalse view arises; because this strengthens conviction. I mean, when we havegiven a probable reason why that impresses people as true which really is nottrue, it gives them a stronger conviction of the truth. And so we must nowexplain why the bodily Pleasures appear to people to be more choice-worthy thanany others.
The first obvious reason is, that bodily Pleasure drives out Pain; and becausePain is felt in excess men pursue Pleasure in excess, i.e. generallybodily Pleasure, under the notion of its being a remedy for that Pain. Theseremedies, moreover, come to be violent ones; which is the very reason they arepursued, since the impression they produce on the mind is owing to their beinglooked at side by side with their contrary.
And, as has been said before, there are the two following reasons why bodilyPleasure is thought to be not-good.
1. Some Pleasures of this class are actings of a low nature, whether congenitalas in brutes, or acquired by custom as in low bad men.
2. Others are in the nature of cures, cures that is of some deficiency; now ofcourse it is better to have [the healthy state] originally than that it shouldaccrue afterwards.
(But some Pleasures result when natural states are being perfected: thesetherefore are good as a matter of result.)
Again, the very fact of their being violent causes them to be pursued by suchas can relish no others: such men in fact create violent thirsts for themselves(if harmless ones then we find no fault, if harmful then it is bad and low)because they have no other things to take pleasure in, and the neutral state isdistasteful to some people constitutionally; for toil of some kind isinseparable from life, as physiologists testify, telling us that the acts ofseeing or hearing are painful, only that we are used to the pain and do notfind it out.
Similarly in youth the constant growth produces a state much like that ofvinous intoxication, and youth is pleasant. Again, men of the melancholictemperament constantly need some remedial process (because the body, from itstemperament, is constantly being worried), and they are in a chronic state ofviolent desire. But Pleasure drives out Pain; not only such Pleasure as isdirectly contrary to Pain but even any Pleasure provided it be strong: and thisis how men come to be utterly destitute of Self-Mastery, i.e. low andbad.
But those Pleasures which are unconnected with Pains do not admit of excess:i.e. such as belong to objects which are naturally pleasant and notmerely as a matter of result: by the latter class I mean such as are remedial,and the reason why these are thought to be pleasant is that the cure resultsfrom the action in some way of that part of the constitution which remainssound. By “pleasant naturally” I mean such as put into action anature which is pleasant.
The reason why no one and the same thing is invariably pleasant is that ournature is, not simple, but complex, involving something different from itself(so far as we are corruptible beings). Suppose then that one part of thisnature be doing something, this something is, to the other part, unnatural:but, if there be an equilibrium of the two natures, then whatever is being doneis indifferent. It is obvious that if there be any whose nature is simple andnot complex, to such a being the same course of acting will always be the mostpleasurable.
For this reason it is that the Divinity feels Pleasure which is always one,i.e. simple: not motion merely but also motionlessness acts, andPleasure resides rather in the absence than in the presence of motion.
The reason why the Poet’s dictum “change is of all things mostpleasant” is true, is “a baseness in our blood;” for as thebad man is easily changeable, bad must be also the nature that craves change,i.e. it is neither simple nor good.
We have now said our say about Self-Control and its opposite; and aboutPleasure and Pain. What each is, and how the one set is good the other bad. Wehave yet to speak of Friendship.
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BOOK VIII
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Next would seem properly to follow a dissertation on Friendship: because, inthe first place, it is either itself a virtue or connected with virtue; andnext it is a thing most necessary for life, since no one would choose to livewithout friends though he should have all the other good things in the world:and, in fact, men who are rich or possessed of authority and influence arethought to have special need of friends: for where is the use of suchprosperity if there be taken away the doing of kindnesses of which friends arethe most usual and most commendable objects? Or how can it be kept or preservedwithout friends? because the greater it is so much the more slippery andhazardous: in poverty moreover and all other adversities men think friends tobe their only refuge.
Furthermore, Friendship helps the young to keep from error: the old, in respectof attention and such deficiencies in action as their weakness makes themliable to; and those who are in their prime, in respect of noble deeds(“They two together going,” Homer says, you may remember),because they are thus more able to devise plans and carry them out.
Again, it seems to be implanted in us by Nature: as, for instance, in theparent towards the offspring and the offspring towards the parent (not merelyin the human species, but likewise in birds and most animals), and in those ofthe same tribe towards one another, and specially in men of the same nation;for which reason we commend those men who love their fellows: and one may seein the course of travel how close of kin and how friendly man is to man.
Furthermore, Friendship seems to be the bond of Social Communities, andlegislators seem to be more anxious to secure it than Justice even. I mean,Unanimity is somewhat like to Friendship, and this they certainly aim at andspecially drive out faction as being inimical.
Again, where people are in Friendship Justice is notrequired;[1]but, on the other hand, though they are just they need Friendship in addition,and that principle which is most truly just is thought to partake of the natureof Friendship.
Lastly, not only is it a thing necessary but honourable likewise: since wepraise those who are fond of friends, and the having numerous friends isthought a matter of credit to a man; some go so far as to hold, that“good man” and “friend” are terms synonymous.
Yet the disputed points respecting it are not few: some men lay down that it isa kind of resemblance, and that men who are like one another are friends:whence come the common sayings, “Like will to like,” “Birdsof a feather,” and so on. Others, on the contrary, say, that all suchcome under the maxim, “Two of a trade neveragree.”[2]
Again, some men push their enquiries on these points higher and reasonphysically: as Euripides, who says,
“The earth by drought consumed doth love the rain,And the great heaven, overcharged with rain,Doth love to fall in showers upon the earth.”
Heraclitus, again, maintains, that “contrariety is expedient, and thatthe best agreement arises from things differing, and that all things come intobeing in the way of the principle of antagonism.”
Empedocles, among others, in direct opposition to these, affirms, that“like aims at like.”
These physical questions we will take leave to omit, inasmuch as they areforeign to the present enquiry; and we will examine such as are proper to manand concern moral characters and feelings: as, for instance, “DoesFriendship arise among all without distinction, or is it impossible for bad mento be friends?” and, “Is there but one species of Friendship, orseveral?” for they who ground the opinion that there is but one on thefact that Friendship admits of degrees hold that upon insufficient proof;because things which are different in species admit likewise of degrees (onthis point we have spoken before).
Our view will soon be cleared on these points when we have ascertained what isproperly the object-matter of Friendship: for it is thought that not everythingindiscriminately, but some peculiar matter alone, is the object of thisaffection; that is to say, what is good, or pleasurable, or useful. Now itwould seem that that is useful through which accrues any good or pleasure, andso the objects of Friendship, as absolute Ends, are the good and thepleasurable.
A question here arises; whether it is good absolutely or that which is good tothe individuals, for which men feel Friendship (these two being sometimesdistinct): and similarly in respect of the pleasurable. It seems then that eachindividual feels it towards that which is good to himself, and thatabstractedly it is the real good which is the object of Friendship, and to eachindividual that which is good to each. It comes then to this; that eachindividual feels Friendship not for what is but for that whichconveys to his mind the impression of being good to himself. But thiswill make no real difference, because that which is truly the object ofFriendship will also convey this impression to the mind.
There are then three causes from which men feel Friendship: but the term is notapplied to the case of fondness for things inanimate because there is norequital of the affection nor desire for the good of those objects: itcertainly savours of the ridiculous to say that a man fond of wine wishes wellto it: the only sense in which it is true being that he wishes it to be keptsafe and sound for his own use and benefit.[3]But to the friend they say one should wish all good for his sake. And when mendo thus wish good to another (he not reciprocating the feeling), people callthem Kindly; because Friendship they describe as being “Kindlinessbetween persons who reciprocate it.” But must they not add that thefeeling must be mutually known? for many men are kindly disposed towards thosewhom they have never seen but whom they conceive to be amiable or useful: andthis notion amounts to the same thing as a real feeling between them.
Well, these are plainly Kindly-disposed towards one another: but how can onecall them friends while their mutual feelings are unknown to one another? tocomplete the idea of Friendship, then, it is requisite that they have kindlyfeelings towards one another, and wish one another good from one of theaforementioned causes, and that these kindly feelings should be mutually known.
As the motives to Friendship differ in kind so do the respective feelings andFriendships. The species then of Friendship are three, in number equal to theobjects of it, since in the line of each there may be “mutual affectionmutually known.”
Now they who have Friendship for one another desire one another’s goodaccording to the motive of their Friendship; accordingly they whose motive isutility have no Friendship for one another really, but only in so far as somegood arises to them from one another.
And they whose motive is pleasure are in like case: I mean, they haveFriendship for men of easy pleasantry, not because they are of a givencharacter but because they are pleasant to themselves. So then they whosemotive to Friendship is utility love their friends for what is good tothemselves; they whose motive is pleasure do so for what is pleasurable tothemselves; that is to say, not in so far as the friend beloved is butin so far as he is useful or pleasurable. These Friendships then are a matterof result: since the object is not beloved in that he is the man he is but inthat he furnishes advantage or pleasure as the case may be.
Such Friendships are of course very liable to dissolution if the parties do notcontinue alike: I mean, that the others cease to have any Friendship for themwhen they are no longer pleasurable or useful. Now it is the nature of utilitynot to be permanent but constantly varying: so, of course, when the motivewhich made them friends is vanished, the Friendship likewise dissolves; sinceit existed only relatively to those circumstances.
Friendship of this kind is thought to exist principally among the old (becausemen at that time of life pursue not what is pleasurable but what isprofitable); and in such, of men in their prime and of the young, as are givento the pursuit of profit. They that are such have no intimate intercourse withone another; for sometimes they are not even pleasurable to one another; nor,in fact, do they desire such intercourse unless their friends are profitable tothem, because they are pleasurable only in so far as they have hopes ofadvantage. With these Friendships is commonly ranked that of hospitality.
But the Friendship of the young is thought to be based on the motive ofpleasure: because they live at the beck and call of passion and generallypursue what is pleasurable to themselves and the object of the present moment:and as their age changes so likewise do their pleasures.
This is the reason why they form and dissolve Friendships rapidly: since theFriendship changes with the pleasurable object and such pleasure changesquickly.
The young are also much given up to Love; this passion being, in great measure,a matter of impulse and based on pleasure: for which cause they conceiveFriendships and quickly drop them, changing often in the same day: but thesewish for society and intimate intercourse with their friends, since they thusattain the object of their Friendship.
That then is perfect Friendship which subsists between those who are good andwhose similarity consists in their goodness: for these men wish oneanother’s good in similar ways; in so far as they are good (and good theyare in themselves); and those are specially friends who wish good to theirfriends for their sakes, because they feel thus towards them on their ownaccount and not as a mere matter of result; so the Friendship between these mencontinues to subsist so long as they are good; and goodness, we know, has in ita principle of permanence.
Moreover, each party is good abstractedly and also relatively to his friend,for all good men are not only abstractedly good but also useful to one another.Such friends are also mutually pleasurable because all good men are soabstractedly, and also relatively to one another, inasmuch as to eachindividual those actions are pleasurable which correspond to his nature, andall such as are like them. Now when men are good these will be always the same,or at least similar.
Friendship then under these circumstances is permanent, as we should reasonablyexpect, since it combines in itself all the requisite qualifications offriends. I mean, that Friendship of whatever kind is based upon good orpleasure (either abstractedly or relatively to the person entertaining thesentiment of Friendship), and results from a similarity of some sort; and tothis kind belong all the aforementioned requisites in the parties themselves,because in this the parties are similar, and so on:[4]moreover, in it there is the abstractedly good and the abstractedly pleasant,and as these are specially the object-matter of Friendship so the feeling andthe state of Friendship is found most intense and most excellent in men thusqualified.
Rare it is probable Friendships of this kind will be, because men of this kindare rare. Besides, all requisite qualifications being presupposed, there isfurther required time and intimacy: for, as the proverb says, men cannot knowone another “till they have eaten the requisite quantity of salttogether;” nor can they in fact admit one another to intimacy, much lessbe friends, till each has appeared to the other and been proved to be a fitobject of Friendship. They who speedily commence an interchange of friendlyactions may be said to wish to be friends, but they are not so unless they arealso proper objects of Friendship and mutually known to be such: that is tosay, a desire for Friendship may arise quickly but not Friendship itself.
Well, this Friendship is perfect both in respect of the time and in all otherpoints; and exactly the same and similar results accrue to each party from theother; which ought to be the case between friends.
The friendship based upon the pleasurable is, so to say, a copy of this, sincethe good are sources of pleasure to one another: and that based on utilitylikewise, the good being also useful to one another. Between men thus connectedFriendships are most permanent when the same result accrues to both from oneanother, pleasure, for instance; and not merely so but from the same source, asin the case of two men of easy pleasantry; and not as it is in that of a loverand the object of his affection, these not deriving their pleasure from thesame causes, but the former from seeing the latter and the latter fromreceiving the attentions of the former: and when the bloom of youth fades theFriendship sometimes ceases also, because then the lover derives no pleasurefrom seeing and the object of his affection ceases to receive the attentionswhich were paid before: in many cases, however, people so connected continuefriends, if being of similar tempers they have come from custom to like oneanother’s disposition.
Where people do not interchange pleasure but profit in matters of Love, theFriendship is both less intense in degree and also less permanent: in fact,they who are friends because of advantage commonly part when the advantageceases; for, in reality, they never were friends of one another but of theadvantage.
So then it appears that from motives of pleasure or profit bad men may befriends to one another, or good men to bad men or men of neutral character toone of any character whatever: but disinterestedly, for the sake of oneanother, plainly the good alone can be friends; because bad men have nopleasure even in themselves unless in so far as some advantage arises.
And further, the Friendship of the good is alone superior to calumny; it notbeing easy for men to believe a third person respecting one whom they have longtried and proved: there is between good men mutual confidence, and the feelingthat one’s friend would never have done one wrong, and all other suchthings as are expected in Friendship really worthy the name; but in the otherkinds there is nothing to prevent all such suspicions.
I call them Friendships, because since men commonly give the name of friends tothose who are connected from motives of profit (which is justified by politicallanguage, for alliances between states are thought to be contracted with a viewto advantage), and to those who are attached to one another by the motive ofpleasure (as children are), we may perhaps also be allowed to call such personsfriends, and say there are several species of Friendship; primarily andspecially that of the good, in that they are good, and the rest only in the wayof resemblance: I mean, people connected otherwise are friends in that way inwhich there arises to them somewhat good and some mutual resemblance (because,we must remember the pleasurable is good to those who are fond of it).
These secondary Friendships, however, do not combine very well; that is to say,the same persons do not become friends by reason of advantage and by reason ofthe pleasurable, for these matters of result are not often combined. AndFriendship having been divided into these kinds, bad men will be friends byreason of pleasure or profit, this being their point of resemblance; while thegood are friends for one another’s sake, that is, in so far as they aregood.
These last may be termed abstractedly and simply friends, the former as amatter of result and termed friends from their resemblance to these last.
Further; just as in respect of the different virtues some men are termed goodin respect of a certain inward state, others in respect of acts of working, sois it in respect of Friendship: I mean, they who live together take pleasurein, and impart good to, one another: but they who are asleep or are locallyseparated do not perform acts, but only are in such a state as to act in afriendly way if they acted at all: distance has in itself no direct effect uponFriendship, but only prevents the acting it out: yet, if the absence beprotracted, it is thought to cause a forgetfulness even of the Friendship: andhence it has been said, “many and many a Friendship doth want ofintercourse destroy.”
Accordingly, neither the old nor the morose appear to be calculated forFriendship, because the pleasurableness in them is small, and no one can spendhis days in company with that which is positively painful or even notpleasurable; since to avoid the painful and aim at the pleasurable is one ofthe most obvious tendencies of human nature. They who get on with one anothervery fairly, but are not in habits of intimacy, are rather like people havingkindly feelings towards one another than friends; nothing being socharacteristic of friends as the living with one another, because thenecessitous desire assistance, and the happy companionship, they being the lastpersons in the world for solitary existence: but people cannot spend their timetogether unless they are mutually pleasurable and take pleasure in the sameobjects, a quality which is thought to appertain to the Friendship ofcompanionship.
The connection then subsisting between the good is Friendship parexcellence, as has already been frequently said: since that which isabstractedly good or pleasant is thought to be an object of Friendship andchoice-worthy, and to each individual whatever is such to him; and the good manto the good man for both these reasons.
(Now the entertaining the sentiment is like a feeling, but Friendship itselflike a state: because the former may have for its object even things inanimate,but requital of Friendship is attended with moral choice which proceeds from amoral state: and again, men wish good to the objects of their Friendship fortheir sakes, not in the way of a mere feeling but of moral state.)
And the good, in loving their friend, love their own good (inasmuch as the goodman, when brought into that relation, becomes a good to him with whom he is soconnected), so that either party loves his own good, and repays his friendequally both in wishing well and in the pleasurable: for equality is said to bea tie of Friendship. Well, these points belong most to the Friendship betweengood men.
But between morose or elderly men Friendship is less apt to arise, because theyare somewhat awkward-tempered, and take less pleasure in intercourse andsociety; these being thought to be specially friendly and productive ofFriendship: and so young men become friends quickly, old men not so (becausepeople do not become friends with any, unless they take pleasure in them); andin like manner neither do the morose. Yet men of these classes entertain kindlyfeelings towards one another: they wish good to one another and render mutualassistance in respect of their needs, but they are not quite friends, becausethey neither spend their time together nor take pleasure in one another, whichcircumstances are thought specially to belong to Friendship.
To be a friend to many people, in the way of the perfect Friendship, is notpossible; just as you cannot be in love with many at once: it is, so to speak,a state of excess which naturally has but one object; and besides, it is not aneasy thing for one man to be very much pleased with many people at the sametime, nor perhaps to find many really good. Again, a man needs experience, andto be in habits of close intimacy, which is very difficult.
But it is possible to please many on the score of advantage andpleasure: because there are many men of the kind, and the services may berendered in a very short time.
Of the two imperfect kinds that which most resembles the perfect is theFriendship based upon pleasure, in which the same results accrue from both andthey take pleasure in one another or in the same objects; such as are theFriendships of the young, because a generous spirit is most found in these. TheFriendship because of advantage is the connecting link of shopkeepers.
Then again, the very happy have no need of persons who are profitable, but ofpleasant ones they have because they wish to have people to live intimatelywith; and what is painful they bear for a short time indeed, but continuouslyno one could support it, nay, not even the Chief Good itself, if it werepainful to him individually: and so they look out for pleasant friends: perhapsthey ought to require such to be good also; and good moreover to themselvesindividually, because then they will have all the proper requisites ofFriendship.
Men in power are often seen to make use of several distinct friends: for someare useful to them and others pleasurable, but the two are not often united:because they do not, in fact, seek such as shall combine pleasantness andgoodness, nor such as shall be useful for honourable purposes: but with a viewto attain what is pleasant they look out for men of easy-pleasantry; and again,for men who are clever at executing any business put into their hands: andthese qualifications are not commonly found united in the same man.
It has been already stated that the good man unites the qualities ofpleasantness and usefulness: but then such a one will not be a friend to asuperior unless he be also his superior in goodness: for if this be not thecase, he cannot, being surpassed in one point, make things equal by aproportionate degree of Friendship.[5]And characters who unite superiority of station and goodness are not common.
Now all the kinds of Friendship which have been already mentioned exist in astate of equality, inasmuch as either the same results accrue to both and theywish the same things to one another, or else they barter one thing againstanother; pleasure, for instance, against profit: it has been said already thatFriendships of this latter kind are less intense in degree and less permanent.
And it is their resemblance or dissimilarity to the same thing which makes themto be thought to be and not to be Friendships: they show like Friendships inright of their likeness to that which is based on virtue (the one kind havingthe pleasurable, the other the profitable, both of which belong also to theother); and again, they do not show like Friendships by reason of theirunlikeness to that true kind; which unlikeness consists herein, that while thatis above calumny and so permanent these quickly change and differ in many otherpoints.
But there is another form of Friendship, that, namely, in which the one partyis superior to the other; as between father and son, elder and younger, husbandand wife, ruler and ruled. These also differ one from another: I mean, theFriendship between parents and children is not the same as between ruler andthe ruled, nor has the father the same towards the son as the son towards thefather, nor the husband towards the wife as she towards him; because the work,and therefore the excellence, of each of these is different, and differenttherefore are the causes of their feeling Friendship; distinct and differenttherefore are their feelings and states of Friendship.
And the same results do not accrue to each from the other, nor in fact oughtthey to be looked for: but, when children render to their parents what theyought to the authors of their being, and parents to their sons what they oughtto their offspring, the Friendship between such parties will be permanent andequitable.
Further; the feeling of Friendship should be in a due proportion in allFriendships which are between superior and inferior; I mean, the better man, orthe more profitable, and so forth, should be the object of a stronger feelingthan he himself entertains, because when the feeling of Friendship comes to beafter a certain rate then equality in a certain sense is produced, which isthought to be a requisite in Friendship.
(It must be remembered, however, that the equal is not in the same case asregards Justice and Friendship: for in strict Justice the exactly proportionedequal ranks first, and the actual numerically equal ranks second, while inFriendship this is exactly reversed.)
And that equality is thus requisite is plainly shown by the occurrence of agreat difference of goodness or badness, or prosperity, or something else: forin this case, people are not any longer friends, nay they do not even feel thatthey ought to be. The clearest illustration is perhaps the case of the gods,because they are most superior in all good things. It is obvious too, in thecase of kings, for they who are greatly their inferiors do not feel entitled tobe friends to them; nor do people very insignificant to be friends to those ofvery high excellence or wisdom. Of course, in such cases it is out of thequestion to attempt to define up to what point they may continue friends: foryou may remove many points of agreement and the Friendship last nevertheless;but when one of the parties is very far separated (as a god from men), itcannot continue any longer.
This has given room for a doubt, whether friends do really wish to theirfriends the very highest goods, as that they may be gods: because, in case thewish were accomplished, they would no longer have them for friends, nor in factwould they have the good things they had, because friends are good things. Ifthen it has been rightly said that a friend wishes to his friend good thingsfor that friend’s sake, it must be understood that he is to remain suchas he now is: that is to say, he will wish the greatest good to him of which asman he is capable: yet perhaps not all, because each man desires good forhimself most of all.
It is thought that desire for honour makes the mass of men wish rather to bethe objects of the feeling of Friendship than to entertain it themselves (andfor this reason they are fond of flatterers, a flatterer being a friendinferior or at least pretending to be such and rather to entertain towardsanother the feeling of Friendship than to be himself the object of it), sincethe former is thought to be nearly the same as being honoured, which the massof men desire. And yet men seem to choose honour, not for its own sake, butincidentally:[6]I mean, the common run of men delight to be honoured by those in power becauseof the hope it raises; that is they think they shall get from them anythingthey may happen to be in want of, so they delight in honour as an earnest offuture benefit. They again who grasp at honour at the hands of the good andthose who are really acquainted with their merits desire to confirm their ownopinion about themselves: so they take pleasure in the conviction that they aregood, which is based on the sentence of those who assert it. But in being theobjects of Friendship men delight for its own sake, and so this may be judgedto be higher than being honoured and Friendship to be in itself choice-worthy.Friendship, moreover, is thought to consist in feeling, rather than being theobject of, the sentiment of Friendship, which is proved by the delight mothershave in the feeling: some there are who give their children to be adopted andbrought up by others, and knowing them bear this feeling towards them neverseeking to have it returned, if both are not possible; but seeming to becontent with seeing them well off and bearing this feeling themselves towardsthem, even though they, by reason of ignorance, never render to them any filialregard or love.
Since then Friendship stands rather in the entertaining, than in being theobject of, the sentiment, and they are praised who are fond of their friends,it seems that entertaining the sentiment is the Excellence of friends; and so,in whomsoever this exists in due proportion these are stable friends and theirFriendship is permanent. And in this way may they who are unequal best befriends, because they may thus be made equal.
Equality, then, and similarity are a tie to Friendship, and specially thesimilarity of goodness, because good men, being stable in themselves, are alsostable as regards others, and neither ask degrading services nor render them,but, so to say, rather prevent them: for it is the part of the good neither todo wrong themselves nor to allow their friends in so doing.
The bad, on the contrary, have no principle of stability: in fact, they do noteven continue like themselves: only they come to be friends for a short timefrom taking delight in one another’s wickedness. Those connected bymotives of profit, or pleasure, hold together somewhat longer: so long, that isto say, as they can give pleasure or profit mutually.
The Friendship based on motives of profit is thought to be most of all formedout of contrary elements: the poor man, for instance, is thus a friend of therich, and the ignorant of the man of information; that is to say, a mandesiring that of which he is, as it happens, in want, gives something else inexchange for it. To this same class we may refer the lover and beloved, thebeautiful and the ill-favoured. For this reason lovers sometimes show in aridiculous light by claiming to be the objects of as intense a feeling as theythemselves entertain: of course if they are equally fit objects of Friendshipthey are perhaps entitled to claim this, but if they have nothing of the kindit is ridiculous.
Perhaps, moreover, the contrary does not aim at its contrary for its own sakebut incidentally: the mean is really what is grasped at; it being good for thedry, for instance, not to become wet but to attain the mean, and so of the hot,etc.
However, let us drop these questions, because they are in fact somewhat foreignto our purpose.
It seems too, as was stated at the commencement, that Friendship and Justicehave the same object-matter, and subsist between the same persons: I mean thatin every Communion there is thought to be some principle of Justice and alsosome Friendship: men address as friends, for instance, those who are theircomrades by sea, or in war, and in like manner also those who are brought intoCommunion with them in other ways: and the Friendship, because also theJustice, is co-extensive with the Communion, This justifies the common proverb,“the goods of friends are common,” since Friendship rests uponCommunion.
Now brothers and intimate companions have all in common, but other people havetheir property separate, and some have more in common and others less, becausethe Friendships likewise differ in degree. So too do the various principles ofJustice involved, not being the same between parents and children as betweenbrothers, nor between companions as between fellow-citizens merely, and so onof all the other conceivable Friendships. Different also are the principles ofInjustice as regards these different grades, and the acts become intensified bybeing done to friends; for instance, it is worse to rob your companion than onewho is merely a fellow-citizen; to refuse help to a brother than to a stranger;and to strike your father than any one else. So then the Justice naturallyincreases with the degree of Friendship, as being between the same parties andof equal extent.
All cases of Communion are parts, so to say, of the great Social one, since inthem men associate with a view to some advantage and to procure some of thosethings which are needful for life; and the great Social Communion is thoughtoriginally to have been associated and to continue for the sake of someadvantage: this being the point at which legislators aim, affirming that to bejust which is generally expedient.
All the other cases of Communion aim at advantage in particular points; thecrew of a vessel at that which is to result from the voyage which is undertakenwith a view to making money, or some such object; comrades in war at that whichis to result from the war, grasping either at wealth or victory, or it may be apolitical position; and those of the same tribe, or Demus, in like manner.
Some of them are thought to be formed for pleasure’s sake, those, forinstance, of bacchanals or club-fellows, which are with a view to Sacrifice ormerely company. But all these seem to be ranged under the great Social one,inasmuch as the aim of this is, not merely the expediency of the moment but,for life and at all times; with a view to which the members of it institutesacrifices and their attendant assemblies, to render honour to the gods andprocure for themselves respite from toil combined with pleasure. For it appearsthat sacrifices and religious assemblies in old times were made as a kind offirst-fruits after the ingathering of the crops, because at such seasons theyhad most leisure.
So then it appears that all the instances of Communion are parts of the greatSocial one: and corresponding Friendships will follow upon such Communions.
Of Political Constitutions there are three kinds; and equal in number are thedeflections from them, being, so to say, corruptions of them.
The former are Kingship, Aristocracy, and that which recognises the principleof wealth, which it seems appropriate to call Timocracy (I give to it the nameof a political constitution because people commonly do so). Of these the bestis Monarchy, and Timocracy the worst.
From Monarchy the deflection is Despotism; both being Monarchies but widelydiffering from each other; for the Despot looks to his own advantage, but theKing to that of his subjects: for he is in fact no King who is not thoroughlyindependent and superior to the rest in all good things, and he that is thishas no further wants: he will not then have to look to his own advantage but tothat of his subjects, for he that is not in such a position is a mere Kingelected by lot for the nonce.
But Despotism is on a contrary footing to this Kingship, because the Despotpursues his own good: and in the case of this its inferiority is most evident,and what is worse is contrary to what is best. The Transition to Despotism ismade from Kingship, Despotism being a corrupt form of Monarchy, that is to say,the bad King comes to be a Despot.
From Aristocracy to Oligarchy the transition is made by the fault of the Rulersin distributing the public property contrary to right proportion; and givingeither all that is good, or the greatest share, to themselves; and the officesto the same persons always, making wealth their idol; thus a few bear rule andthey bad men in the place of the best.
From Timocracy the transition is to Democracy, they being contiguous: for it isthe nature of Timocracy to be in the hands of a multitude, and all in the samegrade of property are equal. Democracy is the least vicious of all, sinceherein the form of the constitution undergoes least change.
Well, these are generally the changes to which the various Constitutions areliable, being the least in degree and the easiest to make.
Likenesses, and, as it were, models of them, one may find even in Domesticlife: for instance, the Communion between a Father and his Sons presents thefigure of Kingship, because the children are the Father’s care: and henceHomer names Jupiter Father because Kingship is intended to be a paternal rule.Among the Persians, however, the Father’s rule is Despotic, for theytreat their Sons as slaves. (The relation of Master to Slaves is of the natureof Despotism because the point regarded herein is the Master’s interest):this now strikes me to be as it ought, but the Persian custom to be mistaken;because for different persons there should be different rules.
Between Husband and Wife the relation takes the form of Aristocracy, because herules by right and in such points only as the Husband should, and gives to theWife all that befits her to have. Where the Husband lords it in everything hechanges the relation into an Oligarchy; because he does it contrary to rightand not as being the better of the two. In some instances the Wives take thereins of government, being heiresses: here the rule is carried on not in rightof goodness but by reason of wealth and power, as it is in Oligarchies.
Timocracy finds its type in the relation of Brothers: they being equal exceptas to such differences as age introduces: for which reason, if they are verydifferent in age, the Friendship comes to be no longer a fraternal one: whileDemocracy is represented specially by families which have no head (all beingthere equal), or in which the proper head is weak and so every member does thatwhich is right in his own eyes.
Attendant then on each form of Political Constitution there plainly isFriendship exactly co-extensive with the principle of Justice; that between aKing and his Subjects being in the relation of a superiority of benefit,inasmuch as he benefits his subjects; it being assumed that he is a good kingand takes care of their welfare as a shepherd tends his flock; whence Homer (toquote him again) calls Agamemnon, “shepherd of the people.” And ofthis same kind is the Paternal Friendship, only that it exceeds the former inthe greatness of the benefits done; because the father is the author of being(which is esteemed the greatest benefit) and of maintenance and education(these things are also, by the way, ascribed to ancestors generally): and bythe law of nature the father has the right of rule over his sons, ancestorsover their descendants, and the king over his subjects.
These friendships are also between superiors and inferiors, for which reasonparents are not merely loved but also honoured. The principle of Justice alsobetween these parties is not exactly the same but according to proportiton,because so also is the Friendship.
Now between Husband and Wife there is the same Friendship as in Aristocracy:for the relation is determined by relative excellence, and the better personhas the greater good and each has what befits: so too also is the principle ofJustice between them.
The Fraternal Friendship is like that of Companions, because brothers are equaland much of an age, and such persons have generally like feelings and likedispositions. Like to this also is the Friendship of a Timocracy, because thecitizens are intended to be equal and equitable: rule, therefore, passes fromhand to hand, and is distributed on equal terms: so too is the Friendshipaccordingly.
In the deflections from the constitutional forms, just as the principle ofJustice is but small so is the Friendship also: and least of all in the mostperverted form: in Despotism there is little or no Friendship. For generallywherever the ruler and the ruled have nothing in common there is no Friendshipbecause there is no Justice; but the case is as between an artisan and histool, or between soul and body, and master and slave; all these are benefitedby those who use them, but towards things inanimate there is neither Friendshipnor Justice: nor even towards a horse or an ox, or a slave quâ slave,because there is nothing in common: a slave as such is an animate tool, a toolan inanimate slave. Quâ slave, then, there is no Friendship towards him,only quâ man: for it is thought that there is some principle of Justicebetween every man, and every other who can share in law and be a party to anagreement; and so somewhat of Friendship, in so far as he is man. So inDespotisms the Friendships and the principle of Justice are inconsiderable inextent, but in Democracies they are most considerable because they who areequal have much in common.
Now of course all Friendship is based upon Communion, as has been alreadystated: but one would be inclined to separate off from the rest the Friendshipof Kindred, and that of Companions: whereas those of men of the same city, ortribe, or crew, and all such, are more peculiarly, it would seem, based uponCommunion, inasmuch as they plainly exist in right of some agreement expressedor implied: among these one may rank also the Friendship of Hospitality,
The Friendship of Kindred is likewise of many kinds, and appears in all itsvarieties to depend on the Parental: parents, I mean, love their children asbeing a part of themselves, children love their parents as being themselvessomewhat derived from them. But parents know their offspring more than theseknow that they are from the parents, and the source is more closely bound tothat which is produced than that which is produced is to that which formed it:of course, whatever is derived from one’s self is proper to that fromwhich it is so derived (as, for instance, a tooth or a hair, or any other thingwhatever to him that has it): but the source to it is in no degree proper, orin an inferior degree at least.
Then again the greater length of time comes in: the parents love theiroffspring from the first moment of their being, but their offspring them onlyafter a lapse of time when they have attained intelligence or instinct. Theseconsiderations serve also to show why mothers have greater strength ofaffection than fathers.
Now parents love their children as themselves (since what is derived fromthemselves becomes a kind of other Self by the fact of separation), butchildren their parents as being sprung from them. And brothers love one anotherfrom being sprung from the same; that is, their sameness with the common stockcreates a sameness with one another;[7]whence come the phrases, “same blood,” “root,” and soon. In fact they are the same, in a sense, even in the separate distinctindividuals.
Then again the being brought up together, and the nearness of age, are a greathelp towards Friendship, for a man likes one of his own age and persons who areused to one another are companions, which accounts for the resemblance betweenthe Friendship of Brothers and that of Companions.
And cousins and all other relatives derive their bond of union from these, thatis to say, from their community of origin: and the strength of this bond variesaccording to their respective distances from the common ancestor.
Further: the Friendship felt by children towards parents, and by men towardsthe gods, is as towards something good and above them; because these haveconferred the greatest possible benefits, in that they are the causes of theirbeing and being nourished, and of their having been educated after they werebrought into being.
And Friendship of this kind has also the pleasurable and the profitable morethan that between persons unconnected by blood, in proportion as their life isalso more shared in common. Then again in the Fraternal Friendship there is allthat there is in that of Companions, and more in the good, and generally inthose who are alike; in proportion as they are more closely tied and from theirvery birth have a feeling of affection for one another to begin with, and asthey are more like in disposition who spring from the same stock and have grownup together and been educated alike: and besides this they have the greatestopportunities in respect of time for proving one another, and can thereforedepend most securely upon the trial.
Between Husband and Wife there is thought to be Friendship by a law of nature:man being by nature disposed to pair, more than to associate in Communities: inproportion as the family is prior in order of time and more absolutelynecessary than the Community. And procreation is more common to him with otheranimals; all the other animals have Communion thus far, but human creaturescohabit not merely for the sake of procreation but also with a view to life ingeneral:[8]because in this connection the works are immediately divided, and some belongto the man, others to the woman: thus they help one the other, putting what ispeculiar to each into the common stock.
And for these reasons this Friendship is thought to combine the profitable andthe pleasurable: it will be also based upon virtue if they are good people;because each has goodness and they may take delight in this quality in eachother. Children too are thought to be a tie: accordingly the childless soonerseparate, for the children are a good common to both and anything in common isa bond of union.
The question how a man is to live with his wife, or (more generally) one friendwith another, appears to be no other than this, how it is just that theyshould: because plainly there is not the same principle of Justice between afriend and friend, as between strangers, or companions, or mere chancefellow-travellers.
There are then, as was stated at the commencement of this book, three kinds ofFriendship, and in each there may be friends on a footing of equality andfriends in the relation of superior and inferior; we find, I mean, that peoplewho are alike in goodness, become friends, and better with worse, and so alsopleasant people; again, because of advantage people are friends, eitherbalancing exactly their mutual profitableness or differing from one anotherherein. Well then, those who are equal should in right of this equality beequalised also by the degree of their Friendship and the other points, andthose who are on a footing of inequality by rendering Friendship in proportionto the superiority of the other party.
Fault-finding and blame arises, either solely or most naturally, in Friendshipof which utility is the motive: for they who are friends by reason of goodness,are eager to do kindnesses to one another because this is a natural result ofgoodness and Friendship; and when men are vying with each other for this Endthere can be no fault-finding nor contention: since no one is annoyed at onewho entertains for him the sentiment of Friendship and does kindnesses to him,but if of a refined mind he requites him with kind actions. And suppose thatone of the two exceeds the other, yet as he is attaining his object he will notfind fault with his friend, for good is the object of each party.
Neither can there well be quarrels between men who are friends forpleasure’s sake: because supposing them to delight in living togetherthen both attain their desire; or if not a man would be put in a ridiculouslight who should find fault with another for not pleasing him, since it is inhis power to forbear intercourse with him. But the Friendship because ofadvantage is very liable to fault-finding; because, as the parties use oneanother with a view to advantage, the requirements are continually enlarging,and they think they have less than of right belongs to them, and find faultbecause though justly entitled they do not get as much as they want: while theywho do the kindnesses, can never come up to the requirements of those to whomthey are being done.
It seems also, that as the Just is of two kinds, the unwritten and the legal,so Friendship because of advantage is of two kinds, what may be called theMoral, and the Legal: and the most fruitful source of complaints is thatparties contract obligations and discharge them not in the same line ofFriendship. The Legal is upon specified conditions, either purely tradesmanlikefrom hand to hand or somewhat more gentlemanly as regards time but still byagreement a quid pro quo.
In this Legal kind the obligation is clear and admits of no dispute, thefriendly element is the delay in requiring its discharge: and for this reasonin some countries no actions can be maintained at Law for the recovery of suchdebts, it being held that they who have dealt on the footing of credit must becontent to abide the issue.
That which may be termed the Moral kind is not upon specified conditions, but aman gives as to his friend and so on: but still he expects to receive anequivalent, or even more, as though he had not given but lent: he also willfind fault, because he does not get the obligation discharged in the same wayas it was contracted.
Now this results from the fact, that all men, or the generality at least,wish what is honourable, but, when tested, choose what isprofitable; and the doing kindnesses disinterestedly is honourable whilereceiving benefits is profitable. In such cases one should, if able, make areturn proportionate to the good received, and do so willingly, because oneought not to make a disinterested friend[9]of a man against his inclination: one should act, I say, as having made amistake originally in receiving kindness from one from whom one ought not tohave received it, he being not a friend nor doing the act disinterestedly; oneshould therefore discharge one’s self of the obligation as havingreceived a kindness on specified terms: and if able a man would engage to repaythe kindness, while if he were unable even the doer of it would not expect itof him: so that if he is able he ought to repay it. But one ought at the firstto ascertain from whom one is receiving kindness, and on what understanding,that on that same understanding one may accept it or not.
A question admitting of dispute is whether one is to measure a kindness by thegood done to the receiver of it, and make this the standard by which torequite, or by the kind intention of the doer?
For they who have received kindnesses frequently plead in depreciation thatthey have received from their benefactors such things as were small for them togive, or such as they themselves could have got from others: while the doers ofthe kindnesses affirm that they gave the best they had, and what could not havebeen got from others, and under danger, or in such-like straits.
May we not say, that as utility is the motive of the Friendship the advantageconferred on the receiver must be the standard? because he it is who requeststhe kindness and the other serves him in his need on the understanding that heis to get an equivalent: the assistance rendered is then exactly proportionateto the advantage which the receiver has obtained, and he should therefore repayas much as he gained by it, or even more, this being more creditable.
In Friendships based on goodness, the question, of course, is never raised, butherein the motive of the doer seems to be the proper standard, since virtue andmoral character depend principally on motive.
Quarrels arise also in those Friendships in which the parties are unequalbecause each party thinks himself entitled to the greater share, and of course,when this happens, the Friendship is broken up.
The man who is better than the other thinks that having the greater sharepertains to him of right, for that more is always awarded to the good man: andsimilarly the man who is more profitable to another than that other to him:“one who is useless,” they say, “ought not to share equally,for it comes to a tax, and not a Friendship, unless the fruits of theFriendship are reaped in proportion to the works done:” their notionbeing, that as in a money partnership they who contribute more receive more soshould it be in Friendship likewise.
On the other hand, the needy man and the less virtuous advance the oppositeclaim: they urge that “it is the very business of a good friend to helpthose who are in need, else what is the use of having a good or powerful friendif one is not to reap the advantage at all?”
Now each seems to advance a right claim and to be entitled to get more out ofthe connection than the other, only not more of the same thing: but thesuperior man should receive more respect, the needy man more profit: respectbeing the reward of goodness and beneficence, profit being the aid of need.
This is plainly the principle acted upon in Political Communities: he receivesno honour who gives no good to the common stock: for the property of the Publicis given to him who does good to the Public, and honour is the property of thePublic; it is not possible both to make money out of the Public and receivehonour likewise; because no one will put up with the less in every respect: soto him who suffers loss as regards money they award honour, but money to himwho can be paid by gifts: since, as has been stated before, the observing dueproportion equalises and preserves Friendship.
Like rules then should be observed in the intercourse of friends who areunequal; and to him who advantages another in respect of money, or goodness,that other should repay honour, making requital according to his power; becauseFriendship requires what is possible, not what is strictly due, this being notpossible in all cases, as in the honours paid to the gods and to parents: noman could ever make the due return in these cases, and so he is thought to be agood man who pays respect according to his ability.
For this reason it may be judged never to be allowable for a son to disown hisfather, whereas a father may his son: because he that owes is bound to pay; nowa son can never, by anything he has done, fully requite the benefits firstconferred on him by his father, and so is always a debtor. But they to whomanything is owed may cast off their debtors: therefore the father may his son.But at the same time it must perhaps be admitted, that it seems no father everwould sever himself utterly from a son, except in a case of exceedingdepravity: because, independently of the natural Friendship, it is like humannature not to put away from one’s self the assistance which a son mightrender. But to the son, if depraved, assisting his father is a thing to beavoided, or at least one which he will not be very anxious to do; most menbeing willing enough to receive kindness, but averse to doing it asunprofitable.
Let thus much suffice on these points.
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BOOK IX
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Well, in all the Friendships the parties to which are dissimilar it is theproportionate which equalises and preserves the Friendship, as has been alreadystated: I mean, in the Social Friendship the cobbler, for instance, gets anequivalent for his shoes after a certain rate; and the weaver, and all othersin like manner. Now in this case a common measure has been provided in money,and to this accordingly all things are referred and by this are measured: butin the Friendship of Love the complaint is sometimes from the lover that,though he loves exceedingly, his love is not requited; he having perhaps allthe time nothing that can be the object of Friendship: again, oftentimes fromthe object of love that he who as a suitor promised any and every thing nowperforms nothing. These cases occur because the Friendship of the lover for thebeloved object is based upon pleasure, that of the other for him upon utility,and in one of the parties the requisite quality is not found: for, as these arerespectively the grounds of the Friendship, the Friendship comes to be brokenup because the motives to it cease to exist: the parties loved not one anotherbut qualities in one another which are not permanent, and so neither are theFriendships: whereas the Friendship based upon the moral character of theparties, being independent and disinterested, is permanent, as we have alreadystated.
Quarrels arise also when the parties realise different results and not thosewhich they desire; for the not attaining one’s special object is all one,in this case, with getting nothing at all: as in the well-known case where aman made promises to a musician, rising in proportion to the excellence of hismusic; but when, the next morning, the musician claimed the performance of hispromises, he said that he had given him pleasure for pleasure: of course, ifeach party had intended this, it would have been all right: but if the onedesires amusement and the other gain, and the one gets his object but the othernot, the dealing cannot be fair: because a man fixes his mind upon what hehappens to want, and will give so and so for that specific thing.
The question then arises, who is to fix the rate? the man who first gives, orthe man who first takes? because, primâ facie, the man who first givesseems to leave the rate to be fixed by the other party. This, they say, was infact the practice of Protagoras: when he taught a man anything he would bid thelearner estimate the worth of the knowledge gained by his own private opinion;and then he used to take so much from him. In such cases some people adopt therule,
“With specified reward a friend should be content.”
They are certainly fairly found fault with who take the money in advance andthen do nothing of what they said they would do, their promises having been sofar beyond their ability; for such men do not perform what they agreed, TheSophists, however, are perhaps obliged to take this course, because no onewould give a sixpence for their knowledge. These then, I say, are fairly foundfault with, because they do not what they have already taken money for doing.
In cases where no stipulation as to the respective services is made they whodisinterestedly do the first service will not raise the question (as we havesaid before), because it is the nature of Friendship, based on mutual goodnessto be reference to the intention of the other, the intention beingcharacteristic of the true friend and of goodness.
And it would seem the same rule should be laid down for those who are connectedwith one another as teachers and learners of philosophy; for here the value ofthe commodity cannot be measured by money, and, in fact, an exactly equivalentprice cannot be set upon it, but perhaps it is sufficient to do what one can,as in the case of the gods or one’s parents.
But where the original giving is not upon these terms but avowedly for somereturn, the most proper course is perhaps for the requital to be such asboth shall allow to be proportionate, and, where this cannot be, thenfor the receiver to fix the value would seem to be not only necessary but alsofair: because when the first giver gets that which is equivalent to theadvantage received by the other, or to what he would have given to secure thepleasure he has had, then he has the value from him: for not only is this seento be the course adopted in matters of buying and selling but also in someplaces the law does not allow of actions upon voluntary dealings; on theprinciple that when one man has trusted another he must be content to have theobligation discharged in the same spirit as he originally contracted it: thatis to say, it is thought fairer for the trusted, than for the trusting, party,to fix the value. For, in general, those who have and those who wish to getthings do not set the same value on them: what is their own, and what they givein each case, appears to them worth a great deal: but yet the return is madeaccording to the estimate of those who have received first, it should perhapsbe added that the receiver should estimate what he has received, not by thevalue he sets upon it now that he has it, but by that which he set upon itbefore he obtained it.
Questions also arise upon such points as the following: Whether one’sfather has an unlimited claim on one’s services and obedience, or whetherthe sick man is to obey his physician? or, in an election of a general, thewarlike qualities of the candidates should be alone regarded?
In like manner whether one should do a service rather to one’s friend orto a good man? whether one should rather requite a benefactor or give toone’s companion, supposing that both are not within one’s power?
Is not the true answer that it is no easy task to determine all such questionsaccurately, inasmuch as they involve numerous differences of all kinds, inrespect of amount and what is honourable and what is necessary? It is obvious,of course, that no one person can unite in himself all claims. Again, therequital of benefits is, in general, a higher duty than doing unsolicitedkindnesses to one’s companion; in other words, the discharging of a debtis more obligatory upon one than the duty of giving to a companion. And yetthis rule may admit of exceptions; for instance, which is the higher duty? forone who has been ransomed out of the hands of robbers to ransom in return hisransomer, be he who he may, or to repay him on his demand though he has notbeen taken by robbers, or to ransom his own father? for it would seem that aman ought to ransom his father even in preference to himself.
Well then, as has been said already, as a general rule the debt should bedischarged, but if in a particular case the giving greatly preponderates asbeing either honourable or necessary, we must be swayed by theseconsiderations: I mean, in some cases the requital of the obligation previouslyexisting may not be equal; suppose, for instance, that the original benefactorhas conferred a kindness on a good man, knowing him to be such, whereas thissaid good man has to repay it believing him to be a scoundrel.
And again, in certain cases no obligation lies on a man to lend to one who haslent to him; suppose, for instance, that a bad man lent to him, as being a goodman, under the notion that he should get repaid, whereas the said good man hasno hope of repayment from him being a bad man. Either then the case is reallyas we have supposed it and then the claim is not equal, or it is not so butsupposed to be; and still in so acting people are not to be thought to actwrongly. In short, as has been oftentimes stated before, all statementsregarding feelings and actions can be definite only in proportion as theirobject-matter is so; it is of course quite obvious that all people have not thesame claim upon one, nor are the claims of one’s father unlimited; justas Jupiter does not claim all kinds of sacrifice without distinction: and sincethe claims of parents, brothers, companions, and benefactors, are alldifferent, we must give to each what belongs to and befits each.
And this is seen to be the course commonly pursued: to marriages men commonlyinvite their relatives, because these are from a common stock and therefore allthe actions in any way pertaining thereto are common also: and to funerals menthink that relatives ought to assemble in preference to other people, for thesame reason.
And it would seem that in respect of maintenance it is our duty to assist ourparents in preference to all others, as being their debtors, and because it ismore honourable to succour in these respects the authors of our existence thanourselves. Honour likewise we ought to pay to our parents just as to the gods,but then, not all kinds of honour: not the same, for instance, to a father asto a mother: nor again to a father the honour due to a scientific man or to ageneral but that which is a father’s due, and in like manner to a motherthat which is a mother’s.
To all our elders also the honour befitting their age, by rising up in theirpresence, turning out of the way for them, and all similar marks of respect: toour companions again, or brothers, frankness and free participation in all wehave. And to those of the same family, or tribe, or city, with ourselves, andall similarly connected with us, we should constantly try to render their due,and to discriminate what belongs to each in respect of nearness of connection,or goodness, or intimacy: of course in the case of those of the same class thediscrimination is easier; in that of those who are in different classes it is amatter of more trouble. This, however, should not be a reason for giving up theattempt, but we must observe the distinctions so far as it is practicable to doso.
A question is also raised as to the propriety of dissolving or not dissolvingthose Friendships the parties to which do not remain what they were when theconnection was formed.
Now surely in respect of those whose motive to Friendship is utility orpleasure there can be nothing wrong in breaking up the connection when they nolonger have those qualities; because they were friends [not of one another,but] of those qualities: and, these having failed, it is only reasonable toexpect that they should cease to entertain the sentiment.
But a man has reason to find fault if the other party, being really attached tohim because of advantage or pleasure, pretended to be so because of his moralcharacter: in fact, as we said at the commencement, the most common source ofquarrels between friends is their not being friends on the same grounds as theysuppose themselves to be.
Now when a man has been deceived in having supposed himself to excite thesentiment of Friendship by reason of his moral character, the other party doingnothing to indicate he has but himself to blame: but when he has been deceivedby the pretence of the other he has a right to find fault with the man who hasso deceived him, aye even more than with utterers of false coin, in proportionto the greater preciousness of that which is the object-matter of the villany.
But suppose a man takes up another as being a good man, who turns out, and isfound by him, to be a scoundrel, is he bound still to entertain Friendship forhim? or may we not say at once it is impossible? since it is not everythingwhich is the object-matter of Friendship, but only that which is good; and sothere is no obligation to be a bad man’s friend, nor, in fact, ought oneto be such: for one ought not to be a lover of evil, nor to be assimilated towhat is base; which would be implied, because we have said before, like isfriendly to like.
Are we then to break with him instantly? not in all cases; only where ourfriends are incurably depraved; when there is a chance of amendment we arebound to aid in repairing the moral character of our friends even more thantheir substance, in proportion as it is better and more closely related toFriendship. Still he who should break off the connection is not to be judged toact wrongly, for he never was a friend to such a character as the other now is,and therefore, since the man is changed and he cannot reduce him to hisoriginal state, he backs out of the connection.
To put another case: suppose that one party remains what he was when theFriendship was formed, while the other becomes morally improved and widelydifferent from his friend in goodness; is the improved character to treat theother as a friend?
May we not say it is impossible? The case of course is clearest where there isa great difference, as in the Friendships of boys: for suppose that of twoboyish friends the one still continues a boy in mind and the other becomes aman of the highest character, how can they be friends? since they neither arepleased with the same objects nor like and dislike the same things: for thesepoints will not belong to them as regards one another, and without them it wasassumed they cannot be friends because they cannot live in intimacy: and of thecase of those who cannot do so we have spoken before.
Well then, is the improved party to bear himself towards his former friend inno way differently to what he would have done had the connection never existed?
Surely he ought to bear in mind the intimacy of past times, and just as wethink ourselves bound to do favours for our friends in preference to strangers,so to those who have been friends and are so no longer we should allow somewhaton the score of previous Friendship, whenever the cause of severance is notexcessive depravity on their part.
Now the friendly feelings which are exhibited towards our friends, and by whichFriendships are characterised, seem to have sprung out of those which weentertain toward ourselves.
I mean, people define a friend to be “one who intends and does what isgood (or what he believes to be good) to another for that other’ssake,” or “one who wishes his friend to be and to live for thatfriend’s own sake” (which is the feeling of mothers towards theirchildren, and of friends who have come into collision). Others again,“one who lives with another and chooses the same objects,” or“one who sympathises with his friend in his sorrows and in hisjoys” (this too is especially the case with mothers).
Well, by some one of these marks people generally characterise Friendship: andeach of these the good man has towards himself, and all others have them in sofar as they suppose themselves to be good. (For, as has been said before,goodness, that is the good man, seems to be a measure to every one else.)
For he is at unity in himself, and with every part of his soul he desires thesame objects; and he wishes for himself both what is, and what he believes tobe, good; and he does it (it being characteristic of the good man to work atwhat is good), and for the sake of himself, inasmuch as he does it for the sakeof his Intellectual Principle which is generally thought to be a man’sSelf. Again, he wishes himself And specially this Principle whereby he is anintelligent being, to live and be preserved in life, because existence is agood to him that is a good man.
But it is to himself that each individual wishes what is good, and no man,conceiving the possibility of his becoming other than he now is, chooses thatthat New Self should have all things indiscriminately: a god, for instance, hasat the present moment the Chief Good, but he has it in right of being whateverhe actually now is: and the Intelligent Principle must be judged to be eachman’s Self, or at least eminently so [though other Principles help, ofcourse, to constitute him the man he is].
Furthermore, the good man wishes to continue to live with himself; for he cando it with pleasure, in that his memories of past actions are full of delightand his anticipations of the future are good and such are pleasurable. Then,again, he has good store of matter for his Intellect to contemplate, and hemost especially sympathises with his Self in its griefs and joys, because theobjects which give him pain and pleasure are at all times the same, not onething to-day and a different one to-morrow: because he is not given torepentance,[1]if one may so speak. It is then because each of these feelings are entertainedby the good man towards his own Self and a friend feels towards a friend astowards himself (a friend being in fact another Self), that Friendship isthought to be some one of these things and they are accounted friends in whomthey are found. Whether or no there can really be Friendship between a man andhis Self is a question we will not at present entertain: there may be thoughtto be Friendship, in so far as there are two or more of the aforesaidrequisites, and because the highest degree of Friendship, in the usualacceptation of that term, resembles the feeling entertained by a man towardshimself.
But it may be urged that the aforesaid requisites are to all appearance foundin the common run of men, though they are men of a low stamp.
May it not be answered, that they share in them only in so far as they pleasethemselves, and conceive themselves to be good? for certainly, they are noteither really, or even apparently, found in any one of those who are verydepraved and villainous; we may almost say not even in those who are bad men atall: for they are at variance with themselves and lust after different thingsfrom those which in cool reason they wish for, just as men who fail ofSelf-Control: I mean, they choose things which, though hurtful, arepleasurable, in preference to those which in their own minds they believe to begood: others again, from cowardice and indolence, decline to do what still theyare convinced is best for them: while they who from their depravity haveactually done many dreadful actions hate and avoid life, and accordingly killthemselves: and the wicked seek others in whose company to spend their time,but fly from themselves because they have many unpleasant subjects of memory,and can only look forward to others like them when in solitude but drown theirremorse in the company of others: and as they have nothing to raise thesentiment of Friendship so they never feel it towards themselves.
Neither, in fact, can they who are of this character sympathise with theirSelves in their joys and sorrows, because their soul is, as it were, rent byfaction, and the one principle, by reason of the depravity in them, is grievedat abstaining from certain things, while the other and better principle ispleased thereat; and the one drags them this way and the other that way, asthough actually tearing them asunder.[2]And though it is impossible actually to have at the same time the sensations ofpain and pleasure; yet after a little time the man is sorry for having beenpleased, and he could wish that those objects had not given him pleasure; forthe wicked are full of remorse.
It is plain then that the wicked man cannot be in the position of a friend eventowards himself, because he has in himself nothing which can excite thesentiment of Friendship. If then to be thus is exceedingly wretched it is aman’s duty to flee from wickedness with all his might and to strive to begood, because thus may he be friends with himself and may come to be a friendto another.
Kindly Feeling, though resembling Friendship, is not identical with it, becauseit may exist in reference to those whom we do not know and without the objectof it being aware of its existence, which Friendship cannot. (This, by the way,has also been said before.) And further, it is not even Affection because itdoes not imply intensity nor yearning, which are both consequences ofAffection. Again Affection requires intimacy but Kindly Feeling may arise quitesuddenly, as happens sometimes in respect of men against whom people arematched in any way, I mean they come to be kindly disposed to them andsympathise in their wishes, but still they would not join them in any action,because, as we said, they conceive this feeling of kindness suddenly and sohave but a superficial liking.
What it does seem to be is the starting point of a Friendship; just aspleasure, received through the sight, is the commencement of Love: for no onefalls in love without being first pleased with the personal appearance of thebeloved object, and yet he who takes pleasure in it does not thereforenecessarily love, but when he wearies for the object in its absence and desiresits presence. Exactly in the same way men cannot be friends without havingpassed through the stage of Kindly Feeling, and yet they who are in that stagedo not necessarily advance to Friendship: they merely have an inert wish forthe good of those toward whom they entertain the feeling, but would not jointhem in any action, nor put themselves out of the way for them. So that, in ametaphorical way of speaking, one might say that it is dormant Friendship, andwhen it has endured for a space and ripened into intimacy comes to be realFriendship; but not that whose object is advantage or pleasure, because suchmotives cannot produce even Kindly Feeling.
I mean, he who has received a kindness requites it by Kindly Feeling towardshis benefactor, and is right in so doing: but he who wishes another to beprosperous, because he has hope of advantage through his instrumentality, doesnot seem to be kindly disposed to that person but rather to himself; just asneither is he his friend if he pays court to him for any interested purpose.
Kindly Feeling always arises by reason of goodness and a certain amiability,when one man gives another the notion of being a fine fellow, or brave man,etc., as we said was the case sometimes with those matched against one another.
Unity of Sentiment is also plainly connected with Friendship, and therefore isnot the same as Unity of Opinion, because this might exist even between peopleunacquainted with one another.
Nor do men usually say people are united in sentiment merely because they agreein opinion on any point, as, for instance, on points of astronomicalscience (Unity of Sentiment herein not having any connection with Friendship),but they say that Communities have Unity of Sentiment when they agreerespecting points of expediency and take the same line and carry out what hasbeen determined in common consultation.
Thus we see that Unity of Sentiment has for its object matters of action, andsuch of these as are of importance, and of mutual, or, in the case of singleStates, common, interest: when, for instance, all agree in the choice ofmagistrates, or forming alliance with the Lacedæmonians, or appointing Pittacusruler (that is to say, supposing he himself was willing). But when each wisheshimself to be in power (as the brothers in the Phœnissæ), they quarrel and formparties: for, plainly, Unity of Sentiment does not merely imply that eachentertains the same idea be it what it may, but that they do so in respect ofthe same object, as when both the populace and the sensible men of a Statedesire that the best men should be in office, because then all attain theirobject.
Thus Unity of Sentiment is plainly a social Friendship, as it is also said tobe: since it has for its object-matter things expedient and relating to life.
And this Unity exists among the good: for they have it towards themselves andtowards one another, being, if I may be allowed the expression, in the sameposition: I mean, the wishes of such men are steady and do not ebb and flowlike the Euripus, and they wish what is just and expedient and aim at thesethings in common.
The bad, on the contrary, can as little have Unity of Sentiment as they can bereal friends, except to a very slight extent, desiring as they do unfairadvantage in things profitable while they shirk labour and service for thecommon good: and while each man wishes for these things for himself he isjealous of and hinders his neighbour: and as they do not watch over the commongood it is lost. The result is that they quarrel while they are for keeping oneanother to work but are not willing to perform their just share.
Benefactors are commonly held to have more Friendship for the objects of theirkindness than these for them: and the fact is made a subject of discussion andenquiry, as being contrary to reasonable expectation.
The account of the matter which satisfies most persons is that the one aredebtors and the others creditors: and therefore that, as in the case of actualloans the debtors wish their creditors out of the way while the creditors areanxious for the preservation of their debtors, so those who have donekindnesses desire the continued existence of the people they have done them to,under the notion of getting a return of their good offices, while these are notparticularly anxious about requital.
Epicharmus, I suspect, would very probably say that they who give this solutionjudge from their own baseness; yet it certainly is like human nature, for thegenerality of men have short memories on these points, and aim rather atreceiving than conferring benefits.
But the real cause, it would seem, rests upon nature, and the case is notparallel to that of creditors; because in this there is no affection to thepersons, but merely a wish for their preservation with a view to the return:whereas, in point of fact, they who have done kindnesses feel friendship andlove for those to whom they have done them, even though they neither are, norcan by possibility hereafter be, in a position to serve their benefactors.
And this is the case also with artisans; every one, I mean, feels moreaffection for his own work than that work possibly could for him if it wereanimate. It is perhaps specially the case with poets: for these entertain verygreat affection for their poems, loving them as their own children. It is tothis kind of thing I should be inclined to compare the case of benefactors: forthe object of their kindness is their own work, and so they love this more thanthis loves its creator.
And the account of this is that existence is to all a thing choice-worthy andan object of affection; now we exist by acts of working, that is, by living andacting; he then that has created a given work exists, it may be said, by hisact of working: therefore he loves his work because he loves existence. Andthis is natural, for the work produced displays in act what existed beforepotentially.
Then again, the benefactor has a sense of honour in right of his action, sothat he may well take pleasure in him in whom this resides; but to him who hasreceived the benefit there is nothing honourable in respect of his benefactor,only something advantageous which is both less pleasant and less the object ofFriendship.
Again, pleasure is derived from the actual working out of a present action,from the anticipation of a future one, and from the recollection of a past one:but the highest pleasure and special object of affection is that which attendson the actual working. Now the benefactor’s work abides (for thehonourable is enduring), but the advantage of him who has received the kindnesspasses away.
Again, there is pleasure in recollecting honourable actions, but inrecollecting advantageous ones there is none at all or much less (by the waythough, the contrary is true of the expectation of advantage).
Further, the entertaining the feeling of Friendship is like acting on another;but being the object of the feeling is like being acted upon.
So then, entertaining the sentiment of Friendship, and all feelings connectedwith it, attend on those who, in the given case of a benefaction, are thesuperior party.
Once more: all people value most what has cost them much labour in theproduction; for instance, people who have themselves made their money arefonder of it than those who have inherited it: and receiving kindness is, itseems, unlaborious, but doing it is laborious. And this is the reason why thefemale parents are most fond of their offspring; for their part in producingthem is attended with most labour, and they know more certainly that they aretheirs. This feeling would seem also to belong to benefactors.
A question is also raised as to whether it is right to love one’s Selfbest, or some one else: because men find fault with those who love themselvesbest, and call them in a disparaging way lovers of Self; and the bad man isthought to do everything he does for his own sake merely, and the more so themore depraved he is; accordingly men reproach him with never doing anythingunselfish: whereas the good man acts from a sense of honour (and the more sothe better man he is), and for his friend’s sake, and is careless of hisown interest.
But with these theories facts are at variance, and not unnaturally: for it iscommonly said also that a man is to love most him who is most his friend, andhe is most a friend who wishes good to him to whom he wishes it for thatman’s sake even though no one knows. Now these conditions, and in factall the rest by which a friend is characterised, belong specially to eachindividual in respect of his Self: for we have said before that all thefriendly feelings are derived to others from those which have Self primarilyfor their object. And all the current proverbs support this view; for instance,“one soul,” “the goods of friends are common,”“equality is a tie of Friendship,” “the knee is nearer thanthe shin.” For all these things exist specially with reference to aman’s own Self: he is specially a friend to himself and so he is bound tolove himself the most.
It is with good reason questioned which of the two parties one should follow,both having plausibility on their side. Perhaps then, in respect of theories ofthis kind, the proper course is to distinguish and define how far each is true,and in what way. If we could ascertain the sense in which each uses the term“Self-loving,” this point might be cleared up.
Well now, they who use it disparagingly give the name to those who, in respectof wealth, and honours, and pleasures of the body, give to themselves thelarger share: because the mass of mankind grasp after these and are earnestabout them as being the best things; which is the reason why they are mattersof contention. They who are covetous in regard to these gratify their lusts andpassions in general, that is to say the irrational part of their soul: now themass of mankind are so disposed, for which reason the appellation has taken itsrise from that mass which is low and bad. Of course they are justly reproachedwho are Self-loving in this sense.
And that the generality of men are accustomed to apply the term to denominatethose who do give such things to themselves is quite plain: suppose, forinstance, that a man were anxious to do, more than other men, acts of justice,or self-mastery, or any other virtuous acts, and, in general, were to secure tohimself that which is abstractedly noble and honourable, no one would call himSelf-loving, nor blame him.
Yet might such an one be judged to be more truly Self-loving: certainly hegives to himself the things which are most noble and most good, and gratifiesthat Principle of his nature which is most rightfully authoritative, and obeysit in everything: and just as that which possesses the highest authority isthought to constitute a Community or any other system, so also in the case ofMan: and so he is most truly Self-loving who loves and gratifies thisPrinciple.
Again, men are said to have, or to fail of having, self-control, according asthe Intellect controls or not, it being plainly implied thereby that thisPrinciple constitutes each individual; and people are thought to have done ofthemselves, and voluntarily, those things specially which are done with Reason.
It is plain, therefore, that this Principle does, either entirely or speciallyconstitute the individual man, and that the good man specially loves this. Forthis reason then he must be specially Self-loving, in a kind other than thatwhich is reproached, and as far superior to it as living in accordance withReason is to living at the beck and call of passion, and aiming at the trulynoble to aiming at apparent advantage.
Now all approve and commend those who are eminently earnest about honourableactions, and if all would vie with one another in respect of theκαλὸν, and be intent upon doing what is most trulynoble and honourable, society at large would have all that is proper while eachindividual in particular would have the greatest of goods, Virtue being assumedto be such.
And so the good man ought to be Self-loving: because by doing what is noble hewill have advantage himself and will do good to others: but the bad man oughtnot to be, because he will harm himself and his neighbours by following low andevil passions. In the case of the bad man, what he ought to do and what he doesare at variance, but the good man does what he ought to do, because allIntellect chooses what is best for itself and the good man puts himself underthe direction of Intellect.
Of the good man it is true likewise that he does many things for the sake ofhis friends and his country, even to the extent of dying for them, if need be:for money and honours, and, in short, all the good things which others fightfor, he will throw away while eager to secure to himself theκαλὸν: he will prefer a brief and great joy to a tameand enduring one, and to live nobly for one year rather than ordinarily formany, and one great and noble action to many trifling ones. And this is perhapsthat which befals men who die for their country and friends; they choose greatglory for themselves: and they will lavish their own money that their friendsmay receive more, for hereby the friend gets the money but the man himself theκαλὸν; so, in fact he gives to himself the greatergood. It is the same with honours and offices; all these things he will give upto his friend, because this reflects honour and praise on himself: and so withgood reason is he esteemed a fine character since he chooses the honourablebefore all things else. It is possible also to give up the opportunities ofaction to a friend; and to have caused a friend’s doing a thing may bemore noble than having done it one’s self.
In short, in all praiseworthy things the good man does plainly give to himselfa larger share of the honourable. In this sense it is right to be Self-loving,in the vulgar acceptation of the term it is not.
A question is raised also respecting the Happy man, whether he will wantFriends, or no?
Some say that they who are blessed and independent have no need of Friends, forthey already have all that is good, and so, as being independent, want nothingfurther: whereas the notion of a friend’s office is to be as it were asecond Self and procure for a man what he cannot get by himself: hence thesaying,
“When Fortune gives us good, what need we Friends?”
On the other hand, it looks absurd, while we are assigning to the Happy man allother good things, not to give him Friends, which are, after all, thought to bethe greatest of external goods.
Again, if it is more characteristic of a friend to confer than to receivekindnesses, and if to be beneficent belongs to the good man and to thecharacter of virtue, and if it is more noble to confer kindnesses on friendsthan strangers, the good man will need objects for his benefactions. And out ofthis last consideration springs a question whether the need of Friends begreater in prosperity or adversity, since the unfortunate man wants people todo him kindnesses and they who are fortunate want objects for their kind acts.
Again, it is perhaps absurd to make our Happy man a solitary, because no manwould choose the possession of all goods in the world on the condition ofsolitariness, man being a social animal and formed by nature for living withothers: of course the Happy man has this qualification since he has all thosethings which are good by nature: and it is obvious that the society of friendsand good men must be preferable to that of strangers and ordinary people, andwe conclude, therefore, that the Happy man does need Friends.
But then, what do they mean whom we quoted first, and how are they right? Is itnot that the mass of mankind mean by Friends those who are useful? and ofcourse the Happy man will not need such because he has all good things already;neither will he need such as are Friends with a view to the pleasurable, or atleast only to a slight extent; because his life, being already pleasurable,does not want pleasure imported from without; and so, since the Happy man doesnot need Friends of these kinds, he is thought not to need any at all.
But it may be, this is not true: for it was stated originally, that Happinessis a kind of Working; now Working plainly is something that must come intobeing, not be already there like a mere piece of property.
If then the being happy consists in living and working, and the goodman’s working is in itself excellent and pleasurable (as we said at thecommencement of the treatise), and if what is our own reckons among thingspleasurable, and if we can view our neighbours better than ourselves and theiractions better than we can our own, then the actions of their Friends who aregood men are pleasurable to the good; inasmuch as they have both the requisiteswhich are naturally pleasant. So the man in the highest state of happiness willneed Friends of this kind, since he desires to contemplate good actions, andactions of his own, which those of his friend, being a good man, are.
Again, common opinion requires that the Happy man live with pleasure tohimself: now life is burthensome to a man in solitude, for it is not easy towork continuously by one’s self, but in company with, and in regard toothers, it is easier, and therefore the working, being pleasurable in itselfwill be more continuous (a thing which should be in respect of the Happy man);for the good man, in that he is good takes pleasure in the actions which accordwith Virtue and is annoyed at those which spring from Vice, just as a musicalman is pleased with beautiful music and annoyed by bad. And besides, asTheognis says, Virtue itself may be improved by practice, from living with thegood.
And, upon the following considerations more purely metaphysical, it willprobably appear that the good friend is naturally choice-worthy to the goodman. We have said before, that whatever is naturally good is also in itselfgood and pleasant to the good man; now the fact of living, so far as animalsare concerned, is characterised generally by the power of sentience, in man itis characterised by that of sentience, or of rationality (the faculty of coursebeing referred to the actual operation of the faculty, certainly the main pointis the actual operation of it); so that living seems mainly to consist in theact of sentience or exerting rationality: now the fact of living is in itselfone of the things that are good and pleasant (for it is a definite totality,and whatever is such belongs to the nature of good), but what is naturally goodis good to the good man: for which reason it seems to be pleasant to all. (Ofcourse one must not suppose a life which is depraved and corrupted, nor onespent in pain, for that which is such is indefinite as are its inherentqualities: however, what is to be said of pain will be clearer in what is tofollow.)
If then the fact of living is in itself good and pleasant (and this appearsfrom the fact that all desire it, and specially those who are good and in highhappiness; their course of life being most choice-worthy and their existencemost choice-worthy likewise), then also he that sees perceives that he sees;and he that hears perceives that he hears; and he that walks perceives that hewalks; and in all the other instances in like manner there is a faculty whichreflects upon and perceives the fact that we are working, so that we canperceive that we perceive and intellectually know that we intellectually know:but to perceive that we perceive or that we intellectually know is to perceivethat we exist, since existence was defined to be perceiving or intellectuallyknowing. Now to perceive that one lives is a thing pleasant in itself, lifebeing a thing naturally good, and the perceiving of the presence in ourselvesof things naturally good being pleasant.
Therefore the fact of living is choice-worthy, and to the good specially sosince existence is good and pleasant to them: for they receive pleasure fromthe internal consciousness of that which in itself is good.
But the good man is to his friend as to himself, friend being but a name for asecond Self; therefore as his own existence is choice-worthy to each so too, orsimilarly at least, is his friend’s existence. But the ground ofone’s own existence being choice-worthy is the perceiving of one’sself being good, any such perception being in itself pleasant. Therefore oneought to be thoroughly conscious of one’s friend’s existence, whichwill result from living with him, that is sharing in his words and thoughts:for this is the meaning of the term as applied to the human species, not merefeeding together as in the case of brutes.
If then to the man in a high state of happiness existence is in itselfchoice-worthy, being naturally good and pleasant, and so too a friend’sexistence, then the friend also must be among things choice-worthy. Butwhatever is choice-worthy to a man he should have or else he will be in thispoint deficient. The man therefore who is to come up to our notion“Happy” will need good Friends.
Are we then to make our friends as numerous as possible? or, as in respect ofacquaintance it is thought to have been well said “have not thou manyacquaintances yet be not without;” so too in respect of Friendship may weadopt the precept, and say that a man should not be without friends, nor againhave exceeding many friends?
Now as for friends who are intended for use, the maxim I have quoted will, itseems, fit in exceedingly well, because to requite the services of many is amatter of labour, and a whole life would not be long enough to do this forthem. So that, if more numerous than what will suffice for one’s ownlife, they become officious, and are hindrances in respect of living well: andso we do not want them. And again of those who are to be for pleasure a few arequite enough, just like sweetening in our food.
But of the good are we to make as many as ever we can, or is there any measureof the number of friends, as there is of the number to constitute a PoliticalCommunity? I mean, you cannot make one out of ten men, and if you increase thenumber to one hundred thousand it is not any longer a Community. However, thenumber is not perhaps some one definite number but any between certain extremelimits.
Well, of friends likewise there is a limited number, which perhaps may be laiddown to be the greatest number with whom it would be possible to keep upintimacy; this being thought to be one of the greatest marks of Friendship, andit being quite obvious that it is not possible to be intimate with many, inother words, to part one’s self among many. And besides it must beremembered that they also are to be friends to one another if they are all tolive together: but it is a matter of difficulty to find this in many men atonce.
It comes likewise to be difficult to bring home to one’s self the joysand sorrows of many: because in all probability one would have to sympathise atthe same time with the joys of this one and the sorrows of that other.
Perhaps then it is well not to endeavour to have very many friends but so manyas are enough for intimacy: because, in fact, it would seem not to be possibleto be very much a friend to many at the same time: and, for the same reason,not to be in love with many objects at the same time: love being a kind ofexcessive Friendship which implies but one object: and all strong emotions mustbe limited in the number towards whom they are felt.
And if we look to facts this seems to be so: for not many at a time becomefriends in the way of companionship, all the famous Friendships of the kind arebetween two persons: whereas they who have many friends, and meeteverybody on the footing of intimacy, seem to be friends really to no oneexcept in the way of general society; I mean the characters denominated asover-complaisant.
To be sure, in the way merely of society, a man may be a friend to many withoutbeing necessarily over-complaisant, but being truly good: but one cannot be afriend to many because of their virtue, and for the persons’ own sake; infact, it is a matter for contentment to find even a few such.
Again: are friends most needed in prosperity or in adversity? they arerequired, we know, in both states, because the unfortunate need help and theprosperous want people to live with and to do kindnesses to: for they have adesire to act kindly to some one.
To have friends is more necessary in adversity, and therefore in this caseuseful ones are wanted; and to have them in prosperity is more honourable, andthis is why the prosperous want good men for friends, it being preferable toconfer benefits on, and to live with, these. For the very presence of friendsis pleasant even in adversity: since men when grieved are comforted by thesympathy of their friends.
And from this, by the way, the question might be raised, whether it is thatthey do in a manner take part of the weight of calamities, or only that theirpresence, being pleasurable, and the consciousness of their sympathy, make thepain of the sufferer less.
However, we will not further discuss whether these which have been suggested orsome other causes produce the relief, at least the effect we speak of is amatter of plain fact.
But their presence has probably a mixed effect: I mean, not only is the veryseeing friends pleasant, especially to one in misfortune, and actual helptowards lessening the grief is afforded (the natural tendency of a friend, ifhe is gifted with tact, being to comfort by look and word, because he is wellacquainted with the sufferer’s temper and disposition and therefore knowswhat things give him pleasure and pain), but also the perceiving a friend to begrieved at his misfortunes causes the sufferer pain, because every one avoidsbeing cause of pain to his friends. And for this reason they who are of a manlynature are cautious not to implicate their friends in their pain; and unless aman is exceedingly callous to the pain of others he cannot bear the pain whichis thus caused to his friends: in short, he does not admit men to wail withhim, not being given to wail at all: women, it is true, and men who resemblewomen, like to have others to groan with them, and love such as friends andsympathisers. But it is plain that it is our duty in all things to imitate thehighest character.
On the other hand, the advantages of friends in our prosperity are thepleasurable intercourse and the consciousness that they are pleased at our goodfortune.
It would seem, therefore, that we ought to call in friends readily on occasionof good fortune, because it is noble to be ready to do good to others: but onoccasion of bad fortune, we should do so with reluctance; for we should aslittle as possible make others share in our ills; on which principle goes thesaying, “I am unfortunate, let that suffice.” The most properoccasion for calling them in is when with small trouble or annoyance tothemselves they can be of very great use to the person who needs them.
But, on the contrary, it is fitting perhaps to go to one’s friends intheir misfortunes unasked and with alacrity (because kindness is thefriend’s office and specially towards those who are in need and who donot demand it as a right, this being more creditable and more pleasant toboth); and on occasion of their good fortune to go readily, if we can forwardit in any way (because men need their friends for this likewise), but to bebackward in sharing it, any great eagerness to receive advantage not beingcreditable.
One should perhaps be cautious not to present the appearance of sullenness indeclining the sympathy or help of friends, for this happens occasionally.
It appears then that the presence of friends is, under all circumstances,choice-worthy.
May we not say then that, as seeing the beloved object is most prized by loversand they choose this sense rather than any of the others because Love
“Is engendered in the eyes,With gazing fed,”
in like manner intimacy is to friends most choice-worthy, Friendship beingcommunion? Again, as a man is to himself so is he to his friend; now withrespect to himself the perception of his own existence is choice-worthy,therefore is it also in respect of his friend.
And besides, their Friendship is acted out in intimacy, and so with good reasonthey desire this. And whatever in each man’s opinion constitutesexistence, or whatsoever it is for the sake of which they choose life, hereinthey wish their friends to join with them; and so some men drink together,others gamble, others join in gymnastic exercises or hunting, others studyphilosophy together: in each case spending their days together in that whichthey like best of all things in life, for since they wish to be intimate withtheir friends they do and partake in those things whereby they think to attainthis object.
Therefore the Friendship of the wicked comes to be depraved; for, beingunstable, they share in what is bad and become depraved in being made like toone another: but the Friendship of the good is good, growing with theirintercourse; they improve also, as it seems, by repeated acts, and by mutualcorrection, for they receive impress from one another in the points which givethem pleasure; whence says the Poet,
“Thou from the good, good things shalt surely learn.”
Here then we will terminate our discourse of Friendship. The next thing is togo into the subject of Pleasure.
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BOOK X
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Next, it would seem, follows a discussion respecting Pleasure, for it isthought to be most closely bound up with our kind: and so men train the young,guiding them on their course by the rudders of Pleasure and Pain. And to likeand dislike what one ought is judged to be most important for the formation ofgood moral character: because these feelings extend all one’s lifethrough, giving a bias towards and exerting an influence on the side of Virtueand Happiness, since men choose what is pleasant and avoid what is painful.
Subjects such as these then, it would seem, we ought by no means to pass by,and specially since they involve much difference of opinion. There are thosewho call Pleasure the Chief Good; there are others who on the contrary maintainthat it is exceedingly bad;[1]some perhaps from a real conviction that such is the case, others from a notionthat it is better, in reference to our life and conduct, to show up Pleasure asbad, even if it is not so really; arguing that, as the mass of men have a biastowards it and are the slaves of their pleasures, it is right to draw them tothe contrary, for that so they may possibly arrive at themean.[2]
I confess I suspect the soundness of this policy; in matters respectingmen’s feelings and actions theories are less convincing than facts:whenever, therefore, they are found conflicting with actual experience, theynot only are despised but involve the truth in their fall: he, for instance,who deprecates Pleasure, if once seen to aim at it, gets the credit ofbacksliding to it as being universally such as he said it was, the mass of menbeing incapable of nice distinctions.
Real accounts, therefore, of such matters seem to be most expedient, not with aview to knowledge merely but to life and conduct: for they are believed asbeing in harm with facts, and so they prevail with the wise to live inaccordance with them.
But of such considerations enough: let us now proceed to the current maximsrespecting Pleasure.
Now Eudoxus thought Pleasure to be the Chief Good because he saw all, rationaland irrational alike, aiming at it: and he argued that, since in all what wasthe object of choice must be good and what most so the best, the fact of allbeing drawn to the same thing proved this thing to be the best for all:“For each,” he said, “finds what is good for itself just asit does its proper nourishment, and so that which is good for all, and theobject of the aim of all, is their Chief Good.”
(And his theories were received, not so much for their own sake, as because ofhis excellent moral character; for he was thought to be eminently possessed ofperfect self-mastery, and therefore it was not thought that he said thesethings because he was a lover of Pleasure but that he really was so convinced.)
And he thought his position was not less proved by the argument from thecontrary: that is, since Pain was in itself an object of avoidance to all thecontrary must be in like manner an object of choice.
Again he urged that that is most choice-worthy which we choose, not by reasonof, or with a view to, anything further; and that Pleasure is confessedly ofthis kind because no one ever goes on to ask to what purpose he is pleased,feeling that Pleasure is in itself choice-worthy.
Again, that when added to any other good it makes it more choice-worthy; as,for instance, to actions of justice, or perfected self-mastery; and good canonly be increased by itself.
However, this argument at least seems to prove only that it belongs to theclass of goods, and not that it does so more than anything else: for every goodis more choicewortby in combination with some other than when taken quitealone. In fact, it is by just such an argument that Plato proves that Pleasureis not the Chief Good:[3]“For,” says he, “the life of Pleasure is more choice-worthyin combination with Practical Wisdom than apart from it; but, if the compoundbetter then simple Pleasure cannot be the Chief Good; because the very ChiefGood cannot by any addition become choice-worthy than it is already:” andit is obvious that nothing else can be the Chief Good, which by combinationwith any of the things in themselves good comes to be more choice-worthy.
What is there then of such a nature? (meaning, of course, whereof we canpartake; because that which we are in search of must be such).
As for those who object that “what all aim at is not necessarilygood,” I confess I cannot see much in what they say, because what allthink we say is. And he who would cut away this ground from underus will not bring forward things more dependable: because if the argument hadrested on the desires of irrational creatures there might have been somethingin what he says, but, since the rational also desire Pleasure, how can hisobjection be allowed any weight? and it may be that, even in the lower animals,there is some natural good principle above themselves which aims at the goodpeculiar to them.
Nor does that seem to be sound which is urged respecting the argument from thecontrary: I mean, some people say “it does not follow that Pleasure mustbe good because Pain is evil, since evil may be opposed to evil, and both eviland good to what is indifferent:” now what they say is right enough initself but does not hold in the present instance. If both Pleasure and Painwere bad both would have been objects of avoidance; or if neither then neitherwould have been, at all events they must have fared alike: but now men doplainly avoid the one as bad and choose the other as good, and so there is acomplete opposition.
Nor again is Pleasure therefore excluded from being good because it does notbelong to the class of qualities:[4]the acts of Virtue are not qualities, neither is Happiness [yet surely both aregoods].
Again, they say the Chief Good is limited but Pleasure unlimited, in that itadmits of degrees.
Now if they judge this from the act of feeling Pleasure then the same thingwill apply to justice and all the other virtues,[5]in respect of which clearly it is said that men are more or less of such andsuch characters (according to the different virtues), they are more just ormore brave, or one may practise justice and self-mastery more or less.
If, on the other hand, they judge in respect of the Pleasures themselves thenit may be they miss the true cause, namely that some are unmixed and othersmixed: for just as health being in itself limited, admits of degrees, whyshould not Pleasure do so and yet be limited? in the former case we account forit by the fact that there is not the same adjustment of parts in all men, norone and the same always in the same individual: but health, though relaxed,remains up to a certain point, and differs in degrees; and of course the samemay be the case with Pleasure.
Again, assuming the Chief Good to be perfect and allMovements[6]and Generations imperfect, they try to shew that Pleasure is a Movement and aGeneration.
Yet they do not seem warranted in saying even that it is a Movement: for toevery Movement are thought to belong swiftness and slowness, and if not initself, as to that of the universe, yet relatively: but to Pleasure neither ofthese belongs: for though one may have got quickly into the state Pleasure, asinto that of anger, one cannot be in the state quickly,[7]nor relatively to the state of any other person; but we can walk or grow, andso on, quickly or slowly.
Of course it is possible to change into the state of Pleasure quickly orslowly, but to act in the state (by which, I mean, have the perception ofPleasure) quickly, is not possible.
And how can it be a Generation? because, according to notions generally held,not anything is generated from anything, but a thing resolvesitself into that out of which it was generated: whereas of that of whichPleasure is a Generation Pain is a Destruction.
Again, they say that Pain is a lack of something suitable to nature andPleasure a supply of it.
But these are affections of the body: now if Pleasure really is a supplying ofsomewhat suitable to nature, that must feel the Pleasure in which the supplytakes place, therefore the body of course: yet this is not thought to be so:neither then is Pleasure a supplying, only a person of course will be pleasedwhen a supply takes place just as he will be pained when he is cut short.
This notion would seem to have arisen out of the Pains and Pleasures connectedwith natural nourishment; because, when people have felt a lack and so have hadPain first, they, of course, are pleased with the supply of their lack.
But this is not the case with all Pleasures: those attendant on mathematicalstudies, for instance, are unconnected with any Pain; and of such as attend onthe senses those which arise through the sense of Smell; and again, manysounds, and sights, and memories, and hopes: now of what can these beGenerations? because there has been here no lack of anything to be afterwardssupplied.
And to those who bring forward disgraceful Pleasures we may reply that theseare not really pleasant things; for it does not follow because they arepleasant to the ill-disposed that we are to admit that they are pleasant exceptto them; just as we should not say that those things are really wholesome, orsweet, or bitter, which are so to the sick, or those objects really white whichgive that impression to people labouring underophthalmia.[8]
Or we might say thus, that the Pleasures are choice-worthy but not as derivedfrom these sources: just as wealth is, but not as the price of treason; orhealth, but not on the terms of eating anything however loathsome.
Or again, may we not say that Pleasures differ in kind? those derived fromhonourable objects, for instance are different from those arising fromdisgraceful ones; and it is not possible to experience the Pleasure of the justman without being just, or of the musical man without being musical; and so onof others.
The distinction commonly drawn between the friend and the flatterer would seemto show clearly either that Pleasure is not a good, or that there are differentkinds of Pleasure: for the former is thought to have good as the object of hisintercourse, the latter Pleasure only; and this last is reproached, but theformer men praise as having different objects in his intercourse.
Again, no one would choose to live with a child’s intellect all his lifethrough, though receiving the highest possible Pleasure from such objects aschildren receive it from; or to take Pleasure in doing any of the mostdisgraceful things, though sure never to be pained.
There are many things also about which we should be diligent even though theybrought no Pleasure; as seeing, remembering, knowing, possessing the variousExcellences; and the fact that Pleasures do follow on these naturally makes nodifference, because we should certainly choose them even though no Pleasureresulted from them.
It seems then to be plain that Pleasure is not the Chief Good, nor is everykind of it choice-worthy: and that there are some choice-worthy in themselves,differing in kind, i.e. in the sources from which they are derived. Letthis then suffice by way of an account of the current maxims respectingPleasure and Pain.
Now what it is, and how characterised, will be more plain if we take up thesubject afresh.
An act of Sight is thought to be complete at any moment; that is to say, itlacks nothing the accession of which subsequently will complete its wholenature.
Well, Pleasure resembles this: because it is a whole, as one may say; and onecould not at any moment of time take a Pleasure whose whole nature would becompleted by its lasting for a longer time. And for this reason it is not aMovement: for all Movement takes place in time of certain duration and has acertain End to accomplish; for instance, the Movement ofhouse-building[9]is then only complete when the builder has produced what he intended, that is,either in the whole time [necessary to complete the whole design], or in agiven portion.[10]But all the subordinate Movements are incomplete in the parts of the time, andare different in kind from the whole movement and from one another (I mean, forinstance, that the fitting the stones together is a Movement different fromthat of fluting the column, and both again from the construction of the Templeas a whole: but this last is complete as lacking nothing to the resultproposed; whereas that of the basement, or of the triglyph, is incomplete,because each is a Movement of a part merely).
As I said then, they differ in kind, and you cannot at any time you choose finda Movement complete in its whole nature, but, if at all, in the whole timerequisite.
And so it is with the Movement of walking and all others: for, if motion be aMovement from one place to another place, then of it too there are differentkinds, flying, walking, leaping, and such-like. And not only so, but there aredifferent kinds even in walking: the where-from and where-to are not the samein the whole Course as in a portion of it; nor in one portion as in another;nor is crossing this line the same as crossing that: because a man is notmerely crossing a line but a line in a given place, and this is in a differentplace from that.
Of Movement I have discoursed exactly in another treatise. I will now thereforeonly say that it seems not to be complete at any given moment; and that mostmovements are incomplete and specifically different, since the whence andwhither constitute different species.
But of Pleasure the whole nature is complete at any given moment: it is plainthen that Pleasure and Movement must be different from one another, and thatPleasure belongs to the class of things whole and complete. And this mightappear also from the impossibility of moving except in a definite time, whereasthere is none with respect to the sensation of Pleasure, for what exists at thevery present moment is a kind of “whole.”
From these considerations then it is plain that people are not warranted insaying that Pleasure is a Movement or a Generation: because these terms are notapplicable to all things, only to such as are divisible and not“wholes:” I mean that of an act of Sight there is no Generation,nor is there of a point, nor of a monad, nor is any one of these a Movement ora Generation: neither then of Pleasure is there Movement or Generation, becauseit is, as one may say,“a whole.”[11]
Now since every Percipient Faculty works upon the Object answering to it, andperfectly the Faculty in a good state upon the most excellent of the Objectswithin its range (for Perfect Working is thought to be much what I havedescribed; and we will not raise any question about saying “theFaculty” works, instead of, “that subject wherein the Facultyresides”), in each case the best Working is that of the Faculty in itsbest state upon the best of the Objects answering to it. And this will be,further, most perfect and most pleasant: for Pleasure is attendant upon everyPercipient Faculty, and in like manner on every intellectual operation andspeculation; and that is most pleasant which is most perfect, and that mostperfect which is the Working of the best Faculty upon the most excellent of theObjects within its range.
And Pleasure perfects the Working. But Pleasure does not perfect it in the sameway as the Faculty and Object of Perception do, being good; just as health andthe physician are not in similar senses causes of a healthy state.
And that Pleasure does arise upon the exercise of every Percipient Faculty isevident, for we commonly say that sights and sounds are pleasant; it is plainalso that this is especially the case when the Faculty is most excellent andworks upon a similar Object: and when both the Object and Faculty of Perceptionare such, Pleasure will always exist, supposing of course an agent and apatient.
Furthermore, Pleasure perfects the act of Working not in the way of an inherentstate but as a supervening finish, such as is bloom in people at their prime.Therefore so long as the Object of intellectual or sensitive Perception is suchas it should be and also the Faculty which discerns or realises the Object,there will be Pleasure in the Working: because when that which has the capacityof being acted on and that which is apt to act are alike and similarly related,the same result follows naturally.
How is it then that no one feels Pleasure continuously? is it not that hewearies, because all human faculties are incapable of unintermitting exertion;and so, of course, Pleasure does not arise either, because that follows uponthe act of Working. But there are some things which please when new, butafterwards not in the like way, for exactly the same reason: that at first themind is roused and works on these Objects with its powers at full tension; justas they who are gazing stedfastly at anything; but afterwards the act ofWorking is not of the kind it was at first, but careless, and so the Pleasuretoo is dulled.
Again, a person may conclude that all men grasp at Pleasure, because all aimlikewise at Life and Life is an act of Working, and every man works at and withthose things which also he best likes; the musical man, for instance, workswith his hearing at music; the studious man with his intellect at speculativequestions, and so forth. And Pleasure perfects the acts of Working, and so Lifeafter which men grasp. No wonder then that they aim also at Pleasure, becauseto each it perfects Life, which is itself choice-worthy. (We will take leave toomit the question whether we choose Life for Pleasure’s sake of Pleasurefor Life’s sake; because these two plainly are closely connected andadmit not of separation; since Pleasure comes not into being without Working,and again, every Working Pleasure perfects.)
And this is one reason why Pleasures are thought to differ in kind, because wesuppose that things which differ in kind must be perfected by things sodiffering: it plainly being the case with the productions of Nature and Art; asanimals, and trees, and pictures, and statues, and houses, and furniture; andso we suppose that in like manner acts of Working which are different in kindare perfected by things differing in kind. Now Intellectual Workings differspecifically from those of the Senses, and these last from one another;therefore so do the Pleasures which perfect them.
This may be shown also from the intimate connection subsisting between eachPleasure and the Working which it perfects: I mean, that the Pleasure proper toany Working increases that Working; for they who work with Pleasure sift allthings more closely and carry them out to a greater degree of nicety; forinstance, those men become geometricians who take Pleasure in geometry, andthey apprehend particular points more completely: in like manner men who arefond of music, or architecture, or anything else, improve each on his ownpursuit, because they feel Pleasure in them. Thus the Pleasures aid inincreasing the Workings, and things which do so aid are proper and peculiar:but the things which are proper and peculiar to others specifically differentare themselves also specifically different.
Yet even more clearly may this be shown from the fact that the Pleasuresarising from one kind of Workings hinder other Workings; for instance, peoplewho are fond of flute-music cannot keep their attention to conversation ordiscourse when they catch the sound of a flute; because they take more Pleasurein flute-playing than in the Working they are at the time engaged on; in otherwords, the Pleasure attendant on flute-playing destroys the Working ofconversation or discourse.
Much the same kind of thing takes place in other cases, when a person isengaged in two different Workings at the same time: that is, the pleasanter ofthe two keeps pushing out the other, and, if the disparity in pleasantness begreat, then more and more till a man even ceases altogether to work at theother.
This is the reason why, when we are very much pleased with anything whatever,we do nothing else, and it is only when we are but moderately pleased with oneoccupation that we vary it with another: people, for instance, who eatsweetmeats in the theatre do so most when the performance is indifferent.
Since then the proper and peculiar Pleasure gives accuracy to the Workings andmakes them more enduring and better of their kind, while those Pleasures whichare foreign to them mar them, it is plain there is a wide difference betweenthem: in fact, Pleasures foreign to any Working have pretty much the sameeffect as the Pains proper to it,[12]which, in fact, destroy the Workings; I mean, if one man dislikes writing, oranother calculation, the one does not write, the other does not calculate;because, in each case, the Working is attended with some Pain: so then contraryeffects are produced upon the Workings by the Pleasures and Pains proper tothem, by which I mean those which arise upon the Working, in itself,independently of any other circumstances. As for the Pleasures foreign to aWorking, we have said already that they produce a similar effect to the Painproper to it; that is they destroy the Working, only not in like way.
Well then, as Workings differ from one another in goodness and badness, somebeing fit objects of choice, others of avoidance, and others in their natureindifferent, Pleasures are similarly related; since its own proper Pleasureattends or each Working: of course that proper to a good Working is good, thatproper to a bad, bad: for even the desires for what is noble are praiseworthy,and for what is base blameworthy.
Furthermore, the Pleasures attendant on Workings are more closely connectedwith them even than the desires after them: for these last are separate both intime and nature, but the former are close to the Workings, and so indivisiblefrom them as to raise a question whether the Working and the Pleasure areidentical; but Pleasure does not seem to be an Intellectual Operation nor aFaculty of Perception, because that is absurd; but yet it gives some theimpression of being the same from not being separated from these.
As then the Workings are different so are their Pleasures; now Sight differsfrom Touch in purity, and Hearing and Smelling from Taste; therefore, in likemanner, do their Pleasures; and again, Intellectual Pleasures from theseSensual, and the different kinds both of Intellectual and Sensual from oneanother.
It is thought, moreover, that each animal has a Pleasure proper to itself, asit has a proper Work; that Pleasure of course which is attendant on theWorking. And the soundness of this will appear upon particular inspection: forhorse, dog, and man have different Pleasures; as Heraclitus says, an ass wouldsooner have hay than gold; in other words, provender is pleasanter to assesthan gold. So then the Pleasures of animals specifically different are alsospecifically different, but those of the same, we may reasonably suppose, arewithout difference.
Yet in the case of human creatures they differ not a little: for the very samethings please some and pain others: and what are painful and hateful to someare pleasant to and liked by others. The same is the case with sweet things:the same will not seem so to the man in a fever as to him who is in health: norwill the invalid and the person in robust health have the same notion ofwarmth. The same is the case with other things also.
Now in all such cases that is held to be which impresses the good manwith the notion of being such and such; and if this is a second maxim (as it isusually held to be), and Virtue, that is, the Good man, in that he is such, isthe measure of everything, then those must be real Pleasures which gave him theimpression of being so and those things pleasant in which he takes Pleasure.Nor is it at all astonishing that what are to him unpleasant should giveanother person the impression of being pleasant, for men are liable to manycorruptions and marrings; and the things in question are not pleasant really,only to these particular persons, and to them only as being thus disposed.
Well of course, you may say, it is obvious that we must assert those which areconfessedly disgraceful to be real Pleasures, except to depraved tastes: but ofthose which are thought to be good what kind, or which, must we say is ThePleasure of Man? is not the answer plain from considering the Workings,because the Pleasures follow upon these?
If then there be one or several Workings which belong to the perfect andblessed man, the Pleasures which perfect these Workings must be said to bespecially and properly The Pleasures of Man; and all the rest in asecondary sense, and in various degrees according as the Workings are relatedto those highest and best ones.
Now that we have spoken about the Excellences of both kinds, and Friendship inits varieties, and Pleasures, it remains to sketch out Happiness, since weassume that to be the one End of all human things: and we shall save time andtrouble by recapitulating what was stated before.
Well then, we said that it is not a State merely; because, if it were, it mightbelong to one who slept all his life through and merely vegetated, or to onewho fell into very great calamities: and so, if these possibilities displeaseus and we would rather put it into the rank of some kind of Working (as wasalso said before), and Workings are of different kinds (some being necessaryand choice-worthy with a view to other things, while others are so inthemselves), it is plain we must rank Happiness among those choice-worthy fortheir own sakes and not among those which are so with a view to somethingfurther: because Happiness has no lack of anything but is self-sufficient.
By choice-worthy in themselves are meant those from which nothing is soughtbeyond the act of Working: and of this kind are thought to be the actionsaccording to Virtue, because doing what is noble and excellent is one of thosethings which are choice-worthy for their own sake alone.
And again, such amusements as are pleasant; because people do not choose themwith any further purpose: in fact they receive more harm than profit from them,neglecting their persons and their property. Still the common run of those whoare judged happy take refuge in such pastimes, which is the reason why they whohave varied talent in such are highly esteemed among despots; because they makethemselves pleasant in those things which these aim at, and these accordinglywant such men.
Now these things are thought to be appurtenances of Happiness because men inpower spend their leisure herein: yet, it may be, we cannot argue from theexample of such men: because there is neither Virtue nor Intellect necessarilyinvolved in having power, and yet these are the only sources of good Workings:nor does it follow that because these men, never having tasted pure andgenerous Pleasure, take refuge in bodily ones, we are therefore to believe themto be more choice-worthy: for children too believe that those things are mostexcellent which are precious in their eyes.
We may well believe that as children and men have different ideas as to what isprecious so too have the bad and the good: therefore, as we have many timessaid, those things are really precious and pleasant which seem so to the goodman: and as to each individual that Working is most choice-worthy which is inaccordance with his own state to the good man that is so which is in accordancewith Virtue.
Happiness then stands not in amusement; in fact the very notion is absurd ofthe End being amusement, and of one’s toiling and enduring hardness allone’s life long with a view to amusement: for everything in the world, soto speak, we choose with some further End in view, except Happiness, for thatis the End comprehending all others. Now to take pains and to labour with aview to amusement is plainly foolish and very childish: but to amuseone’s self with a view to steady employment afterwards, as Anacharsissays, is thought to be right: for amusement is like rest, and men want restbecause unable to labour continuously.
Rest, therefore, is not an End, because it is adopted with a view to Workingafterwards.
Again, it is held that the Happy Life must be one in the way of Excellence, andthis is accompanied by earnestness,[13]and stands not in amusement. Moreover those things which are done in earnest,we say, are better than things merely ludicrous and joined with amusement: andwe say that the Working of the better part, or the better man, is more earnest;and the Working of the better is at once better and more capable of Happiness.
Then, again, as for bodily Pleasures, any ordinary person, or even a slave,might enjoy them, just as well as the best man living but Happiness no onesupposes a slave to share except so far as it is implied in life: becauseHappiness stands not in such pastimes but in the Workings in the way ofExcellence, as has also been stated before.
Now if Happiness is a Working in the way of Excellence of course thatExcellence must be the highest, that is to say, the Excellence of the bestPrinciple. Whether then this best Principle is Intellect or some other which isthought naturally to rule and to lead and to conceive of noble and divinethings, whether being in its own nature divine or the most divine of all ourinternal Principles, the Working of this in accordance with its own properExcellence must be the perfect Happiness.
That it is Contemplative has been already stated: and this would seem to beconsistent with what we said before and with truth: for, in the first place,this Working is of the highest kind, since the Intellect is the highest of ourinternal Principles and the subjects with which it is conversant the highest ofall which fall within the range of our knowledge.
Next, it is also most Continuous: for we are better able to contemplate than todo anything else whatever, continuously.
Again, we think Pleasure must be in some way an ingredient in Happiness, and ofall Workings in accordance with Excellence that in the way of Science isconfessedly most pleasant: at least the pursuit of Science is thought tocontain Pleasures admirable for purity and permanence; and it is reasonable tosuppose that the employment is more pleasant to those who have mastered, thanto those who are yet seeking for, it.[14]
And the Self-Sufficiency which people speak of will attach chiefly to theContemplative Working: of course the actual necessaries of life are neededalike by the man of science, and the just man, and all the other characters;but, supposing all sufficiently supplied with these, the just man needs peopletowards whom, and in concert with whom, to practise his justice; and in likemanner the man of perfected self-mastery, and the brave man, and so on of therest; whereas the man of science can contemplate and speculate even when quitealone, and the more entirely he deserves the appellation the more able is he todo so: it may be he can do better for having fellow-workers but still he iscertainly most Self-Sufficient.
Again, this alone would seem to be rested in for its own sake, since nothingresults from it beyond the fact of having contemplated; whereas from all thingswhich are objects of moral action we do mean to get something beside the doingthem, be the same more or less.
Also, Happiness is thought to stand in perfectrest;[15]for we toil that we may rest, and war that we may be at peace. Now all thePractical Virtues require either society or war for their Working, and theactions regarding these are thought to exclude rest; those of war entirely,because no one chooses war, nor prepares for war, for war’s sake: hewould indeed be thought a bloodthirsty villain who should make enemies of hisfriends to secure the existence of fighting and bloodshed. The Working also ofthe statesman excludes the idea of rest, and, beside the actual work ofgovernment, seeks for power and dignities or at least Happiness for the manhimself and his fellow-citizens: a Happinessdistinct[16]from the national Happiness, which we evidently seek as being different anddistinct.
If then of all the actions in accordance with the various virtues those ofpolicy and war are pre-eminent in honour and greatness, and these are restless,and aim at some further End and are not choice-worthy for their own sakes, butthe Working of the Intellect, being apt for contemplation, is thought to excelin earnestness, and to aim at no End beyond itself and to have Pleasure of itsown which helps to increase the Working, and if the attributes ofSelf-Sufficiency, and capacity of rest, and unweariedness (as far as iscompatible with the infirmity of human nature), and all other attributes of thehighest Happiness, plainly belong to this Working, this must be perfectHappiness, if attaining a complete duration of life, which condition is addedbecause none of the points of Happiness is incomplete.
But such a life will be higher than mere human nature, because a man will livethus, not in so far as he is man but in so far as there is in him a divinePrinciple: and in proportion as this Principle excels his composite nature sofar does the Working thereof excel that in accordance with any other kind ofExcellence: and therefore, if pure Intellect, as compared with human nature, isdivine, so too will the life in accordance with it be divine compared withman’s ordinary life.
Yet must we not give ear to those who bid one as man to mind only man’saffairs, or as mortal only mortal things; but, so far as we can, make ourselveslike immortals and do all with a view to living in accordance with the highestPrinciple in us, for small as it may be in bulk yet in power and preciousnessit far more excels all the others.
In fact this Principle would seem to constitute each man’s“Self,” since it is supreme and above all others in goodness itwould be absurd then for a man not to choose his own life but that ofsome other.
And here will apply an observation made before, that whatever is proper to eachis naturally best and pleasantest to him: such then is to Man the life inaccordance with pure Intellect (since this Principle is most truly Man), and ifso, then it is also the happiest.
And second in degree of Happiness will be that Life which is in accordance withthe other kind of Excellence, for the Workings in accordance with this areproper to Man: I mean, we do actions of justice, courage, and the othervirtues, towards one another, in contracts, services of different kinds, and inall kinds of actions and feelings too, by observing what is befitting for each:and all these plainly are proper to man. Further, the Excellence of the Moralcharacter is thought to result in some points from physical circumstances, andto be, in many, very closely connected with the passions.
Again, Practical Wisdom[17]and Excellence of the Moral character are very closely united; since thePrinciples of Practical Wisdom are in accordance with the Moral Virtues andthese are right when they accord with Practical Wisdom.
These moreover, as bound up with the passions, must belong to the compositenature, and the Excellences or Virtues of the composite nature are proper toman: therefore so too will be the life and Happiness which is in accordancewith them. But that of the Pure Intellect is separate and distinct: and letthis suffice upon the subject, since great exactness is beyond our purpose,
It would seem, moreover, to require supply of external goods to a small degree,or certainly less than the Moral Happiness: for, as far as necessaries of lifeare concerned, we will suppose both characters to need them equally (though, inpoint of fact, the man who lives in society does take more pains about hisperson and all that kind of thing; there will really be some littledifference), but when we come to consider their Workings there will be found agreat difference.
I mean, the liberal man must have money to do his liberal actions with, and thejust man to meet his engagements (for mere intentions are uncertain, and eventhose who are unjust make a pretence of wishing to do justly), and thebrave man must have power, if he is to perform any of the actions whichappertain to his particular Virtue, and the man of perfected self-mastery musthave opportunity of temptation, else how shall he or any of the others displayhis real character?
(By the way, a question is sometimes raised, whether the moral choice or theactions have most to do with Virtue, since it consists in both: it is plainthat the perfection of virtuous action requires both: but for the actions manythings are required, and the greater and more numerous they are the more.) Butas for the man engaged in Contemplative Speculation, not only are such thingsunnecessary for his Working, but, so to speak, they are even hindrances: asregards the Contemplation at least; because of course in so far as he is Manand lives in society he chooses to do what Virtue requires, and so he will needsuch things for maintaining his character as Man though not as a speculativephilosopher.
And that the perfect Happiness must be a kind of Contemplative Working mayappear also from the following consideration: our conception of the gods isthat they are above all blessed and happy: now what kind of Moral actions arewe to attribute to them? those of justice? nay, will they not be set in aridiculous light if represented as forming contracts, and restoring deposits,and so on? well then, shall we picture them performing brave actions,withstanding objects of fear and meeting dangers, because it is noble to do so?or liberal ones? but to whom shall they be giving? and further, it is absurd tothink they have money or anything of the kind. And as for actions of perfectedself-mastery, what can theirs be? would it not be a degrading praise that theyhave no bad desires? In short, if one followed the subject into all details allthe circumstances connected with Moral actions would appear trivial andunworthy of Gods.
Still, every one believes that they live, and therefore that they Work becauseit is not supposed that they sleep their time away like Endymion: now if from aliving being you take away Action, still more if Creation, what remains butContemplation? So then the Working of the Gods, eminent in blessedness, will beone apt for Contemplative Speculation; and of all human Workings that will havethe greatest capacity for Happiness which is nearest akin to this.
A corroboration of which position is the fact that the other animals do notpartake of Happiness, being completely shut out from any such Working.
To the Gods then all their life is blessed; and to men in so far as there is init some copy of such Working, but of the other animals none is happy because itin no way shares in Contemplative Speculation.
Happiness then is co-extensive with this Contemplative Speculation, and inproportion as people have the act of Contemplation so far have they also thebeing happy, not incidentally, but in the way of Contemplative Speculationbecause it is in itself precious.
So Happiness must be a kind of Contemplative Speculation; but since it is Manwe are speaking of he will need likewise External Prosperity, because hisNature is not by itself sufficient for Speculation, but there must be health ofbody, and nourishment, and tendance of all kinds.
However, it must not be thought, because without external goods a man cannotenjoy high Happiness, that therefore he will require many and great goods inorder to be happy: for neither Self-sufficiency, nor Action, stand in Excess,and it is quite possible to act nobly without being ruler of sea and land,since even with moderate means a man may act in accordance with Virtue.
And this may be clearly seen in that men in private stations are thought to actjustly, not merely no less than men in power but even more: it will be quiteenough that just so much should belong to a man as is necessary, for his lifewill be happy who works in accordance with Virtue.
Solon perhaps drew a fair picture of the Happy, when he said that they are menmoderately supplied with external goods, and who have achieved the most nobledeeds, as he thought, and who have lived with perfect self-mastery: for it isquite possible for men of moderate means to act as they ought.
Anaxagoras also seems to have conceived of the Happy man not as either rich orpowerful, saying that he should not wonder if he were accounted a strange manin the judgment of the multitude: for they judge by outward circumstances ofwhich alone they have any perception.
And thus the opinions of the Wise seem to be accordant with our account of thematter: of course such things carry some weight, but truth, in matters of moralaction, is judged from facts and from actual life, for herein rests thedecision. So what we should do is to examine the preceding statements byreferring them to facts and to actual life, and when they harmonise with factswe may accept them, when they are at variance with them conceive of them asmere theories.
Now he that works in accordance with, and pays observance to, Pure Intellect,and tends this, seems likely to be both in the best frame of mind and dearestto the Gods: because if, as is thought, any care is bestowed on human things bythe Gods then it must be reasonable to think that they take pleasure in what isbest and most akin to themselves (and this must be the Pure Intellect); andthat they requite with kindness those who love and honour this most, as payingobservance to what is dear to them, and as acting rightly and nobly. And it isquite obvious that the man of Science chiefly combines all these: he istherefore dearest to the Gods, and it is probable that he is at the same timemost Happy.
Thus then on this view also the man of Science will be most Happy.
Now then that we have said enough in our sketchy kind of way on these subjects;I mean, on the Virtues, and also on Friendship and Pleasure; are we to supposethat our original purpose is completed? Must we not rather acknowledge, what iscommonly said, that in matters of moral action mere Speculation and Knowledgeis not the real End but rather Practice: and if so, then neither in respect ofVirtue is Knowledge enough; we must further strive to have and exert it, andtake whatever other means there are of becoming good.
Now if talking and writing were of themselves sufficient to make men good, theywould justly, as Theognis observes have reaped numerous and great rewards, andthe thing to do would be to provide them: but in point of fact, while theyplainly have the power to guide and stimulate the generous among the young andto base upon true virtuous principle any noble and truly high-mindeddisposition, they as plainly are powerless to guide the mass of men to Virtueand goodness; because it is not their nature to be amenable to a sense of shamebut only to fear; nor to abstain from what is low and mean because it isdisgraceful to do it but because of the punishment attached to it: in fact, asthey live at the beck and call of passion, they pursue their own properpleasures and the means of securing them, and they avoid the contrary pains;but as for what is noble and truly pleasurable they have not an idea of it,inasmuch as they have never tasted of it.
Men such as these then what mere words can transform? No, indeed! it is eitheractually impossible, or a task of no mean difficulty, to alter by words whathas been of old taken into men’s very dispositions: and, it may be, it isa ground for contentment if with all the means and appliances for goodness inour hands we can attain to Virtue.
The formation of a virtuous character some ascribe to Nature, some to Custom,and some to Teaching. Now Nature’s part, be it what it may, obviouslydoes not rest with us, but belongs to those who in the truest sense arefortunate, by reason of certain divine agency,
Then, as for Words and Precept, they, it is to be feared, will not avail withall; but it may be necessary for the mind of the disciple to have beenpreviously prepared for liking and disliking as he ought; just as the soilmust, to nourish the seed sown. For he that lives in obedience to passioncannot hear any advice that would dissuade him, nor, if he heard, understand:now him that is thus how can one reform? in fact, generally, passion is notthought to yield to Reason but to brute force. So then there must be, to beginwith, a kind of affinity to Virtue in the disposition; which must cleave towhat is honourable and loath what is disgraceful. But to get right guidancetowards Virtue from the earliest youth is not easy unless one is brought upunder laws of such kind; because living with self-mastery and endurance is notpleasant to the mass of men, and specially not to the young. For this reasonthe food, and manner of living generally, ought to be the subject of legalregulation, because things when become habitual will not be disagreeable.
Yet perhaps it is not sufficient that men while young should get right food andtendance, but, inasmuch as they will have to practise and become accustomed tocertain things even after they have attained to man’s estate, we shallwant laws on these points as well, and, in fine, respecting one’s wholelife, since the mass of men are amenable to compulsion rather than Reason, andto punishment rather than to a sense of honour.
And therefore some men hold that while lawgivers should employ the sense ofhonour to exhort and guide men to Virtue, under the notion that they will thenobey who have been well trained in habits; they should impose chastisement andpenalties on those who disobey and are of less promising nature; and theincurable expel entirely: because the good man and he who lives under a senseof honour will be obedient to reason; and the baser sort, who grasp atpleasure, will be kept in check, like beasts of burthen by pain. Therefore alsothey say that the pains should be such as are most contrary to the pleasureswhich are liked.
As has been said already, he who is to be good must have been brought up andhabituated well, and then live accordingly under good institutions, and neverdo what is low and mean, either against or with his will. Now these objects canbe attained only by men living in accordance with some guiding Intellect andright order, with power to back them.
As for the Paternal Rule, it possesses neither strength nor compulsory power,nor in fact does the Rule of any one man, unless he is a king or some one inlike case: but the Law has power to compel, since it is a declaration emanatingfrom Practical Wisdom and Intellect. And people feel enmity towards theirfellow-men who oppose their impulses, however rightly they may do so: the Law,on the contrary, is not the object of hatred, though enforcing right rules.
The Lacedæmonian is nearly the only State in which the framer of theConstitution has made any provision, it would seem, respecting the food andmanner of living of the people: in most States these points are entirelyneglected, and each man lives just as he likes, ruling his wife and childrenCyclops-Fashion.
Of course, the best thing would be that there should be a right Public Systemand that we should be able to carry it out: but, since as a public matter thosepoints are neglected, the duty would seem to devolve upon each individual tocontribute to the cause of Virtue with his own children and friends, or atleast to make this his aim and purpose: and this, it would seem, from what hasbeen said, he will be best able to do by making a Legislator of himself: sinceall public systems, it is plain, are formed by the instrumentality of laws andthose are good which are formed by that of good laws: whether they are writtenor unwritten, whether they are applied to the training of one or many, willnot, it seems, make any difference, just as it does not in music, gymnastics,or any other such accomplishments, which are gained by practice.
For just as in Communities laws and customs prevail, so too in families theexpress commands of the Head, and customs also: and even more in the latter,because of blood-relationship and the benefits conferred: for there you have,to begin with, people who have affection and are naturally obedient to theauthority which controls them.
Then, furthermore, Private training has advantages over Public, as in the caseof the healing art: for instance, as a general rule, a man who is in a fevershould keep quiet, and starve; but in a particular case, perhaps, this may nothold good; or, to take a different illustration, the boxer will not use thesame way of fighting with all antagonists.
It would seem then that the individual will be most exactly attended to underPrivate care, because so each will be more likely to obtain what is expedientfor him. Of course, whether in the art of healing, or gymnastics, or any other,a man will treat individual cases the better for being acquainted with generalrules; as, “that so and so is good for all, or for men in such and suchcases:” because general maxims are not only said to be but are theobject-matter of sciences: still this is no reason against the possibility of aman’s taking excellent care of some one case, though he possessesno scientific knowledge but from experience is exactly acquainted with whathappens in each point; just as some people are thought to doctor themselvesbest though they would be wholly unable to administer relief to others. Yet itmay seem to be necessary nevertheless, for one who wishes to become a realartist and well acquainted with the theory of his profession, to have recourseto general principles and ascertain all their capacities: for we have alreadystated that these are the object-matter of sciences.
If then it appears that we may become good through the instrumentality of laws,of course whoso wishes to make men better by a system of care and training musttry to make a Legislator of himself; for to treat skilfully just any one whomay be put before you is not what any ordinary person can do, but, if any one,he who has knowledge; as in the healing art, and all others which involvecareful practice and skill.
Will not then our next business be to enquire from what sources, or how one mayacquire this faculty of Legislation; or shall we say, that, as in similarcases, Statesmen are the people to learn from, since this faculty was thoughtto be a part of the Social Science? Must we not admit that the PoliticalScience plainly does not stand on a similar footing to that of other sciencesand faculties? I mean, that while in all other cases those who impart thefaculties and themselves exert them are identical (physicians and painters forinstance) matters of Statesmanship the Sophists profess to teach, but not oneof them practises it, that being left to those actually engaged in it: andthese might really very well be thought to do it by some singular knack and bymere practice rather than by any intellectual process: for they neither writenor speak on these matters (though it might be more to their credit thancomposing speeches for the courts or the assembly), nor again have they madeStatesmen of their own sons or their friends.
One can hardly suppose but that they would have done so if they could, seeingthat they could have bequeathed no more precious legacy to their communities,nor would they have preferred, for themselves or their dearest friends, thepossession of any faculty rather than this.
Practice, however, seems to contribute no little to its acquisition; merelybreathing the atmosphere of politics would never have made Statesmen of them,and therefore we may conclude that they who would acquire a knowledge ofStatesmanship must have in addition practice.
But of the Sophists they who profess to teach it are plainly a long way offfrom doing so: in fact, they have no knowledge at all of its nature andobjects; if they had, they would never have put it on the same footing withRhetoric or even on a lower: neither would they have conceived it to be“an easy matter to legislate by simply collecting such laws as are famousbecause of course one could select the best,” as though the selectionwere not a matter of skill, and the judging aright a very great matter, as inMusic: for they alone, who have practical knowledge of a thing, can judge theperformances rightly or understand with what means and in what way they areaccomplished, and what harmonises with what: the unlearned must be content withbeing able to discover whether the result is good or bad, as in painting.
Now laws may be called the performances or tangible results of PoliticalScience; how then can a man acquire from these the faculty of Legislation, orchoose the best? we do not see men made physicians by compilations: and yet inthese treatises men endeavour to give not only the cases but also how they maybe cured, and the proper treatment in each case, dividing the various bodilyhabits. Well, these are thought to be useful to professional men, but to theunprofessional useless. In like manner it may be that collections of laws andConstitutions would be exceedingly useful to such as are able to speculate onthem, and judge what is well, and what ill, and what kind of things fit in withwhat others: but they who without this qualification should go through suchmatters cannot have right judgment, unless they have it by instinct, thoughthey may become more intelligent in such matters.
Since then those who have preceded us have left uninvestigated the subject ofLegislation, it will be better perhaps for us to investigate it ourselves, and,in fact, the whole subject of Polity, that thus what we may call HumanPhilosophy may be completed as far as in us lies.
First then, let us endeavour to get whatever fragments of good there may be inthe statements of our predecessors, next, from the Polities we have collected,ascertain what kind of things preserve or destroy Communities, and what,particular Constitutions; and the cause why some are well and others illmanaged, for after such enquiry, we shall be the better able to take aconcentrated view as to what kind of Constitution is best, what kind ofregulations are best for each, and what laws and customs.
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NOTES
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[1]For this term, as here employed, our language contains no equivalent expressionexcept an inconvenient paraphrase. There are three senses which it bears in this treatise: the first (in whichit is here employed) is its strict etymological signfication “The scienceof Society,” and this includes everything which can bear at all upon thewell-being of Man in his social capacity, “Quicquid agunt homines nostriest farrago libelli.” It is in this view that it is fairly denominatedmost commanding and inclusive. The second sense (in which it occurs next, just below) is “MoralPhilosophy.” Aristotle explains the term in this sense in the Rhetoric (12) [Greek: hae peri ta aethae pragmateia aen dikaion esti prosagoreuenpolitikaen]. He has principally in view in this treatise the moral training ofthe Individual, the branch of the Science of Society which we call EthicsProper, bearing the same relation to the larger Science as the hewing andsquaring of the stones to the building of the Temple, or the drill of theRecruit to the manoeuvres of the field. Greek Philosophy viewed men principallyas constituent parts of a [Greek: polis], considering this function to be thereal End of each, and this state as that in which the Individual attained hishighest and most complete development. The third sense is “The detail of Civil Government,” whichAristotle expressly states (vi. 8) was the most common acceptation of the term.
[2]Matters of which a man is to judge either belong to some definite artor science, or they do not. In the former case he is the best judge whohas thorough acquaintance with that art or science, in the latter, theman whose powers have been developed and matured by education. A lamehorse one would show to a farmer, not to the best and wisest man ofone’s acquaintance; to the latter, one would apply in a difficultcase of conduct. Experience answers to the first, a state of self-control to the latter.
[3]In the last chapter of the third book of this treatise it is said ofthe fool, that his desire of pleasure is not only insatiable, butindiscriminate in its objects,πανταχόθεν.
[4]Ἀρχὴ is a word used in this treatise in varioussignifications. The primary one is “beginning or first cause,” andthis runs through all its various uses. “Rule,” and sometimes “Rulers,” are denoted by thisterm the initiative being a property of Rule. “Principle” is a very usual signification of it, and in fact themost characteristic of the Ethics. The word Principle means“starting-point.” Every action has two beginnings, that of Resolveοὗ ἕνεκα, and that of Action(ὅθεν ἡ κινήσις).I desire praise of men this then is the beginning of Resolve. Having consideredhow it is to be attained, I resolve upon some course and this Resolve is thebeginning of Action. The beginnings of Resolve, Ἀρχὶ or Motives, whenformally stated, are the major premisses of what Aristotle calls theσυλλογίσμοιτῶν πρακτῶν, i.e. thereasoning into which actions may be analysed. Thus we say that the desire of human praise was the motive of thePharisees, or the principle on which they acted. Their practical syllogism then would stand thus:
Whatever gains human praise is to be done;Public praying and almsgiving gave human praise:[ergo] Public praying and almsgiving are to be done.
The major premisses may be stored up in the mind as rules of action, and thisis what is commonly meant by having principles good or bad.
[5]The difficulty of this passage consists in determining the signification of theterms [Greek: gnorima aemin] and [Greek: gnorima aplos] I have translated them without reference to their use elsewhere, as denotingrespectively what is and what may be known. All truth is [Greek:gnorimon aplos], but that alone [Greek: aemin] which we individually realise,therefore those principles alone are [Greek: gnorima aemin] which we havereceived as true. From this appears immediately the necessity of goodtraining as preparatory to the study of Moral Philosophy for good training inhabits will either work principles into our nature, or make us capable ofaccepting them as soon as they are put before us; which no mere intellectualtraining can do. The child who has been used to obey his parents may never haveheard the fifth Commandment but it is in the very texture of his nature, andthe first time he hears it he will recognise it as morally true and right theprinciple is in his case a fact, the reason for which he is as little inclinedto ask as any one would be able to prove its truth if he should ask. But these terms are employed elsewhere (Analytica Post I cap. 11. sect. 10) todenote respectively particulars and universals The latter are so denominated,because principles or laws must be supposed to have existed before theinstances of their operation. Justice must have existed before just actions,Redness before red things, but since what we meet with are the concreteinstances (from which we gather the principles and laws), the particulars aresaid to be [Greek: gnorimotera aemin] Adopting this signification gives greater unity to the whole passage, whichwill then stand thus. The question being whether we are to assume principles,or obtain them by an analysis of facts, Aristotle says, “We must begin ofcourse with what is known but then this term denotes either particulars oruniversals perhaps we then must begin with particulars and hence the necessityof a previous good training in habits, etc. (which of course is beginning withparticular facts), for a fact is a starting point, and if this be sufficientlyclear, there will be no want of the reason for the fact in addition” The objection to this method of translation is, that [Greek: archai] occursimmediately afterwards in the sense of “principles.”
Utere tuo judicio nihil enim impedio.
[6]Or “prove themselves good,” as in the Prior Analytics, ii 25,[Greek: apanta pisteuomen k.t l] but the other rendering is supported by apassage in Book VIII. chap. ix. [Greek: oi d’ upo ton epieikon kaieidoton oregomenoi timaes bebaiosai ten oikeian doxan ephientai peri autonchairousi de oti eisin agathoi, pisteuontes te ton legonton krisei]
[7][Greek: thesis] meant originally some paradoxical statement by any philosopherof name enough to venture on one, but had come to mean any dialecticalquestion. Topics, I. chap. ix.
[8]A lost work, supposed to have been so called, because containing miscellaneousquestions.
[9]It is only quite at the close of the treatise that Aristotle refers to this,and allows that [Greek: theoria] constitutes the highest happiness because itis the exercise of the highest faculty in man the reason of thus deferring thestatement being that till the lower, that is the moral, nature has been reducedto perfect order, [Greek: theoria] cannot have place, though, had it been heldout from the first, men would have been for making the experiment at once,without the trouble of self-discipline.
[10]Or, as some think, “many theories have been founded on them.”
[11]The ἰδέα is the archetype, theεἶδος the concrete embodying the resemblance of it;hence Aristotle alludes to the theory under both names, and this is the reasonfor retaining the Greek terms.
[12]The list ran thus—
[13]Plato’s sister’s son.
[14]This is the capital defect in Aristotle’s eyes, who being eminentlypractical, could not like a theory which not only did not necessarily lead toaction, but had a tendency to discourage it by enabling unreal men to talkfinely. If true, the theory is merely a way of stating facts, and leads to noaction.
[15]i.e. the identification of Happiness with the Chief Good.
[16]i.e. without the capability of addition.
[17]And then Happiness would at once be shown not to be the Chief Good. It is acontradiction in terms to speak of adding to the Chief Good. See Book X. chap.11. [Greek: delon os oud allo ouden tagathon an eiae o meta tenos tonkath’ auto agathon airetoteron ginetai.]
[18]Compare Bishop Butler’s account of “Human Nature as a System”in the Preface to his Sermons.
[19]i.e. as working or as quiescent.
[20]The mere translation of this term would convey no idea of its meaning, I havetherefore retained the Greek term. It is afterwards explained to include spaceof time and external appliances requisite for the full development ofMan’s energies; here the time only is alluded to.
[21]This principle is more fully stated, with illustrations, in the Topics, I.chap. ix.
[22]Either that of the bodily senses, or that of the moral senses. “Fireburns,” is an instance of the former, “Treason is odious,” ofthe latter.
[23]I have thought it worthwhile to vary the interpretation of this word, becausethough “habitus” may be equivalent to all the senses of [Greek:exis], “habit” is not, at least according to our colloquial usagewe commonly denote by “habit” a state formed by habituation.
[24]Another and perhaps more obvious method of rendering this passage is to apply[Greek: kalon kagathon] to things, and let them depend grammatically on [Greek:epaeboli]. It is to be remembered, however, that [Greek: kalos kagathos] bore aspecial and well-known meaning also the comparison is in the text morecomplete, and the point of the passage seems more completely brought out.
[25]“Goodness always implies the love of itself, an affection togoodness.” (Bishop Butler, Sermon xiii ) Aristotle describes pleasure inthe Tenth Book of this Treatise as the result of any faculty of perceptionmeeting with the corresponding object, vicious pleasure being as truly pleasureas the most refined and exalted. If Goodness then implies the love of itself,the percipient will always have its object present, and pleasure continuallyresult.
[26]In spite of theory, we know as a matter of fact that external circumstances arenecessary to complete the idea of Happiness not that Happiness is capable ofaddition, but that when we assert it to be identical with virtuous action wemust understand that it is to have a fair field; in fact, the other side of[Greek: bios teleios].
[27]It is remarkable how Aristotle here again shelves what he considers anunpractical question. If Happiness were really a direct gift from Heaven,independently of human conduct, all motive to self-discipline and moralimprovement would vanish He shows therefore that it is no depreciation of thevalue of Happiness to suppose it to come partly at least from ourselves, and hethen goes on with other reasons why we should think with him.
[28]This term is important, what has been maimed was once perfect; he does notcontemplate as possible the case of a man being born incapable of virtue, andso of happiness.
[29][Greek] Plato. Phædon. xlvi.
[30]But why give materials and instruments, if there is no work to do?
[31]The supposed pair of ancestors.
[32]Solon says, “Call no man happy till he is dead.” He must meaneither, The man when dead is happy (a), or, The man when dead may besaid to have been happy (b). If the former, does he mean positive happiness(a)? or only freedom from unhappiness (β)? We cannot allow (a),Men’s opinions disallow (β), We revert now to the consideration of(b).
[33]The difficulty was raised by the clashing of a notion commonly held, and a factuniversally experienced. Most people conceive that Happiness should be abiding,every one knows that fortune is changeable. It is the notion which supports thedefinition, because we have therein based Happiness on the most abiding cause.
[34]I have taken τούτοναὐτῶν to refer toἐπιστημῶν, against Magirus andthe Paraphrase of Andronicus Rhodius. I would refer to Aristotle’saccount of θεωρία in the Tenth Book, chap. vii.where he expressly says of the working of νοῦς or pureintelect, that it is “most continuous.”
[35]The term seems to be employed advisedly. The Choragus, of course, dressed hisactors for their parts; not according to their fancies or his own. Hooker has (E. P. v. ixxvi. 5) a passage which seems to be an admirableparaphrase on this. “Again, that the measure of our outward prosperity be taken byproportion with that which every man’s estate in this present liferequireth. External abilities are instruments of action. It contenteth wiseartificers to have their instruments proportionable to their work, rather fitfor use than huge and goodly to please the eye. Seeing then the actions of aservant do not need that which may be necessary for men of calling and place inthe world, neither men of inferior condition many things which greaterpersonages can hardly want; surely they are blessed in worldly respects whohave wherewith to perform what their station and place asketh, though they haveno more.”
[36]Always bearing in mind that man “never continueth in one stay.”
[37]The meaning is this: personal fortunes, we have said, must be in certain weightand number to affect our own happiness, this will be true, of course, of thosewhich are reflected on us from our friends: and these are the only ones towhich the dead are supposed to be liable? add then the difference ofsensibility which it is fair to presume, and there is a very small residuum ofjoy or sorrow.
[38]This is meant for an exhaustive division of goods, which are either so inesse or in posse. If in esse, they are either above praise, or subjects of praise.Those in posse, here called faculties, are good only when rightly used.Thus Rhetoric is a faculty which may be used to promote justice or abused tosupport villainy. Money in like way.
[39]The doubt is, whether [Greek] or [Greek] is the subject of the sentence. It istranslated as above, not merely with reference to the sense of this passage,but on a comparison with a similar one in Book X. chap 8. [Greek].
[40]Eudoxus, a philosopher holding the doctrine afterwards adopted by Epicurusrespecting pleasure, but (as Aristotle testifies in the Tenth Book) ofirreproachable character.
[41]See the Rhetoric, Book I. chap ix.
[42]The unseen is at least as real as the seen.
[43]The terms are borrowed from the Seventh Book and are here used in their strictphilosophical meaning. The [Greek: enkrates] is he who has bad or unrulyappetites, but whose reason is strong enough to keep them under. The [Greek:akrates] is he whose appetites constantly prevail over his reason and previousgood resolutions. By the law of habits the former is constantly approximating to a state inwhich the appetites are wholly quelled. This state is called [Greek:sophrosyne], and the man in it [Greek: sophron]. By the same law theremonstrances of reason in the latter grow fainter and fainter till they aresilenced for ever. This state is called [Greek: akolasia], and the man in it[Greek: akolastos].
[44]This is untranslateable. As the Greek phrase, [Greek: echein logon tinos],really denotes substituting that person’s [Greek: logos] for one’sown, so the Irrational nature in a man of self-control or perfectedself-mastery substitutes the orders of Reason for its own impulses. The otherphrase means the actual possession of mathematical truths as part of the mentalfurniture, i.e. knowing them.
[45][Greek: xin] may be taken as opposed to [Greek: energeian], and the meaningwill be, to show a difference between Moral and Intellectual Excellences, thatmen are commended for merely having the latter, but only for exerting and usingthe former.
[1]Which we call simply virtue.
[2]For nature must of course supply the capacity.
[3]Or “as a simple result of nature.”
[4]This is done in the Sixth Book.
[5]It is, in truth, in the application of rules to particular details of practicethat our moral Responsibility chiefly lies no rule can be so framed, thatevasion shall be impossible. See Bishop Butler’s Sermon on the characterof Balaam, and that on Self-Deceit.
[6]The words ἀκόλαστος andδειλὸς are not used here in their strictsignifications to denote confirmed states of vice: theἐγκρατὴς necessarily feels pain,because he must always be thwarting passions which are a real part of hisnature; though this pain will grow less and less as he nears the point ofσωφροσύνη or perfectedSelf-Mastery, which being attained the pain will then and then only ceaseentirely. So a certain degree of fear is necessary to the formation oftrue courage. All that is meant here is, that no habit of courage orself-mastery can be said to be matured, until pain altogether vanishes.
[7]Virtue consists in the due regulation of all the parts of our nature ourpassions are a real part of that nature, and as such have their proper office,it is an error then to aim at their extirpation. It is true that in a perfectmoral state emotion will be rare, but then this will have been gained byregular process, being the legitimate result of the law that “passiveimpressions weaken as active habits are strengthened, by repetition.” Ifmusical instruments are making discord, I may silence or I may bring them intoharmony in either case I get rid of discord, but in the latter I have thepositive enjoyment of music. The Stoics would have the passions rooted out,Aristotle would have them cultivated to use an apt figure (whose I know not),They would pluck the blossom off at once, he would leave it to fall in duecourse when the fruit was formed. Of them we might truly say, Solitudinemfaciunt, pacem appellant. See on this point Bishop Butler’s fifthSermon, and sect. 11. of the chapter on Moral Discipline in the first part ofhis Analogy.
[8]I have adopted this word from our old writers, because our word act isso commonly interchanged with action. [Greek: Praxis] (action) properlydenotes the whole process from the conception to the performance. [Greek:Pragma] (fact) only the result. The latter may be right when the former iswrong if, for example, a murderer was killed by his accomplices. Again, the[Greek: praxis] may be good though the [Greek: pragma] be wrong, as if aman under erroneous impressions does what would have been right if hisimpressions had been true (subject of course to the question how far he isguiltless of his original error), but in this case we could not call the[Greek: praxis] right. No repetition of [Greek: pragmata] goes to form ahabit. See Bishop Butler on the Theory of Habits m the chapter on MoralDiscipline, quoted above, sect. 11. “And in like manner as habitsbelonging to the body,” etc.
[9]Being about to give a strict logical definition of Virtue, Aristotleascertains first what is its genus [Greek: ti estin].
[10]That is, not for merely having them, because we did not makeourselves. See Bishop Butler’s account of our nature as containing“particular propensions,” in sect. iv. of the chapter on Moraldiscipline, and in the Preface to the Sermons.
[11]This refers to the division of quantity ([Greek: poson]) in the Categories.Those Quantities are called by Aristotle Continuous whose parts have positionrelatively to one another, as a line, surface, or solid, those discrete, whoseparts have no such relation, as numbers themselves, or any string of wordsgrammatically unconnected.
[12]Numbers are in arithmetical proportion (more usually called progression), whenthey increase or decrease by a common difference thus, 2, 6, 10 are so, because2 + 4 = 6, 6 + 4= 10, or vice versa, 10 - 4 = 6, 6 - 4 = 2.
[13]If the mina be taken at 15 oz. avoirdupois, (Dict. of G. and R. Antiquities,article Talentum,) we must be sadly degenerate in our gastric capacity.
[14]The two are necessary, because since the reason itself may be perverted, a manmust have recourse to an external standard; we may suppose his [Greek: logos]originally to have been a sufficient guide, but when he has injured his moralperceptions in any degree, he must go out of himself for direction.
[15]This is one of the many expressions which seem to imply that this treatise israther a collection of notes of a vivâ voce lecture than a set formaltreatise. “The table” of virtues and vices probably was sketchedout and exhibited to the audience.
[16]Afterwards defined as “All things whose value is measured bymoney.”
[17]We have no term exactly equivalent; it may be illustrated by Horace’s useof the term hiatus: “Quid dignum tanto feret hic promissor hiatu?” Opening the mouthwide gives a promise of something great to come, if nothing great does come,this is a case of [Greek: chaunotes] or fruitless and unmeaning hiatus;the transference to the present subject is easy.
[18]In like manner we talk of laudable ambition, implying of course theremay be that which is not laudable.
[19]An expression of Bishop Butler’s, which corresponds exactly to thedefinition of [Greek: nemesis] in the Rhetoric.
[20]That is, in the same genus; to be contraries, things must begenerically connected: [Greek: ta pleiston allelon diestekota ton en toauto genei enantia orizontai]. Categories, iv. 15.
[21]“[Greek: Deuteros plous] is a proverb,” says the Scholiast on thePhaedo, “used of those who do anything safely and cautiously inasmuch asthey who have miscarried in their first voyage, set about then: preparationsfor the second cautiously,” and he then alludes to this passage.
[22]That is, you must allow for the recoil. “Naturam expellas furcatamen usque recurret.”
[23]This illustration sets in so clear a light the doctrines entertainedrespectively by Aristotle, Eudoxus, and the Stoics regarding pleasure, that itis worth while to go into it fully. The reference is to Iliad iii. 154-160. The old counsellors, as Helen comesupon the city wall, acknowledge her surpassing beauty, and have no difficultyin understanding how both nations should have incurred such suffering for hersake still, fair as she is, home she must go, that she bring not ruin onthemselves and their posterity. This exactly represents Aristotle’s relation to Pleasure he does not,with Eudoxus and his followers, exalt it into the Summum Bonum (as Paris wouldrisk all for Helen), nor does he the the Stoics call it wholly evil, as Hectormight have said that the woes Helen had caused had “banished all thebeauty from her cheek,” but, with the aged counsellors, admits itscharms, but aware of their dangerousness resolves to deny himself, he“feels her sweetness, yet defies her thrall.”
[24]Αἴσθησις is here used as an analogousnoun, to denote the faculty which, in respect of moral matters, discharges thesame function that bodily sense does in respect of physical objects. It isworth while to notice how in our colloquial language we carry out the sameanalogy. We say of a transaction, that it “looks ugly,”“sounds oddly,” is a “nasty job,” “stinks in ournostrils,” is a “hard dealing.”
[1]A man is not responsible for being [Greek: theratos], because “particularpropensions, from their very nature, must be felt, the objects of them beingpresent, though they cannot be gratified at all, or not with the allowance ofthe moral principle.” But he is responsible for being [Greek:eutheratos], because, though thus formed, he “might have improved andraised himself to an higher and more secure state of virtue by the contrarybehaviour, by steadily following the moral principle, supposed to be one partof his nature, and thus withstanding that unavoidable danger of defection whichnecessarily arose from propension, the other part of it. For by thus preservinghis integrity for some time, his danger would lessen, since propensions, bybeing inured to submit, would do it more easily and of course and his securityagainst this lessening danger would increase, since the moral principle wouldgain additional strength by exercise, both which things are implied in thenotion of virtuous habits.” (From the chapter on Moral Discipline m theAnalogy, sect. iv.) The purpose of this disquisition is to refute theNecessitarians; it is resumed in the third chapter of this Book.
[2]Virtue is not only the duty, but (by the laws of the Moral Government of theWorld) also the interest of Man, or to express it in Bishop Butler’smanner, Conscience and Reasonable self-love are the two principles in ournature which of right have supremacy over the rest, and these two lead in pointof fact the same course of action. (Sermon II.)
[3]Any ignorance of particular facts affects the rightness not of the [Greek:praxis], but of the [Greek: pragma], but ignorance of i.e. incapacity todiscern, Principles, shows the Moral Constitution to have been depraved,i.e. shows Conscience to be perverted, or the sight of Self-love to beimpaired.
[4][Greek: eneka] primarily denotes the relation of cause and effectall circumstances which in any way contribute to a cert result are [Greek:eneka] that result. From the power which we have or acquire of deducing future results frompresent causes we are enabled to act towards, with a view to produce, theseresults thus [Greek: eneka] comes to mean not causation merely, butdesigned causation and so [Greek: on eneka] is used for Motive, or finalcause. It is the primary meaning which is here intended, it would be acontradiction in terms to speak of a man’s being ignorant of his ownMotive of action. When the man “drew a bow at a venture and smote the King of Israelbetween the joints of the harnesss” (i Kings xxii 34) he did it [Greek:eneka ton apdkteinai] the King of Israel, in the primary sense of [Greek:eneka] that is to say, the King’s death was in fact the result,but could not have been the motive, of the shot, because the King was disguisedand the shot was at a venture.
[5]Bishop Butler would agree to this: he says of settled deliberate anger,“It seems in us plainly connected with a sense of virtue and vice, ofmoral good and evil.” See the whole Sermon on Resentment.
[6]Aristotle has, I venture to think, rather quibbled here, by using [Greek:epithumia] and its verb, equivocally as there is no following his argumentwithout condescending to the same device, I have used our word lust in itsancient signification Ps. xxiv. 12, “What man is he that lusteth tolive?”
[7]The meaning is, that the onus probandi is thrown upon the person whomaintains the distinction, Aristotle has a prima facie case. The wholepassage is one of difficulty. Card wells text gives the passage from [Greek:dokei de] as a separate argument Bekker’s seems to intend al 81 ir/jd£eisas a separate argument but if so, the argument would be a mere petitioprincipii. I have adopted Cardwell’s reading in part, but retain thecomma at [Greek: dmpho] and have translated the last four words as applying tothe whole discussion, whereas Cardwell’s reading seems to restrict themto the last argument.
[8]i.e. on objects of Moral Choice, opinion of this kind is not the same asMoral Choice, because actions alone form habits and constitute character,opinions are in general signs of character, but when they begin to beacted on they cease to be opinions, and merge in Moral Choice.
“Treason doth never prosper, what’s the reason?When it doth prosper, none dare call it Treason.”
[9]The introduction of the words [Greek: dia tinos] seems a mere uselessrepetition, as in the second chapter [Greek: en tini] added to [Greek: periti]. These I take for some among the many indications that the treatise is acollection of notes for lectures, and not a finished or systematic one.
[10]Suppose that three alternatives lay before a man, each of the three is ofcourse an object of Deliberation; when he has made his choice, the alternativechosen does not cease to be in nature an object of Deliberation, but superaddsthe character of being chosen and so distinguished. Three men are admittedcandidates for an office, the one chosen is the successful candidate, so of thethree [Greek: bouleuta], the one chosen is the [Greek: bouleuton proaireton].
[11]Compare Bishop Butler’s “System of Human Nature,” in thePreface to the Sermons.
[12]These words, [Greek: ek tou bouleusasthai—bouleusin], contain the accountof the whole mental machinery of any action. The first step is a Wish, impliedin the first here mentioned, viz. Deliberation, for it has been already laiddown that Deliberation has for its object-matter means to Ends supposed to beset before the mind, the next step is Deliberation, the next Decision, the lastthe definite extending of the mental hand towards the object thus selected, thetwo last constitute [Greek: proairesis] in its full meaning. The word [Greek:orexis] means literally “a grasping at or after” now as thisphysically may be either vague or definite, so too may the mental act,consequently the term as transferred to the mind has two uses, and denoteseither the first wish, [Greek: boulaesis], or the last definite movement, Willin its strict and proper sense. These two uses are recognised in the Rhetoric(I 10), where [Greek: orexis] is divided into [Greek: alogos] and [Greek:logistikae]. The illustration then afforded by the polities alluded to is this, as theKings first decided and then announced their decision for acceptance andexecution by their subjects, so Reason, having decided on the course to betaken, communicates its decision to the Will, which then proceeds to move[Greek: ta organika merae]. To instance in an action of the mixed kindmentioned in the first chapter, safe arrival at land is naturally desired, twomeans are suggested, either a certain loss of goods, or trying to save bothlives and goods, the question being debated, the former is chosen, thisdecision is communicated to the Will, which causes the owner’s hands tothrow overboard his goods: the act is denominated voluntary, because the Willis consenting, but in so denominating it, we leave out of sight how thatconsent was obtained. In a purely compulsory case the never gets beyond thestage of Wish, for no means are power and deliberation therefore is useless,consequently there is neither Decision nor Will, in other words, no Choice.
[13]Compare the statement in the Rhetoric, 1 10, [Greek: esti d hae men boulaeisagathou orexis (oudeis gar bouletai all ae otan oiaetho einai agathon)]
[14]A stone once set in motion cannot be recalled, because it is then placed underthe operation of natural laws which cannot be controlled or altered, so too inMoral declension, there is a point at which gravitation operates irretrievably,“there is a certain bound to imprudence and misbehaviour which beingtransgressed, there remains no place for repentance in the natural course ofthings.” Bishop Butler’s Analogy, First Part, chap 11.
[15]Habits being formed by acting in a certain way under certain circumstances wecan only choose how we will act not what circumstances we will have to actunder.
[16]“Moral Courage” is our phrase.
[17]The meaning of this passage can scarcely be conveyed except by aparaphrase. “The object of each separate act of working is that which accordswith the habit they go to form. Courage is the habit which separate acts ofbravery go to form, therefore the object of these is that which accords withCourage, i.e. Courage itself. But Courage is honourable (which impliesthat the end and object of it is honour, since things are denominated accordingto their end and object), therefore the object of each separate act of braveryis honour.”
[18]For true Courage is required, i. Exact appreciation of danger. 2. A Propermotive for resisting fear. Each of the Spurious kinds will be found to fail inone or other, or both.
[19]This may merely mean, “who give strict orders” not to flinch, whichwould imply the necessity of compulsion The word is capable of the sense givenabove, which seems more forcible.
[20]See Book VI. chap. xiii. near the end [Greek: sokrataes aehen oun logous tasaretas oeto einai (epiotaemas gar einai pasas)]
[21]Such as the noise, the rapid movements, and apparent confusion which to aninexperienced eye and ear would be alarming. So Livy says of the Gauls, v. 37,Nata in vanos tumultus gens.
[22]In Coronea in Bœotia, on the occasion of the citadel being betrayed to somePhocians. “The regulars” were Boeotian troops, the [Greek:politika] Coroneans.
[23]By the difference of tense it seems Aristotle has mixed up two things,beginning to speak of the particular instance, and then carried into thegeneral statement again. This it is scarce worth while to imitate.
[24]The meaning of the phrase [Greek: kata sumbebaekos], as here used, in given inthe Seventh Book, chap. X. [Greek: ei gar tis todi dia todi aireitai ae diokei,kath ahuto men touto diokei kai aireitai, kata sumbebaekos de to proteron].
[1]Each term is important to make up the character of Justice, men must have thecapacity, do the acts, and do them from moral choice.
[2]But not always. [Greek: Philein], for instance, has two senses, “tolove” and “to kiss,” [Greek: misein] but one. Topics, I.chap. XIII. 5.
[3]Things are [Greek: homonuma] which have only their name in common, beingin themselves different. The [Greek: homonumia] is close therefore whenthe difference though real is but slight. There is no English expression for[Greek: homonumia], “equivocal” being applied to a term and not toits various significates.
[4]See Book I. chap. 1. [Greek: toiautaen de tina planaen echei kai tagathak.t.l.]
[5]A man habitually drunk in private is viewed by our law as confining his vice tohimself, and the law therefore does not attempt to touch him; a religioushermit may be viewed as one who confines his virtue to his own person.
[6]See the account of Sejanus and Livia. Tac. Annal. IV. 3.
[7]Cardwell’s text, which here gives [Greek: paranomon], yields a mucheasier and more natural sense. All Injustice violates law, but only theparticular kinds violate equality; and therefore the unlawful : the unequal ::universal Injustice the particular i.e. as whole to part. There is a reading which also alters the words within the parenthesis, butthis hardly affects the gist of the passage.
[8]There are two reasons why the characters are not necessarily coincident. He isa good citizen, who does his best to carry out the [Greek: politeia] underwhich he lives, but this may be faulty, so therefore pro tanto ishe. Again, it is sufficient, so far as the Community is concerned, that he doesthe facts of a good man but for the perfection of his own individualcharacter, he must do them virtuously. A man may move rightly in his socialorbit, without revolving rightly on his own axis. The question is debated in the Politics, III. 2. Compare also thedistinction between the brave man, and good soldier (supra, Book III. chap.xii.), and also Bishop Butler’s first Sermon.
[9]Terms used for persons.
[10]By [Greek:——] is meant numbers themselves, 4, 20, 50, etc, by[Greek:——] these numbers exemplified, 4 horses, 20 sheep, etc.
[11]The profits of a mercantile transaction (say £1000) are to be divided between Aand B, in the ratio of 2 to 3 (which is the real point to be settled);then, A : B :: 400 : 600. A : 400 :: B : 600 (permutando, and assuming a value for A and B, so as tomake them commensurable with the respectiy sums). A+400 : B+600 :: A : B. This represents the actual distribution; itsfairness depending entirely on that of the first proportion.
[12]i.e. where the ratio is that of equality, thus 2 : 2 :: 40 : 40
[13]Her Majesty’s “Justices.”
[14]I have omitted the next three lines, as they seem to be out of place here, andto occur much more naturally afterwards; it not being likely that they wereoriginally twice written, one is perhaps at liberty to give Aristotle thebenefit of the doubt, and conclude that he put them where they made the bestsense.
[15]This I believe to be the meaning of the passage but do not pretend to be ableto get it out of the words.
[16]This is apparently contrary to what was said before, but not really so.Aristotle does not mean that the man in authority struck wrongfully, but hetakes the extreme case of simple Reciprocation, and in the second case, the manwho strikes one in authority commits two offences, one against the person (andso far they are equal), and another against the office.
[17]χάρις denotes, 1st, a kindly feeling issuing in agratuitous act of kindness, 2ndly, the effect of this act of kindness on agenerous mind; 3rdly, this effect issuing in a requital of the kindness.
[18]The Shoemaker would get a house while the Builder only had (say) one pair ofshoes, or at all events not so many as he ought to have. Thus the man producingthe least valuable ware would get the most valuable, and viceversa. Adopting, as I have done, the reading which omits [Greek:——] at[Greek:——], we have simply a repetition of the caution, that beforeReciprocation is attempted, there must be the same ratio between the wares asbetween the persons, i.e. the ratio of equality. If we admit [Greek: ou], the meaning may be, that you must not bring intothe proportion the difference mentioned above [Greek: eteron kai ouk ison],since for the purposes of commerce all men are equal. Say that the Builder is to the Shoemaker as 10:1. Then there must be thesame ratio between the wares, consequently the highest artist will carry offthe most valuable wares, thus combining in himself both [Greek: uperochai]. Thefollowing are the three cases, given 100 pr. shoes = 1 house.
[19][Greek] Compare a similar use of [Greek]. De Interpretatione, II. 2. [Greek].
[20]Every unjust act embodies [Greek: to adikon], which is a violation of [Greek:to ison], and so implies a greater and a less share, the former being said tofall to the doer, the latter to the sufferer, of injury.
[21]This passage certainly occurs awkwardly here. If attached to the closeof the preceding Chapter it would leave that Chapter incomplete, forthe question is not gone into, but only stated. As the commencement ofthis Chapter it is yet more out of place; I should propose to insert itat the commencement of the following Chapter, to which it forms anappropriate introduction.
[22]In a pure democracy men are absolutely, i.e. numerically, equal, inother forms only proportionately equal. Thus the meanest British subject isproportionately equal to the Sovereign, that is to say, is as fully secured inhis rights as the Sovereign in hers.
[23]Or, according to Cardwell’s reading ([Greek: kineton ou mentoi pan])“but amongst ourselves there is Just, which is naturally variable, butcertainly all Just is not such.” The sense of the passage is not affectedby the reading. In Bekker’s text we must take [Greek: kineton] to meanthe same as [Greek: kinoumenon], i.e. “we admit there is no Justwhich has not been sometimes disallowed, still,” etc. WithCardwell’s, [Greek: kineton] will mean “which not only doesbut naturally may vary.”
[24]Murder is unjust by the law of nature, Smuggling by enactment. Therefore anyact which can be referred to either of these heads is an unjust act, or, asBishop Butler phrases it, an act materially unjust. Thus much may bedecided without reference to the agent. See the note on page 32, l. 16.
[25]“As distinct from pain or loss.” Bishop Butler’s Sermon onResentment. See also, Rhet. 11. 2 Def. of [Greek: orgae].
[26]This method of reading the passage is taken from Zell as quoted inCardwell’s Notes, and seems to yield the best sense. The Paraphrast givesit as follows: “But the aggressor is not ignorant that he began, and so he feelshimself to be wrong [and will not acknowledge that he is the aggressor], butthe other does not.”
[27]As when a man is “justified at the Grass Market,”i.e. hung.
[28]Where the stock of good is limited, if any individual takes more than his sharesome one else must have less than his share; where it is infinite, or wherethere is no good at all this cannot happen.
[29]The reference is to chap. vii. where it was said that the law views the partiesin a case of particular injustice as originally equal, but now unequal, thewrong doer the gainer and the sufferer the loser by the wrong, but in the caseabove supposed there is but one party.
[30]So in the Politics, 1. 2. Hae men gar psuchae tou somatos archei despotikaen archaen, o de noustaes orexeos politikaen kai despotikaev. Compare also Bishop Butler’s account of human nature as asystem—of the different authority of certain principles, and speciallythe supremacy of Conscience.
[1]I understand the illustration to be taken from the process of lowering a weightinto its place; a block of marble or stone, for instance, in a building.
[2]Called for convenience sake Necessary and Contingent matter.
[3]One man learns Mathematics more easily than another, in common language, hehas a turn for Mathematics, i e something in his mental conformationanswers to that science The Phrenologist shows the bump denoting this aptitude.
[4]And therefore the question resolves itself into this, “What is the workof the Speculative, and what of the Practical, faculty of Reason.” Seethe description of apetae II. 5.
[5]praxis is here used in its strict and proper meaning.
[6]That is to say, the Will waits upon deliberation in which Reason is the judge;when the decision is pronounced, the Will must act accordingly. The question at issue always is, Is this Good? because the Will isonly moved by an impression of Good; the Decision then will be always Aye orNo, and the mental hand is put forth to grasp in the former case, andretracted in the later. So far as what must take place in every Moral Action, right orwrong, the Machinery of the mind being supposed uninjured but to constitute agood Moral Choice, i e.. a good Action, the Reason must have said Ayewhen it ought. The cases of faulty action will be, either when the Machinery is perfectbut wrongly directed, as in the case of a deliberate crime, or when thedirection given by the Reason is right but the Will does not move in accordancewith that direction, in other words, when the Machinery is out of order; as inthe case of the [Greek: akrates]—video meliora proboque, Deteriorasequor.
[7]See the note on [Greek: Arche] on page 4, l. 30.
[8]The cobbler is at his last, why? to make shoes, which are to clothe the feet ofsomeone and the price to be paid, i.e. the produce of his industry, isto enable him to support his wife and children; thus his production issubordinate to Moral Action.
[9]It may be fairly presumed that Aristotle would not thus have varied his phrasewithout some real difference of meaning. That difference is founded, I think,on the two senses of [Greek: orexis] before alluded to (note, p. 53, l. 33).The first impulse of the mind towards Action may be given either by a vaguedesire or by the suggestion of Reason. The vague desire passing through thedeliberate stage would issue in Moral Choice. Reason must enlist the Willbefore any Action can take place. Reason ought to be the originator in all cases, as Bishop Butler observesthat Conscience should be. If this were so, every act of Moral Choice would be[Greek: orektikos nous]. But one obvious function of the feelings and passions in our compositenature is to instigate Action, when Reason and Conscience by themselves do not:so that as a matter of fact our Moral Choice is, in general, fairly describedas [Greek: orexis dianoetike]. See Bishop Butler’s Sermon II. and theFirst upon Compassion.
[10]The mind attains truth, either for the sake of truth itself ([Greek: aplos]),or for the sake of something further ([Greek: eneka tinos]). If the first theneither syllogistically ([Greek: episteme]), non-syllogistically ([Greek:nous]), or by union of the two methods ([Greek: sophla]). If the second, eitherwith a view to act ([Greek: phronesis]), or with a view to make([Greek: techne]). Otherwise. The mind contemplates Matter Necessary or Contingent. Ifnecessary, Principles ([Greek: nous]), Deductions ([Greek: episteme]), or Mixed([Greek: sophla]). If Contingent, Action ([Greek: phronesis]), Production([Greek: techen]). (Giphanius quoted in Cardwell’s notes.)
[11]It is the opening statement of the Post Analytics.
[12]Aristotle in his logical analysis of Induction, Prior. Analytics II. 25,defines it to be “the proving the inherence of the major term in themiddle (i.e. proving the truth of the major premiss in fig. 1) throughthe minor term.” He presupposes a Syllogism in the first Figure with anuniversal affirmative conclusion, which reasons, of course, from an universal,which universal is to be taken as proved by Induction. His doctrine turns upona canon which he there quotes. “If of one and the same term two others bepredicated, one of which is coextensive with that one and the same, the othermay be predicated of that which is thus coextensive.” The fact of thiscoextensiveness must be ascertained by [Greek: nous], in other words, by theInductive Faculty. We will take Aldrich’s instance. All Magnets attract iron A B C are Magnets A B C attract iron.Presupposed Syllogism reasoning from an universal. A B C attract iron (Matter of observation and experiment) All Magnets are A B C (Assumed by [Greek: nous], i.e. the Inductive faculty) All Magnets attract iron (Major premiss of the last Syllogism proved by takingthe minor term of that for the middle term of this.) Or, according to the canon quoted above: A B C are Magnets. A B C attract iron. But [Greek: nous] tells me that the term Magnets is coextensive with the term AB C, therefore of all Magnets I may predicate that they attract iron. Induction is said by Aristotle to be [Greek: hoia phanton], but he says in thesame place that for this reason we must conceive ([Greek: noehin]) theterm containing the particular Instances (as A B C above) as composed of allthe Individuals. If Induction implied actual examination of all particular instances it wouldcease to be Reasoning at all and sink into repeated acts of Simple Apprehensionit is really the bridging over of a chasm, not the steps cut in the rock oneither side to enable us to walk down into and again out of it. It is a branchof probable Reasoning, and its validity depends entirely upon thequality of the particular mind which performs it. Rapid Induction has alwaysbeen a distinguishing mark of Genius the certainty produced by it is Subjectiveand not Objective. It may be useful to exhibit it Syllogistically, but theSyllogism which exhibits it is either nugatory, or contains a premissliterally false. It will be found useful to compare on the subject ofInduction as the term is used by Aristotle, Analytica Prior. II 25 26Analytica Post. I. 1, 3, and I. Topics VI I and X.
[13]The reference is made to the Post Analyt I II and it is impossible tounderstand the account of [Greek: epistaemae] without a perusal of the chapter,the additions to the definition referred to relate to the nature of thepremisses from which [Greek: epistaemae] draws its conclusions they are to be“true, first principles incapable of any syllogistic proof, better knownthan the conclusion, prior to it, and causes of it.” (See the appendix tothis Book.)
[14]This is the test of correct logical division, that the membra dividentiashall be opposed, i.e. not included the one by the other.
[15]The meaning of the [Greek: hepehi] appears to be this: the appeal is made inthe first instance to popular language, just as it the case of [Greek:epistaemae], and will be in those of [Greek: phronaesis] and [Greek: sophia].We commonly call Architecture an Art, and it is so and so, therefore the nameArt and this so and so are somehow connected to prove that connection to be“coextensiveness,” we predicate one of the other and then simplyconvert the proposition, which is the proper test of any logical definition, orof any specific property. See the Topics, 1. vi.
[16]See the parable of the unjust Steward, in which the popular sense of [Greek:phronaesis] is strongly brought out; [Greek: ephaenesen ho kurios ton oikonomontaes adikias oti phronimos epoiaesen hoti ohi viohi tou aionos toutouphronimoteroi, k.t.l.]—Luke xvi. 8.
[17]Compare the [Greek: aplos] and [Greek: kath’ ekasta pepaideumenos] ofBook I. chap. 1.
[18]The two aspects under which Virtue may be considered as claiming the allegianceof moral agents are, that of being right, and that of being truly expedient,because Conscience and Reasonable Self-Love are the two Principles of our moralconstitution naturally supreme and “Conscience and Self-Love, if weunderstand our true happiness, always lead us the same way.” BishopButler, end of Sermon III. And again: “If by a sense of interest is meant a practical regard to whatis upon the whole our Happiness this is not only coincident with the principleof Virtue or Moral Rectitude, but is a part of the idea itself. And it isevident this Reasonable Self-Love wants to be improved as really as anyprinciple in our nature. So little cause is there for Moralists to disclaimthis principle.” From the note on sect. iv. of the chapter on MoralDiscipline, Analogy, part I chap. v.
[19]See the note on [Greek: Arche] on page 4, l. 30. The student will find it worth while to compare this passage with thefollowing—Chap. xiii. of this book beginning [Greek: e d’ exis toommati touto k. t. l]—vii. 4. [Greek: eti kai ode physikos. k.t.l.] vii.9.—[Greek: ae gar arethae kai ae mochthaeria. k.t.l.]—iii. 7 adfinem. [Greek: ei de tis legoi. k.t.l.]
[20]This is not quite fair. Used in its strict sense, Art does not admit of degreesof excellence any more than Practical Wisdom. In popular language we use theterm “wiser man,” as readily as “better artist” reallydenoting in each case different degrees of approximation to Practical Wisdomand Art respectively, [Greek: dia to ginesthai tous epainous di anaphoras]. I.12.
[21]He would be a better Chymist who should poison intentionally, than he onwhose mind the prevailing impression was that “Epsom Salts mean OxalicAcid, and Syrup of Senna Laudanum.”
[22]The term Wisdom is used in our English Translation of the Old Testament in thesense first given to [Greek:——] here. “Then wrought Bezaleeland Ahohab, and every wise-hearted man, in whom the Lord put wisdom andunderstanding to know how to work all manner of work for the service of theSanctuary” Exodus xxxvi. i.
[23][Greek:——] and [Greek:——], (in the strict sense, for itis used in many different senses in this book) are different parts of the wholefunction [Greek:——], [Greek:——] takes in conclusions,drawn by strict reasoning from Principles of a certain kind which [Greek:——] supplies. It is conceivable that a man might go on gainingthese principles by Intuition and never reasoning from them, and so [Greek:——] might exist independent of [Greek:——], but not thiswithout that. Put the two together, the head to the trunk, and you form theliving being [Greek:——]. There are three branches of[Greek:——] according to Greek Philosophy, [Greek:——],[Greek:——], [Greek:——]. Science is perhaps the nearestEnglish term, but we have none really equivalent.
[24][Greek:——] is here used in its most extensive sense,[Greek:——] would be its chief Instrument.
[25]The faculty concerned with which is [Greek:——].
[26]In every branch of Moral Action in which Practical Wisdom is employed therewill be general principles, and the application of them, but in some branchesthere are distinct names appropriated to the operations of Practical Wisdom, inothers there are not. Thus Practical Wisdom, when employed on the general principles of CivilGovernment, is called Legislation, as administering its particular functions itis called simply Government. In Domestic Management, there are of coursegeneral Rules, and also the particular application of them; but here thefaculty is called only by one name. So too when Self-Interest is the object ofPractical Wisdom.
[27][Greek:——], “our mere Operatives in Public business.”(Chalmers.)
[28]Practical Wisdom may be employed either respecting Self, (which is[Greek:——] proper) or not-Self, i.e. either one’sfamily=[Greek:——], or one’s community=[Greek:——],but here the supreme and subordinate are distinguished, the former is[Greek:——], the latter [Greek:——] proper, whosefunctions are deliberation and the administration of justice.
[29]But where can this be done, if there be no community? see Horace’saccount of the way in which his father made him reap instruction from theexamples in the society around him. 1. Sat. iv. 105, etc. See also BishopButler, Analogy, part I. chap. v. sect. iii. The whole question of the Selfish Morality is treated in BishopButler’s first three and the eleventh Sermons, in which he shows thecoincidence in fact of enlightened Self-Love and Benevolence i.e.love of others. Compare also what is said in the first Book of this treatise,chap. v., about [Greek: autarkeia].
[30]More truly “implied,” namely, that Practical Wisdom results fromexperience.
[31]This observation seems to be introduced, simply because suggested by the last,and not because at all relevant to the matter in hand.
[32]An instance of Principles gained [Greek: aisthesei]. (Book 1. chap. viii.)
[33]Particulars are called [Greek: eschata] because they are last arrived at in thedeliberative process, but a little further on we have the term applied to firstprinciples, because they stand at one extremity, and facts at the other, of theline of action.
[34]I prefer the reading [Greek: e phronesis], which gives this sense, “Well,as I have said, Practical Wisdom is this kind of sense, and the other wementioned is different in kind.” In a passage so utterly unimportant, andthrown in almost colloquially, it is not worth while to take much trouble aboutsuch a point.
[35]The definition of it in the Organon (Post Analyt. 1. xxiv.), “a happyconjecture of the middle term without time to consider of it.” The quaestio states the phenomena, and the middle term the causation therapid ascertaining of which constitutes [Greek: anchinoia]. All that receives light from the sun is bright on the side next to thesun. The moon receives light from the sun, The moon is bright on the side next the sun. The [Greek: anchinoia] consists in rapidly and correctly accounting for theobserved fact, that the moon is bright on the side next to the sun.
[36]Opinion is a complete, deliberation an incomplete, mental act.
[37]The End does not sanctify the Means.
[38]The meaning is, there is one End including all others; and in this sense[Greek: phronesis] is concerned with means, not Ends but there are also manysubordinate Ends which are in fact Means to the Great End of all. Good counselhas reference not merely to the grand End, but to the subordinate Ends which[Greek: phronesis] selects as being right means to the Grand End of all.
[39]The relative [Greek: on] might be referred to [Greek: sumpheron], but that[Greek: eubonlia] has been already divided into two kinds, and thisconstruction would restrict the name to one of them, namely that [Greek: prosti telos] as opposed to that [Greek: pros to telos aplos].
[40]We have no term which at all approximates to the meaning of this word, muchless will our language admit of the play upon it which connects it with [Greek:suggnomae].
[41]Meaning, of course, all those which relate to Moral Action. [Greek: psronaesis] is equivalent to [Greek: euboulia, ounesis, gnomae, and nous] (in the newsense here given to it). The faculty which guides us truly in all matters of Moral Action is [Greek:phronaesis], i.e. Reason directed by Goodness or Goodness informed by Reason.But just as every faculty of body and soul is not actually in operation at thesame time, though the Man is acting, so proper names are given to the variousFunctions of Practical Wisdom. Is the [Greek: phronimos] forming plans to attain some particular End? heis then [Greek: euboulos]—is he passing under review the suggestions ofothers? he is [Greek: sunetos]—is he judging of the acts of others? headmits [Greek: gnomae] to temper the strictness of justness—is heapplying general Rules to particular cases? he is exercising [Greek: nouspraktikos] or [Greek: agsthaesis]—while in each and all he is [Greek:phronimos]?
[42]See note, on p. 140.
[43]There are cases where we must simply accept or reject without proof: eitherwhen Principles are propounded which are prior to all reasoning, or whenparticular facts are brought before us which are simply matters of [Greek:agsthaesis]. Aristotle here brings both these cases within the province of[Greek: nous], i.e. he calls by this name the Faculty which attainsTruth in each.
[44]i.e. of the [Greek: syllogisimai ton prakton].
[45]See the note on [Greek: Archae] on p. 4,1 30. As a matter of fact and mentalexperience the Major Premiss of the Practica Syllogism is wrought into the mindby repeatedly acting upon the Minor Premiss (i.e. by [Greek: ethismos]).
All that is pleasant is to be done, This is pleasant, This is to be done
By habitually acting on the Minor Premiss, i.e. on the suggestions of[Greek: epithymia], a man comes really to hold the Major Premiss. Aristotlesays of the man destitute of all self-control that he is firmly persuaded thatit is his proper line to pursue the gratification of his bodily appetites,[Greek: dia to toioytos einai oios diokein aytas]. And his analysis of [Greek:akrasia] (the state of progress towards this utter abandonment to passion)shows that each case of previous good resolution succumbing to temptation isattributable to [Greek: epithymia] suggesting its own Minor Premiss in place ofthe right one. Book VII. 8 and 5.
[46]The consequentia is this: There are cases both of principles and facts which cannot admit ofreasoning, and must be authoritatively determined by [Greek: nous]. What makes[Greek: nous] to be a true guide? only practice, i.e. Experience, andtherefore, etc.
[47]This is a note to explain [Greek: hygieina] and [Greek: euektika], he givesthese three uses of the term [Greek: hygieinon] in the Topics, I. xiii. 10,
{ [Greek: to men hygieias poiætikon], [Greek: hygieinon legetai] { [Greek: to de phylaktikon], { [Greek: to de sæmantikon].
Of course the same will apply to [Greek: euektikon].
[48]Healthiness is the formal cause of health. Medicine is the efficient cause of health. See Book X. chap. iv. [Greek: hosper oud hæ hygieia kai ho iatros homoiosaitia esti tou ugiainein].
[49][Greek: phronæsis] is here used in a partial sense to signify the Intellectual,as distinct from the Moral, element of Practical Wisdom.
[50]This is another case of an observation being thrown in obiter, notrelevant to, but suggested by, the matter in hand.
[51]See Book II. chap. iii. and V. xiii.
[52]The article is supplied at [Greek: panourgous], because the abstract word hasjust been used expressly in a bad sense. “Up to anything” is thenearest equivalent to [Greek: panourgos], but too nearly approaches to acolloquial vulgarism.
[53]See the note on [Greek: Archæ] on page 4, l. 30.
[54]And for the Minor, of course,
“This particular action is———.”
We may paraphrase [Greek: to telos] by [Greek: ti dei prattein—ti gar deiprattein hæ mæ, to telos autæs estin] i.e. [Greek: tæsphronæseos].—(Chap. xi. of this Book.)
[55]“Look asquint on the face of truth.” Sir T. Browne, Religio Medici.
[56]The term [Greek: sophronikoi] must be understood as governing the significationof the other two terms, there being no single Greek term to denote in eithercase mere dispositions towards these Virtues.
[57]Compare the passage at the commencement of Book X. [Greek: nun de phainontai][Greek: katokochimon ek tæs aretæs].
[58]It must be remembered, that [Greek: phronæsis] is used throughout this chapterin two senses, its proper and complete sense of Practical Wisdom, and itsincomplete one of merely the Intellectual Element of it.
[1]The account of Virtue and Vice hitherto given represents rather what men maybe than what they are. In this book we take a practical view ofVirtue and Vice, in their ordinary, every day development.
[2]This illustrates the expression, “Deceits of the Flesh.”
[3]Another reading omits the [Greek:——]; the meaning of the wholepassage would be exactly the same—it would then run, “if he hadbeen convinced of the rightness of what he does, i.e. if he were nowacting on conviction, he might stop in his course on a change ofconviction.”
[4]Major and minor Premises of the [Greek:——] [Greek——]
[5]Some necessarily implying knowledge of the particular, others not.
[6]As a modern parallel, take old Trumbull in Scott’s “RedGauntlet.”
[7]That is, as I understand it, either the major or the minor premise, it is true,that “all that is sweet is pleasant,” it is true also, that“this is sweet,” what is contrary to Right Reason is the bringingin this minor to the major i.e. the universal maxim, forbidding totaste. Thus, a man goes to a convivial meeting with the maxim in his mind“All excess is to be avoided,” at a certain time his[Greek:——] tells him “This glass is excess.” As amatter of mere reasoning, he cannot help receiving the conclusion “Thisglass is to be avoided,” and supposing him to be morally sound he wouldaccordingly abstain. But [Greek:——], being a simple tendencytowards indulgence suggests, in place of the minor premise “This isexcess,” its own premise “This is sweet,” this again suggeststhe self-indulgent maxim or principle (‘[Greek:——]),“All that is sweet is to be tasted,” and so, by strict logicalsequence, proves “This glass is to be tasted.” The solution then of the phænomenon of [Greek:——] is this that[Greek:——], by its direct action on the animal nature, swamps thesuggestions of Right Reason. On the high ground of Universals, [Greek:——] i.e.[Greek:——] easily defeats [Greek:——]. The[Greek:——], an hour before he is in temptation, would neverdeliberately prefer the maxim “All that is sweet is to be tasted”to “All excess is to be avoided.” The [Greek:——] would.
Horace has a good comment upon this (II Sat 2):
Quæ virtus et quanta, bom, sit vivere parvo Discite, non inter lances mensasque nitentes Verum hic impransi mecum disquirite
Compare also Proverbs XXIII. 31. “Look not thou upon the wine when it isred,” etc.
[8]As we commonly speak, Metaphysicians. Physiology of course includesMetaphysics.
[9][Greek: oron]. Aristotle’s own account of this word (Prior Analyt ii. 1)is [Greek: eis on dialuetai hae protasis], but both in the account of [Greek:nous] and here it seems that the proposition itself is really indicated by it.
[10]The Greek would give “avoids excessive pain,” but this is not true,for the excess of pain would be ground for excuse the warrant for translatingas in the text, is the passage occurring just below [Greek: diokei tasuperbolas kai pheugei metrias lupas].
[11]Compare Bishop Butler on Particular Propensions, Analogy, Part I chap v sect.iv.
[12]That is, they are to the right states as Vice to Virtue.
[13]See the letter of Sabina Rentfree. Spectator, 431.
[14]Consult in connection with this Chapter the Chapter on [Greek: orgae] in theRhetoric, II. 2, and Bishop Butler’s Sermon on Resentment.
[15]The reasoning here being somewhat obscure from the concisement of expression,the following exposition of it is subjoined.
Actions of Lust are wrong actions done with pleasure, Wrong actions done with pleasure are more justly objects of wrath,[*] Such as are more justly objects of wrath are more unjust, Actions of Lust are more unjust
[*][Greek: hubpis] is introduced as the single instance from which this premiss isproved inductively. See the account of it in the Chapter of the Rhetoricreferred to in the preceding note.
[16][Greek: ton dae lechthenton]. Considerable difference of opinion exists as tothe proper meaning of these words. The emendation which substitutes [Greek:akrataes] for [Greek: akolastos] removes all difficulty, as the clause wouldthen naturally refer to [Greek: ton mae proairoumenon] but Zell adheres to thereading in the text of Bekker, because the authority of MSS and old editions isall on this side. I understand [Greek: mallon] as meant to modify the word [Greek: malakias],which properly denotes that phase of [Greek: akrasia] (not [Greek: akolasia])which is caused by pain. The [Greek: akolastos] deliberately pursues pleasure and declinespain if there is to be a distinct name for the latter phase, it comes under[Greek: malakia] more nearly than any other term, though perhaps not quiteproperly. Or the words may be understood as referring to the class of wrong actscaused by avoidance of pain, whether deliberate or otherwise, and then ofcourse the names of [Greek: malakia] and [Greek: akolasia] may be fitly givenrespectively.
[17]“If we went into a hospital where all were sick or dying, we should thinkthose least ill who were insensible to pain; a physician who knew the whole,would behold them with despair. And there is a mortification of the soul aswell as of the body, in which the first symptoms of returning hope are pain andanguish” Sewell, Sermons to Young Men (Sermon xii.)
[18]Before the time of trial comes the man deliberately makes his Moral Choice toact rightly, but, at the moment of acting, the powerful strain of desire makeshim contravene this choice his Will does not act in accordance with theaffirmation or negation of his Reason. His actions are therefore of the mixedkind. See Book III. chap. i, and note on page 128.
[19]Let a man be punctual on principle to any one engagement in the day, andhe must, as a matter of course, keep all his others in their due placesrelatively to this one; and so will often wear an appearance of beingneedlessly punctilious in trifles.
[20]Because he is destitute of these minor springs of action, which are intended tosupply the defects of the higher principle. See Bishop Butler’s first Sermon on Compassion, and the conclusion ofnote on p. 129.
[1]“Owe no man anything, but to love one another for he that lovethanother hath fulfilled the Law.” Romans XIII. 8.
[2][Greek: kerameis]. The Proverb in full is a line from Hesiod,[Greek: kahi keramehus keramei koteei kai tektoni tekton].
[3]In this sense, therefore, is it sung of Mrs. Gilpin that she
“two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, And keep it safe and sound.”
[4]Cardwell’s reading, [Greek: tautae gar omoioi, kai ta loipa] is hereadopted, as yielding a better sense than Bekker’s.
[5]The Great man will have a right to look for more Friendship than he bestows,but the Good man can feel Friendship only for, and in proportion to, thegoodness of the other.
[6]See note on page 68, 1. 8.
[7]See I. Topics, Chap. v. on the various senses of [Greek: tauton].
[8]“For the mutual society, help, and comfort that the one ought to have ofthe other, both in prosperity and adversity.”
[9]Which one would be assuming he was, if one declined to recognise the obligationto requite the favour or kindness.
[1]“Neither the Son of man, that He should repent.” Numbersxxiii. 19. “In a few instances the Second Intention, or Philosophical employmentof a Term, is more extensive than the First Intention, or popular use.”Whately, Logic, iii. 10.
[2]“I have sometimes considered in what troublesome case is that Chamberlainin an Inn who being but one is to give attendance to many guests. For supposethem all in one chamber, yet, if one shall command him to come to the window,and the other to the table, and another to the bed, and another to the chimney,and another to come upstairs, and another to go downstairs, and all in the sameinstant, how would he be distracted to please them all? And yet such is the sadcondition of nay soul by nature, not only a servant but a slave unto sin. Pridecalls me to the window, gluttony to the table, wantonness to the bed, lazinessto the chimney, ambition commands me to go upstairs, and covetousness to comedown. Vices, I see, are as well contrary to themselves as to Virtue.”(Fuller’s Good Thoughts in Bad Times. Mix’t Contemplations, viii.)
[1]See note, p. 43.
[2]See Book II. chap. ix.
[3]See Book I. chap. v. ad finem.
[4]The notion alluded to is that of the [greek: idea]: that there is no realsubstantial good except the [greek: auto agathon], and therefore whatever is socalled is so named in right of its participation in that.
[5]See note on page 136, 1. 15.
[6]Movement is, according to Aristotle, of six kinds:
From not being to being . . . . Generation From being to not being . . . . Destruction From being to being more . . . . Increase From being to being less . . . . Diminution From being here to being there . . Change of Place From being in this way to being in that Alteration
[7]A may go to sleep quicker than B, but cannot do more sleepin a given time.
[8]Compare Book III. chap. vi. [Greek: osper kai epi ton somaton, k. t. l.]
[9]Which is of course a [Greek: genesis].
[10]That is, subordinate Movements are complete before the whole Movement is.
[11]Pleasure is so instantaneous a sensation, that it cannot be conceived divisibleor incomplete; the longest continued Pleasure is only a succession of singlesparks, so rapid as to give the appearance of a stream, of light.
[12]A man is as effectually hindered from taking a walk by the [Greek: allotriahaedouae] of reading a novel, as by the [Greek: oikeia lupae] of gout in thefeet.
[13]I have thus rendered [Greek: spoudae (ouk agnoon to hamartanomenon)]; but,though the English term does not represent the depth of the Greek one, it issome approximation to the truth to connect an earnest serious purpose withHappiness.
[14]Bishop Butler, contra (Sermon XV.). “Knowledge is not our proper Happiness. Whoever will in the leastattend to the thing will see that it is the gaining, not the having, of it,which is the entertainment of the mind.” The two statements may howeverbe reconciled. Aristotle may be well understood only to mean, that the pursuitof knowledge will be the pleasanter, the freer it is from the minor hindranceswhich attend on learning.
[15]The clause immediately following indicates that Aristotle felt this statementto be at first sight startling, Happiness having been all the way throughconnected with [Greek: energeia], but the statement illustrates and confirmswhat was said in note on page 6, 1. 15.
[16]That is to say, he aims at producing not merely a happy aggregate, but anaggregate of happy individuals. Compare what is said of Legislators in the lastchapter of Book I and the first of Book II.
[17]See note, page 146, 1. 17.
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The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of thesails, and was at rest. The flood had made, the wind was nearly calm, and beingbound down the river, the only thing for it was to come to and wait for theturn of the tide.
The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of aninterminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded togetherwithout a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the bargesdrifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvassharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. A haze rested on the lowshores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness. The air was dark aboveGravesend, and farther back still seemed condensed into a mournful gloom,brooding motionless over the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth.
The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. We four affectionatelywatched his back as he stood in the bows looking to seaward. On the whole riverthere was nothing that looked half so nautical. He resembled a pilot, which toa seaman is trustworthiness personified. It was difficult to realize his workwas not out there in the luminous estuary, but behind him, within the broodinggloom.
Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond of the sea.Besides holding our hearts together through long periods of separation, it hadthe effect of making us tolerant of each other’s yarns—and evenconvictions. The Lawyer—the best of old fellows—had, because of hismany years and many virtues, the only cushion on deck, and was lying on theonly rug. The Accountant had brought out already a box of dominoes, and wastoying architecturally with the bones. Marlow sat cross-legged right aft,leaning against the mizzen-mast. He had sunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, astraight back, an ascetic aspect, and, with his arms dropped, the palms ofhands outwards, resembled an idol. The director, satisfied the anchor had goodhold, made his way aft and sat down amongst us. We exchanged a few wordslazily. Afterwards there was silence on board the yacht. For some reason orother we did not begin that game of dominoes. We felt meditative, and fit fornothing but placid staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still andexquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck,was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marsh waslike a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and drapingthe low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west, brooding overthe upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if angered by theapproach of the sun.
And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, and fromglowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat, as if aboutto go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom brooding overa crowd of men.
Forthwith a change came over the waters, and the serenity became less brilliantbut more profound. The old river in its broad reach rested unruffled at thedecline of day, after ages of good service done to the race that peopled itsbanks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of a waterway leading to theuttermost ends of the earth. We looked at the venerable stream not in the vividflush of a short day that comes and departs for ever, but in the august lightof abiding memories. And indeed nothing is easier for a man who has, as thephrase goes, “followed the sea” with reverence and affection, thanto evoke the great spirit of the past upon the lower reaches of the Thames. Thetidal current runs to and fro in its unceasing service, crowded with memoriesof men and ships it had borne to the rest of home or to the battles of the sea.It had known and served all the men of whom the nation is proud, from SirFrancis Drake to Sir John Franklin, knights all, titled and untitled—thegreat knights-errant of the sea. It had borne all the ships whose names arelike jewels flashing in the night of time, from the Golden Hindreturning with her rotund flanks full of treasure, to be visited by theQueen’s Highness and thus pass out of the gigantic tale, to theErebus and Terror, bound on other conquests—and that neverreturned. It had known the ships and the men. They had sailed from Deptford,from Greenwich, from Erith—the adventurers and the settlers; kings’ships and the ships of men on ’Change; captains, admirals, the dark“interlopers” of the Eastern trade, and the commissioned“generals” of East India fleets. Hunters for gold or pursuers offame, they all had gone out on that stream, bearing the sword, and often thetorch, messengers of the might within the land, bearers of a spark from thesacred fire. What greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river into themystery of an unknown earth!... The dreams of men, the seed of commonwealths,the germs of empires.
The sun set; the dusk fell on the stream, and lights began to appear along theshore. The Chapman light-house, a three-legged thing erect on a mud-flat, shonestrongly. Lights of ships moved in the fairway—a great stir of lightsgoing up and going down. And farther west on the upper reaches the place of themonstrous town was still marked ominously on the sky, a brooding gloom insunshine, a lurid glare under the stars.
“And this also,” said Marlow suddenly, “has been one of thedark places of the earth.”
He was the only man of us who still “followed the sea.” The worstthat could be said of him was that he did not represent his class. He was aseaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one may soexpress it, a sedentary life. Their minds are of the stay-at-home order, andtheir home is always with them—the ship; and so is theircountry—the sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea isalways the same. In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores,the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by asense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothingmysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress ofhis existence and as inscrutable as Destiny. For the rest, after his hours ofwork, a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to unfold for him thesecret of a whole continent, and generally he finds the secret not worthknowing. The yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning ofwhich lies within the shell of a cracked nut. But Marlow was not typical (ifhis propensity to spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episodewas not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought itout only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these mistyhalos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination ofmoonshine.
His remark did not seem at all surprising. It was just like Marlow. It wasaccepted in silence. No one took the trouble to grunt even; and presently hesaid, very slow—“I was thinking of very old times, when the Romansfirst came here, nineteen hundred years ago—the other day .... Light cameout of this river since—you say Knights? Yes; but it is like a runningblaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in theflicker—may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! But darknesswas here yesterday. Imagine the feelings of a commander of a fine—whatd’ye call ’em?—trireme in the Mediterranean, ordered suddenlyto the north; run overland across the Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one ofthese craft the legionaries—a wonderful lot of handy men they must havebeen, too—used to build, apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, ifwe may believe what we read. Imagine him here—the very end of the world,a sea the colour of lead, a sky the colour of smoke, a kind of ship about asrigid as a concertina—and going up this river with stores, or orders, orwhat you like. Sand-banks, marshes, forests, savages,—precious little toeat fit for a civilized man, nothing but Thames water to drink. No Falernianwine here, no going ashore. Here and there a military camp lost in awilderness, like a needle in a bundle of hay—cold, fog, tempests,disease, exile, and death—death skulking in the air, in the water, in thebush. They must have been dying like flies here. Oh, yes—he did it. Didit very well, too, no doubt, and without thinking much about it either, exceptafterwards to brag of what he had gone through in his time, perhaps. They weremen enough to face the darkness. And perhaps he was cheered by keeping his eyeon a chance of promotion to the fleet at Ravenna by and by, if he had goodfriends in Rome and survived the awful climate. Or think of a decent youngcitizen in a toga—perhaps too much dice, you know—coming out herein the train of some prefect, or tax-gatherer, or trader even, to mend hisfortunes. Land in a swamp, march through the woods, and in some inland postfeel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him—all thatmysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, inthe hearts of wild men. There’s no initiation either into such mysteries.He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable.And it has a fascination, too, that goes to work upon him. The fascination ofthe abomination—you know, imagine the growing regrets, the longing toescape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate.”
He paused.
“Mind,” he began again, lifting one arm from the elbow, the palm ofthe hand outwards, so that, with his legs folded before him, he had the pose ofa Buddha preaching in European clothes and without alotus-flower—“Mind, none of us would feel exactly like this. Whatsaves us is efficiency—the devotion to efficiency. But these chaps werenot much account, really. They were no colonists; their administration wasmerely a squeeze, and nothing more, I suspect. They were conquerors, and forthat you want only brute force—nothing to boast of, when you have it,since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others.They grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to be got. It wasjust robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men goingat it blind—as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness. Theconquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those whohave a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not apretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only.An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea; and anunselfish belief in the idea—something you can set up, and bow downbefore, and offer a sacrifice to....”
He broke off. Flames glided in the river, small green flames, red flames, whiteflames, pursuing, overtaking, joining, crossing each other—thenseparating slowly or hastily. The traffic of the great city went on in thedeepening night upon the sleepless river. We looked on, waitingpatiently—there was nothing else to do till the end of the flood; but itwas only after a long silence, when he said, in a hesitating voice, “Isuppose you fellows remember I did once turn fresh-water sailor for abit,” that we knew we were fated, before the ebb began to run, to hearabout one of Marlow’s inconclusive experiences.
“I don’t want to bother you much with what happened to mepersonally,” he began, showing in this remark the weakness of manytellers of tales who seem so often unaware of what their audience would likebest to hear; “yet to understand the effect of it on me you ought to knowhow I got out there, what I saw, how I went up that river to the place where Ifirst met the poor chap. It was the farthest point of navigation and theculminating point of my experience. It seemed somehow to throw a kind of lighton everything about me—and into my thoughts. It was sombre enough,too—and pitiful—not extraordinary in any way—not very cleareither. No, not very clear. And yet it seemed to throw a kind of light.
“I had then, as you remember, just returned to London after a lot ofIndian Ocean, Pacific, China Seas—a regular dose of the East—sixyears or so, and I was loafing about, hindering you fellows in your work andinvading your homes, just as though I had got a heavenly mission to civilizeyou. It was very fine for a time, but after a bit I did get tired of resting.Then I began to look for a ship—I should think the hardest work on earth.But the ships wouldn’t even look at me. And I got tired of that game,too.
“Now when I was a little chap I had a passion for maps. I would look forhours at South America, or Africa, or Australia, and lose myself in all theglories of exploration. At that time there were many blank spaces on the earth,and when I saw one that looked particularly inviting on a map (but they alllook that) I would put my finger on it and say, ‘When I grow up I will gothere.’ The North Pole was one of these places, I remember. Well, Ihaven’t been there yet, and shall not try now. The glamour’s off.Other places were scattered about the hemispheres. I have been in some of them,and... well, we won’t talk about that. But there was one yet—thebiggest, the most blank, so to speak—that I had a hankering after.
“True, by this time it was not a blank space any more. It had got filledsince my boyhood with rivers and lakes and names. It had ceased to be a blankspace of delightful mystery—a white patch for a boy to dream gloriouslyover. It had become a place of darkness. But there was in it one riverespecially, a mighty big river, that you could see on the map, resembling animmense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, its body at rest curving afarover a vast country, and its tail lost in the depths of the land. And as Ilooked at the map of it in a shop-window, it fascinated me as a snake would abird—a silly little bird. Then I remembered there was a big concern, aCompany for trade on that river. Dash it all! I thought to myself, theycan’t trade without using some kind of craft on that lot of freshwater—steamboats! Why shouldn’t I try to get charge of one? I wenton along Fleet Street, but could not shake off the idea. The snake had charmedme.
“You understand it was a Continental concern, that Trading society; but Ihave a lot of relations living on the Continent, because it’s cheap andnot so nasty as it looks, they say.
“I am sorry to own I began to worry them. This was already a freshdeparture for me. I was not used to get things that way, you know. I alwayswent my own road and on my own legs where I had a mind to go. I wouldn’thave believed it of myself; but, then—you see—I felt somehow I mustget there by hook or by crook. So I worried them. The men said ‘My dearfellow,’ and did nothing. Then—would you believe it?—I triedthe women. I, Charlie Marlow, set the women to work—to get a job.Heavens! Well, you see, the notion drove me. I had an aunt, a dear enthusiasticsoul. She wrote: ‘It will be delightful. I am ready to do anything,anything for you. It is a glorious idea. I know the wife of a very highpersonage in the Administration, and also a man who has lots of influencewith,’ etc. She was determined to make no end of fuss to get me appointedskipper of a river steamboat, if such was my fancy.
“I got my appointment—of course; and I got it very quick. Itappears the Company had received news that one of their captains had beenkilled in a scuffle with the natives. This was my chance, and it made me themore anxious to go. It was only months and months afterwards, when I made theattempt to recover what was left of the body, that I heard the original quarrelarose from a misunderstanding about some hens. Yes, two black hens.Fresleven—that was the fellow’s name, a Dane—thought himselfwronged somehow in the bargain, so he went ashore and started to hammer thechief of the village with a stick. Oh, it didn’t surprise me in the leastto hear this, and at the same time to be told that Fresleven was the gentlest,quietest creature that ever walked on two legs. No doubt he was; but he hadbeen a couple of years already out there engaged in the noble cause, you know,and he probably felt the need at last of asserting his self-respect in someway. Therefore he whacked the old nigger mercilessly, while a big crowd of hispeople watched him, thunderstruck, till some man—I was told thechief’s son—in desperation at hearing the old chap yell, made atentative jab with a spear at the white man—and of course it went quiteeasy between the shoulder-blades. Then the whole population cleared into theforest, expecting all kinds of calamities to happen, while, on the other hand,the steamer Fresleven commanded left also in a bad panic, in charge of theengineer, I believe. Afterwards nobody seemed to trouble much aboutFresleven’s remains, till I got out and stepped into his shoes. Icouldn’t let it rest, though; but when an opportunity offered at last tomeet my predecessor, the grass growing through his ribs was tall enough to hidehis bones. They were all there. The supernatural being had not been touchedafter he fell. And the village was deserted, the huts gaped black, rotting, allaskew within the fallen enclosures. A calamity had come to it, sure enough. Thepeople had vanished. Mad terror had scattered them, men, women, and children,through the bush, and they had never returned. What became of the hens Idon’t know either. I should think the cause of progress got them, anyhow.However, through this glorious affair I got my appointment, before I had fairlybegun to hope for it.
“I flew around like mad to get ready, and before forty-eight hours I wascrossing the Channel to show myself to my employers, and sign the contract. Ina very few hours I arrived in a city that always makes me think of a whitedsepulchre. Prejudice no doubt. I had no difficulty in finding theCompany’s offices. It was the biggest thing in the town, and everybody Imet was full of it. They were going to run an over-sea empire, and make no endof coin by trade.
“A narrow and deserted street in deep shadow, high houses, innumerablewindows with venetian blinds, a dead silence, grass sprouting between thestones, imposing carriage archways right and left, immense double doorsstanding ponderously ajar. I slipped through one of these cracks, went up aswept and ungarnished staircase, as arid as a desert, and opened the first doorI came to. Two women, one fat and the other slim, sat on straw-bottomed chairs,knitting black wool. The slim one got up and walked straight at me—stillknitting with downcast eyes—and only just as I began to think of gettingout of her way, as you would for a somnambulist, stood still, and looked up.Her dress was as plain as an umbrella-cover, and she turned round without aword and preceded me into a waiting-room. I gave my name, and looked about.Deal table in the middle, plain chairs all round the walls, on one end a largeshining map, marked with all the colours of a rainbow. There was a vast amountof red—good to see at any time, because one knows that some real work isdone in there, a deuce of a lot of blue, a little green, smears of orange, and,on the East Coast, a purple patch, to show where the jolly pioneers of progressdrink the jolly lager-beer. However, I wasn’t going into any of these. Iwas going into the yellow. Dead in the centre. And the river wasthere—fascinating—deadly—like a snake. Ough! A door opened, awhite-haired secretarial head, but wearing a compassionate expression,appeared, and a skinny forefinger beckoned me into the sanctuary. Its light wasdim, and a heavy writing-desk squatted in the middle. From behind thatstructure came out an impression of pale plumpness in a frock-coat. The greatman himself. He was five feet six, I should judge, and had his grip on thehandle-end of ever so many millions. He shook hands, I fancy, murmured vaguely,was satisfied with my French. Bon Voyage.
“In about forty-five seconds I found myself again in the waiting-roomwith the compassionate secretary, who, full of desolation and sympathy, made mesign some document. I believe I undertook amongst other things not to discloseany trade secrets. Well, I am not going to.
“I began to feel slightly uneasy. You know I am not used to suchceremonies, and there was something ominous in the atmosphere. It was just asthough I had been let into some conspiracy—I don’tknow—something not quite right; and I was glad to get out. In the outerroom the two women knitted black wool feverishly. People were arriving, and theyounger one was walking back and forth introducing them. The old one sat on herchair. Her flat cloth slippers were propped up on a foot-warmer, and a catreposed on her lap. She wore a starched white affair on her head, had a wart onone cheek, and silver-rimmed spectacles hung on the tip of her nose. Sheglanced at me above the glasses. The swift and indifferent placidity of thatlook troubled me. Two youths with foolish and cheery countenances were beingpiloted over, and she threw at them the same quick glance of unconcernedwisdom. She seemed to know all about them and about me, too. An eerie feelingcame over me. She seemed uncanny and fateful. Often far away there I thought ofthese two, guarding the door of Darkness, knitting black wool as for a warmpall, one introducing, introducing continuously to the unknown, the otherscrutinizing the cheery and foolish faces with unconcerned old eyes.Ave! Old knitter of black wool. Morituri te salutant. Not many ofthose she looked at ever saw her again—not half, by a long way.
“There was yet a visit to the doctor. ‘A simple formality,’assured me the secretary, with an air of taking an immense part in all mysorrows. Accordingly a young chap wearing his hat over the left eyebrow, someclerk I suppose—there must have been clerks in the business, though thehouse was as still as a house in a city of the dead—came from somewhereup-stairs, and led me forth. He was shabby and careless, with inkstains on thesleeves of his jacket, and his cravat was large and billowy, under a chinshaped like the toe of an old boot. It was a little too early for the doctor,so I proposed a drink, and thereupon he developed a vein of joviality. As wesat over our vermouths he glorified the Company’s business, and by and byI expressed casually my surprise at him not going out there. He became verycool and collected all at once. ‘I am not such a fool as I look, quothPlato to his disciples,’ he said sententiously, emptied his glass withgreat resolution, and we rose.
“The old doctor felt my pulse, evidently thinking of something else thewhile. ‘Good, good for there,’ he mumbled, and then with a certaineagerness asked me whether I would let him measure my head. Rather surprised, Isaid Yes, when he produced a thing like calipers and got the dimensions backand front and every way, taking notes carefully. He was an unshaven little manin a threadbare coat like a gaberdine, with his feet in slippers, and I thoughthim a harmless fool. ‘I always ask leave, in the interests of science, tomeasure the crania of those going out there,’ he said. ‘And whenthey come back, too?’ I asked. ‘Oh, I never see them,’ heremarked; ‘and, moreover, the changes take place inside, you know.’He smiled, as if at some quiet joke. ‘So you are going out there. Famous.Interesting, too.’ He gave me a searching glance, and made another note.‘Ever any madness in your family?’ he asked, in a matter-of-facttone. I felt very annoyed. ‘Is that question in the interests of science,too?’ ‘It would be,’ he said, without taking notice of myirritation, ‘interesting for science to watch the mental changes ofindividuals, on the spot, but...’ ‘Are you an alienist?’ Iinterrupted. ‘Every doctor should be—a little,’ answered thatoriginal, imperturbably. ‘I have a little theory which you messieurs whogo out there must help me to prove. This is my share in the advantages mycountry shall reap from the possession of such a magnificent dependency. Themere wealth I leave to others. Pardon my questions, but you are the firstEnglishman coming under my observation...’ I hastened to assure him I wasnot in the least typical. ‘If I were,’ said I, ‘Iwouldn’t be talking like this with you.’ ‘What you say israther profound, and probably erroneous,’ he said, with a laugh.‘Avoid irritation more than exposure to the sun. Adieu. How do youEnglish say, eh? Good-bye. Ah! Good-bye. Adieu. In the tropics one mustbefore everything keep calm.’... He lifted a warning forefinger....‘Du calme, du calme.’
“One thing more remained to do—say good-bye to my excellent aunt. Ifound her triumphant. I had a cup of tea—the last decent cup of tea formany days—and in a room that most soothingly looked just as you wouldexpect a lady’s drawing-room to look, we had a long quiet chat by thefireside. In the course of these confidences it became quite plain to me I hadbeen represented to the wife of the high dignitary, and goodness knows to howmany more people besides, as an exceptional and gifted creature—a pieceof good fortune for the Company—a man you don’t get hold of everyday. Good heavens! and I was going to take charge of a two-penny-half-pennyriver-steamboat with a penny whistle attached! It appeared, however, I was alsoone of the Workers, with a capital—you know. Something like an emissaryof light, something like a lower sort of apostle. There had been a lot of suchrot let loose in print and talk just about that time, and the excellent woman,living right in the rush of all that humbug, got carried off her feet. Shetalked about ‘weaning those ignorant millions from their horridways,’ till, upon my word, she made me quite uncomfortable. I ventured tohint that the Company was run for profit.
“‘You forget, dear Charlie, that the labourer is worthy of hishire,’ she said, brightly. It’s queer how out of touch with truthwomen are. They live in a world of their own, and there has never been anythinglike it, and never can be. It is too beautiful altogether, and if they were toset it up it would go to pieces before the first sunset. Some confounded factwe men have been living contentedly with ever since the day of creation wouldstart up and knock the whole thing over.
“After this I got embraced, told to wear flannel, be sure to write often,and so on—and I left. In the street—I don’t know why—aqueer feeling came to me that I was an imposter. Odd thing that I, who used toclear out for any part of the world at twenty-four hours’ notice, withless thought than most men give to the crossing of a street, had amoment—I won’t say of hesitation, but of startled pause, beforethis commonplace affair. The best way I can explain it to you is by sayingthat, for a second or two, I felt as though, instead of going to the centre ofa continent, I were about to set off for the centre of the earth.
“I left in a French steamer, and she called in every blamed port theyhave out there, for, as far as I could see, the sole purpose of landingsoldiers and custom-house officers. I watched the coast. Watching a coast as itslips by the ship is like thinking about an enigma. There it is beforeyou—smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, or savage, andalways mute with an air of whispering, ‘Come and find out.’ Thisone was almost featureless, as if still in the making, with an aspect ofmonotonous grimness. The edge of a colossal jungle, so dark-green as to bealmost black, fringed with white surf, ran straight, like a ruled line, far,far away along a blue sea whose glitter was blurred by a creeping mist. The sunwas fierce, the land seemed to glisten and drip with steam. Here and theregreyish-whitish specks showed up clustered inside the white surf, with a flagflying above them perhaps. Settlements some centuries old, and still no biggerthan pinheads on the untouched expanse of their background. We pounded along,stopped, landed soldiers; went on, landed custom-house clerks to levy toll inwhat looked like a God-forsaken wilderness, with a tin shed and a flag-polelost in it; landed more soldiers—to take care of the custom-house clerks,presumably. Some, I heard, got drowned in the surf; but whether they did ornot, nobody seemed particularly to care. They were just flung out there, and onwe went. Every day the coast looked the same, as though we had not moved; butwe passed various places—trading places—with names like Gran’Bassam, Little Popo; names that seemed to belong to some sordid farce acted infront of a sinister back-cloth. The idleness of a passenger, my isolationamongst all these men with whom I had no point of contact, the oily and languidsea, the uniform sombreness of the coast, seemed to keep me away from the truthof things, within the toil of a mournful and senseless delusion. The voice ofthe surf heard now and then was a positive pleasure, like the speech of abrother. It was something natural, that had its reason, that had a meaning. Nowand then a boat from the shore gave one a momentary contact with reality. Itwas paddled by black fellows. You could see from afar the white of theireyeballs glistening. They shouted, sang; their bodies streamed withperspiration; they had faces like grotesque masks—these chaps; but theyhad bone, muscle, a wild vitality, an intense energy of movement, that was asnatural and true as the surf along their coast. They wanted no excuse for beingthere. They were a great comfort to look at. For a time I would feel I belongedstill to a world of straightforward facts; but the feeling would not last long.Something would turn up to scare it away. Once, I remember, we came upon aman-of-war anchored off the coast. There wasn’t even a shed there, andshe was shelling the bush. It appears the French had one of their wars going onthereabouts. Her ensign dropped limp like a rag; the muzzles of the longsix-inch guns stuck out all over the low hull; the greasy, slimy swell swungher up lazily and let her down, swaying her thin masts. In the empty immensityof earth, sky, and water, there she was, incomprehensible, firing into acontinent. Pop, would go one of the six-inch guns; a small flame would dart andvanish, a little white smoke would disappear, a tiny projectile would give afeeble screech—and nothing happened. Nothing could happen. There was atouch of insanity in the proceeding, a sense of lugubrious drollery in thesight; and it was not dissipated by somebody on board assuring me earnestlythere was a camp of natives—he called them enemies!—hidden out ofsight somewhere.
“We gave her her letters (I heard the men in that lonely ship were dyingof fever at the rate of three a day) and went on. We called at some more placeswith farcical names, where the merry dance of death and trade goes on in astill and earthy atmosphere as of an overheated catacomb; all along theformless coast bordered by dangerous surf, as if Nature herself had tried toward off intruders; in and out of rivers, streams of death in life, whose bankswere rotting into mud, whose waters, thickened into slime, invaded thecontorted mangroves, that seemed to writhe at us in the extremity of animpotent despair. Nowhere did we stop long enough to get a particularizedimpression, but the general sense of vague and oppressive wonder grew upon me.It was like a weary pilgrimage amongst hints for nightmares.
“It was upward of thirty days before I saw the mouth of the big river. Weanchored off the seat of the government. But my work would not begin till sometwo hundred miles farther on. So as soon as I could I made a start for a placethirty miles higher up.
“I had my passage on a little sea-going steamer. Her captain was a Swede,and knowing me for a seaman, invited me on the bridge. He was a young man,lean, fair, and morose, with lanky hair and a shuffling gait. As we left themiserable little wharf, he tossed his head contemptuously at the shore.‘Been living there?’ he asked. I said, ‘Yes.’‘Fine lot these government chaps—are they not?’ he went on,speaking English with great precision and considerable bitterness. ‘It isfunny what some people will do for a few francs a month. I wonder what becomesof that kind when it goes upcountry?’ I said to him I expected to seethat soon. ‘So-o-o!’ he exclaimed. He shuffled athwart, keeping oneeye ahead vigilantly. ‘Don’t be too sure,’ he continued.‘The other day I took up a man who hanged himself on the road. He was aSwede, too.’ ‘Hanged himself! Why, in God’s name?’ Icried. He kept on looking out watchfully. ‘Who knows? The sun too muchfor him, or the country perhaps.’
“At last we opened a reach. A rocky cliff appeared, mounds of turned-upearth by the shore, houses on a hill, others with iron roofs, amongst a wasteof excavations, or hanging to the declivity. A continuous noise of the rapidsabove hovered over this scene of inhabited devastation. A lot of people, mostlyblack and naked, moved about like ants. A jetty projected into the river. Ablinding sunlight drowned all this at times in a sudden recrudescence of glare.‘There’s your Company’s station,’ said the Swede,pointing to three wooden barrack-like structures on the rocky slope. ‘Iwill send your things up. Four boxes did you say? So. Farewell.’
“I came upon a boiler wallowing in the grass, then found a path leadingup the hill. It turned aside for the boulders, and also for an undersizedrailway-truck lying there on its back with its wheels in the air. One was off.The thing looked as dead as the carcass of some animal. I came upon more piecesof decaying machinery, a stack of rusty rails. To the left a clump of treesmade a shady spot, where dark things seemed to stir feebly. I blinked, the pathwas steep. A horn tooted to the right, and I saw the black people run. A heavyand dull detonation shook the ground, a puff of smoke came out of the cliff,and that was all. No change appeared on the face of the rock. They werebuilding a railway. The cliff was not in the way or anything; but thisobjectless blasting was all the work going on.
“A slight clinking behind me made me turn my head. Six black men advancedin a file, toiling up the path. They walked erect and slow, balancing smallbaskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kept time with theirfootsteps. Black rags were wound round their loins, and the short ends behindwaggled to and fro like tails. I could see every rib, the joints of their limbswere like knots in a rope; each had an iron collar on his neck, and all wereconnected together with a chain whose bights swung between them, rhythmicallyclinking. Another report from the cliff made me think suddenly of that ship ofwar I had seen firing into a continent. It was the same kind of ominous voice;but these men could by no stretch of imagination be called enemies. They werecalled criminals, and the outraged law, like the bursting shells, had come tothem, an insoluble mystery from the sea. All their meagre breasts pantedtogether, the violently dilated nostrils quivered, the eyes stared stonilyuphill. They passed me within six inches, without a glance, with that complete,deathlike indifference of unhappy savages. Behind this raw matter one of thereclaimed, the product of the new forces at work, strolled despondently,carrying a rifle by its middle. He had a uniform jacket with one button off,and seeing a white man on the path, hoisted his weapon to his shoulder withalacrity. This was simple prudence, white men being so much alike at a distancethat he could not tell who I might be. He was speedily reassured, and with alarge, white, rascally grin, and a glance at his charge, seemed to take me intopartnership in his exalted trust. After all, I also was a part of the greatcause of these high and just proceedings.
“Instead of going up, I turned and descended to the left. My idea was tolet that chain-gang get out of sight before I climbed the hill. You know I amnot particularly tender; I’ve had to strike and to fend off. I’vehad to resist and to attack sometimes—that’s only one way ofresisting—without counting the exact cost, according to the demands ofsuch sort of life as I had blundered into. I’ve seen the devil ofviolence, and the devil of greed, and the devil of hot desire; but, by all thestars! these were strong, lusty, red-eyed devils, that swayed and drovemen—men, I tell you. But as I stood on this hillside, I foresaw that inthe blinding sunshine of that land I would become acquainted with a flabby,pretending, weak-eyed devil of a rapacious and pitiless folly. How insidious hecould be, too, I was only to find out several months later and a thousand milesfarther. For a moment I stood appalled, as though by a warning. Finally Idescended the hill, obliquely, towards the trees I had seen.
“I avoided a vast artificial hole somebody had been digging on the slope,the purpose of which I found it impossible to divine. It wasn’t a quarryor a sandpit, anyhow. It was just a hole. It might have been connected with thephilanthropic desire of giving the criminals something to do. I don’tknow. Then I nearly fell into a very narrow ravine, almost no more than a scarin the hillside. I discovered that a lot of imported drainage-pipes for thesettlement had been tumbled in there. There wasn’t one that was notbroken. It was a wanton smash-up. At last I got under the trees. My purpose wasto stroll into the shade for a moment; but no sooner within than it seemed tome I had stepped into the gloomy circle of some Inferno. The rapids were near,and an uninterrupted, uniform, headlong, rushing noise filled the mournfulstillness of the grove, where not a breath stirred, not a leaf moved, with amysterious sound—as though the tearing pace of the launched earth hadsuddenly become audible.
“Black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees leaning against thetrunks, clinging to the earth, half coming out, half effaced within the dimlight, in all the attitudes of pain, abandonment, and despair. Another mine onthe cliff went off, followed by a slight shudder of the soil under my feet. Thework was going on. The work! And this was the place where some of the helpershad withdrawn to die.
“They were dying slowly—it was very clear. They were not enemies,they were not criminals, they were nothing earthly now—nothing but blackshadows of disease and starvation, lying confusedly in the greenish gloom.Brought from all the recesses of the coast in all the legality of timecontracts, lost in uncongenial surroundings, fed on unfamiliar food, theysickened, became inefficient, and were then allowed to crawl away and rest.These moribund shapes were free as air—and nearly as thin. I began todistinguish the gleam of the eyes under the trees. Then, glancing down, I saw aface near my hand. The black bones reclined at full length with one shoulderagainst the tree, and slowly the eyelids rose and the sunken eyes looked up atme, enormous and vacant, a kind of blind, white flicker in the depths of theorbs, which died out slowly. The man seemed young—almost a boy—butyou know with them it’s hard to tell. I found nothing else to do but tooffer him one of my good Swede’s ship’s biscuits I had in mypocket. The fingers closed slowly on it and held—there was no othermovement and no other glance. He had tied a bit of white worsted round hisneck—Why? Where did he get it? Was it a badge—an ornament—acharm—a propitiatory act? Was there any idea at all connected with it? Itlooked startling round his black neck, this bit of white thread from beyond theseas.
“Near the same tree two more bundles of acute angles sat with their legsdrawn up. One, with his chin propped on his knees, stared at nothing, in anintolerable and appalling manner: his brother phantom rested its forehead, asif overcome with a great weariness; and all about others were scattered inevery pose of contorted collapse, as in some picture of a massacre or apestilence. While I stood horror-struck, one of these creatures rose to hishands and knees, and went off on all-fours towards the river to drink. Helapped out of his hand, then sat up in the sunlight, crossing his shins infront of him, and after a time let his woolly head fall on his breastbone.
“I didn’t want any more loitering in the shade, and I made hastetowards the station. When near the buildings I met a white man, in such anunexpected elegance of get-up that in the first moment I took him for a sort ofvision. I saw a high starched collar, white cuffs, a light alpaca jacket, snowytrousers, a clean necktie, and varnished boots. No hat. Hair parted, brushed,oiled, under a green-lined parasol held in a big white hand. He was amazing,and had a penholder behind his ear.
“I shook hands with this miracle, and I learned he was theCompany’s chief accountant, and that all the book-keeping was done atthis station. He had come out for a moment, he said, ‘to get a breath offresh air. The expression sounded wonderfully odd, with its suggestion ofsedentary desk-life. I wouldn’t have mentioned the fellow to you at all,only it was from his lips that I first heard the name of the man who is soindissolubly connected with the memories of that time. Moreover, I respectedthe fellow. Yes; I respected his collars, his vast cuffs, his brushed hair. Hisappearance was certainly that of a hairdresser’s dummy; but in the greatdemoralization of the land he kept up his appearance. That’s backbone.His starched collars and got-up shirt-fronts were achievements of character. Hehad been out nearly three years; and, later, I could not help asking him how hemanaged to sport such linen. He had just the faintest blush, and said modestly,‘I’ve been teaching one of the native women about the station. Itwas difficult. She had a distaste for the work.’ Thus this man had verilyaccomplished something. And he was devoted to his books, which were inapple-pie order.
“Everything else in the station was in a muddle—heads, things,buildings. Strings of dusty niggers with splay feet arrived and departed; astream of manufactured goods, rubbishy cottons, beads, and brass-wire sent intothe depths of darkness, and in return came a precious trickle of ivory.
“I had to wait in the station for ten days—an eternity. I lived ina hut in the yard, but to be out of the chaos I would sometimes get into theaccountant’s office. It was built of horizontal planks, and so badly puttogether that, as he bent over his high desk, he was barred from neck to heelswith narrow strips of sunlight. There was no need to open the big shutter tosee. It was hot there, too; big flies buzzed fiendishly, and did not sting, butstabbed. I sat generally on the floor, while, of faultless appearance (and evenslightly scented), perching on a high stool, he wrote, he wrote. Sometimes hestood up for exercise. When a truckle-bed with a sick man (some invalid agentfrom upcountry) was put in there, he exhibited a gentle annoyance. ‘Thegroans of this sick person,’ he said, ‘distract my attention. Andwithout that it is extremely difficult to guard against clerical errors in thisclimate.’
“One day he remarked, without lifting his head, ‘In the interioryou will no doubt meet Mr. Kurtz.’ On my asking who Mr. Kurtz was, hesaid he was a first-class agent; and seeing my disappointment at thisinformation, he added slowly, laying down his pen, ‘He is a veryremarkable person.’ Further questions elicited from him that Mr. Kurtzwas at present in charge of a trading-post, a very important one, in the trueivory-country, at ‘the very bottom of there. Sends in as much ivory asall the others put together...’ He began to write again. The sick man wastoo ill to groan. The flies buzzed in a great peace.
“Suddenly there was a growing murmur of voices and a great tramping offeet. A caravan had come in. A violent babble of uncouth sounds burst out onthe other side of the planks. All the carriers were speaking together, and inthe midst of the uproar the lamentable voice of the chief agent was heard‘giving it up’ tearfully for the twentieth time that day.... Herose slowly. ‘What a frightful row,’ he said. He crossed the roomgently to look at the sick man, and returning, said to me, ‘He does nothear.’ ‘What! Dead?’ I asked, startled. ‘No, notyet,’ he answered, with great composure. Then, alluding with a toss ofthe head to the tumult in the station-yard, ‘When one has got to makecorrect entries, one comes to hate those savages—hate them to thedeath.’ He remained thoughtful for a moment. ‘When you see Mr.Kurtz’ he went on, ‘tell him from me that everythinghere’—he glanced at the deck—‘is very satisfactory. Idon’t like to write to him—with those messengers of ours you neverknow who may get hold of your letter—at that Central Station.’ Hestared at me for a moment with his mild, bulging eyes. ‘Oh, he will gofar, very far,’ he began again. ‘He will be a somebody in theAdministration before long. They, above—the Council in Europe, youknow—mean him to be.’
“He turned to his work. The noise outside had ceased, and presently ingoing out I stopped at the door. In the steady buzz of flies the homeward-boundagent was lying finished and insensible; the other, bent over his books, wasmaking correct entries of perfectly correct transactions; and fifty feet belowthe doorstep I could see the still tree-tops of the grove of death.
“Next day I left that station at last, with a caravan of sixty men, for atwo-hundred-mile tramp.
“No use telling you much about that. Paths, paths, everywhere; astamped-in network of paths spreading over the empty land, through the longgrass, through burnt grass, through thickets, down and up chilly ravines, upand down stony hills ablaze with heat; and a solitude, a solitude, nobody, nota hut. The population had cleared out a long time ago. Well, if a lot ofmysterious niggers armed with all kinds of fearful weapons suddenly took totravelling on the road between Deal and Gravesend, catching the yokels rightand left to carry heavy loads for them, I fancy every farm and cottagethereabouts would get empty very soon. Only here the dwellings were gone, too.Still I passed through several abandoned villages. There’s somethingpathetically childish in the ruins of grass walls. Day after day, with thestamp and shuffle of sixty pair of bare feet behind me, each pair under a60-lb. load. Camp, cook, sleep, strike camp, march. Now and then a carrier deadin harness, at rest in the long grass near the path, with an empty water-gourdand his long staff lying by his side. A great silence around and above. Perhapson some quiet night the tremor of far-off drums, sinking, swelling, a tremorvast, faint; a sound weird, appealing, suggestive, and wild—and perhapswith as profound a meaning as the sound of bells in a Christian country. Once awhite man in an unbuttoned uniform, camping on the path with an armed escort oflank Zanzibaris, very hospitable and festive—not to say drunk. Waslooking after the upkeep of the road, he declared. Can’t say I saw anyroad or any upkeep, unless the body of a middle-aged negro, with a bullet-holein the forehead, upon which I absolutely stumbled three miles farther on, maybe considered as a permanent improvement. I had a white companion, too, not abad chap, but rather too fleshy and with the exasperating habit of fainting onthe hot hillsides, miles away from the least bit of shade and water. Annoying,you know, to hold your own coat like a parasol over a man’s head while heis coming to. I couldn’t help asking him once what he meant by comingthere at all. ‘To make money, of course. What do you think?’ hesaid, scornfully. Then he got fever, and had to be carried in a hammock slungunder a pole. As he weighed sixteen stone I had no end of rows with thecarriers. They jibbed, ran away, sneaked off with their loads in thenight—quite a mutiny. So, one evening, I made a speech in English withgestures, not one of which was lost to the sixty pairs of eyes before me, andthe next morning I started the hammock off in front all right. An hourafterwards I came upon the whole concern wrecked in a bush—man, hammock,groans, blankets, horrors. The heavy pole had skinned his poor nose. He wasvery anxious for me to kill somebody, but there wasn’t the shadow of acarrier near. I remembered the old doctor—‘It would be interestingfor science to watch the mental changes of individuals, on the spot.’ Ifelt I was becoming scientifically interesting. However, all that is to nopurpose. On the fifteenth day I came in sight of the big river again, andhobbled into the Central Station. It was on a back water surrounded by scruband forest, with a pretty border of smelly mud on one side, and on the threeothers enclosed by a crazy fence of rushes. A neglected gap was all the gate ithad, and the first glance at the place was enough to let you see the flabbydevil was running that show. White men with long staves in their hands appearedlanguidly from amongst the buildings, strolling up to take a look at me, andthen retired out of sight somewhere. One of them, a stout, excitable chap withblack moustaches, informed me with great volubility and many digressions, assoon as I told him who I was, that my steamer was at the bottom of the river. Iwas thunderstruck. What, how, why? Oh, it was ‘all right.’ The‘manager himself’ was there. All quite correct. ‘Everybodyhad behaved splendidly! splendidly!’—‘you must,’ hesaid in agitation, ‘go and see the general manager at once. He iswaiting!’
“I did not see the real significance of that wreck at once. I fancy I seeit now, but I am not sure—not at all. Certainly the affair was toostupid—when I think of it—to be altogether natural. Still... But atthe moment it presented itself simply as a confounded nuisance. The steamer wassunk. They had started two days before in a sudden hurry up the river with themanager on board, in charge of some volunteer skipper, and before they had beenout three hours they tore the bottom out of her on stones, and she sank nearthe south bank. I asked myself what I was to do there, now my boat was lost. Asa matter of fact, I had plenty to do in fishing my command out of the river. Ihad to set about it the very next day. That, and the repairs when I brought thepieces to the station, took some months.
“My first interview with the manager was curious. He did not ask me tosit down after my twenty-mile walk that morning. He was commonplace incomplexion, in features, in manners, and in voice. He was of middle size and ofordinary build. His eyes, of the usual blue, were perhaps remarkably cold, andhe certainly could make his glance fall on one as trenchant and heavy as anaxe. But even at these times the rest of his person seemed to disclaim theintention. Otherwise there was only an indefinable, faint expression of hislips, something stealthy—a smile—not a smile—I remember it,but I can’t explain. It was unconscious, this smile was, though justafter he had said something it got intensified for an instant. It came at theend of his speeches like a seal applied on the words to make the meaning of thecommonest phrase appear absolutely inscrutable. He was a common trader, fromhis youth up employed in these parts—nothing more. He was obeyed, yet heinspired neither love nor fear, nor even respect. He inspired uneasiness. Thatwas it! Uneasiness. Not a definite mistrust—just uneasiness—nothingmore. You have no idea how effective such a... a... faculty can be. He had nogenius for organizing, for initiative, or for order even. That was evident insuch things as the deplorable state of the station. He had no learning, and nointelligence. His position had come to him—why? Perhaps because he wasnever ill... He had served three terms of three years out there... Becausetriumphant health in the general rout of constitutions is a kind of power initself. When he went home on leave he rioted on a large scale—pompously.Jack ashore—with a difference—in externals only. This one couldgather from his casual talk. He originated nothing, he could keep the routinegoing—that’s all. But he was great. He was great by this littlething that it was impossible to tell what could control such a man. He nevergave that secret away. Perhaps there was nothing within him. Such a suspicionmade one pause—for out there there were no external checks. Once whenvarious tropical diseases had laid low almost every ‘agent’ in thestation, he was heard to say, ‘Men who come out here should have noentrails.’ He sealed the utterance with that smile of his, as though ithad been a door opening into a darkness he had in his keeping. You fancied youhad seen things—but the seal was on. When annoyed at meal-times by theconstant quarrels of the white men about precedence, he ordered an immenseround table to be made, for which a special house had to be built. This was thestation’s mess-room. Where he sat was the first place—the rest werenowhere. One felt this to be his unalterable conviction. He was neither civilnor uncivil. He was quiet. He allowed his ‘boy’—an overfedyoung negro from the coast—to treat the white men, under his very eyes,with provoking insolence.
“He began to speak as soon as he saw me. I had been very long on theroad. He could not wait. Had to start without me. The up-river stations had tobe relieved. There had been so many delays already that he did not know who wasdead and who was alive, and how they got on—and so on, and so on. He paidno attention to my explanations, and, playing with a stick of sealing-wax,repeated several times that the situation was ‘very grave, verygrave.’ There were rumours that a very important station was in jeopardy,and its chief, Mr. Kurtz, was ill. Hoped it was not true. Mr. Kurtz was... Ifelt weary and irritable. Hang Kurtz, I thought. I interrupted him by saying Ihad heard of Mr. Kurtz on the coast. ‘Ah! So they talk of him downthere,’ he murmured to himself. Then he began again, assuring me Mr.Kurtz was the best agent he had, an exceptional man, of the greatest importanceto the Company; therefore I could understand his anxiety. He was, he said,‘very, very uneasy.’ Certainly he fidgeted on his chair a gooddeal, exclaimed, ‘Ah, Mr. Kurtz!’ broke the stick of sealing-waxand seemed dumfounded by the accident. Next thing he wanted to know ‘howlong it would take to’... I interrupted him again. Being hungry, youknow, and kept on my feet too. I was getting savage. ‘How can Itell?’ I said. ‘I haven’t even seen the wreck yet—somemonths, no doubt.’ All this talk seemed to me so futile. ‘Somemonths,’ he said. ‘Well, let us say three months before we can makea start. Yes. That ought to do the affair.’ I flung out of his hut (helived all alone in a clay hut with a sort of verandah) muttering to myself myopinion of him. He was a chattering idiot. Afterwards I took it back when itwas borne in upon me startlingly with what extreme nicety he had estimated thetime requisite for the ‘affair.’
“I went to work the next day, turning, so to speak, my back on thatstation. In that way only it seemed to me I could keep my hold on the redeemingfacts of life. Still, one must look about sometimes; and then I saw thisstation, these men strolling aimlessly about in the sunshine of the yard. Iasked myself sometimes what it all meant. They wandered here and there withtheir absurd long staves in their hands, like a lot of faithless pilgrimsbewitched inside a rotten fence. The word ‘ivory’ rang in the air,was whispered, was sighed. You would think they were praying to it. A taint ofimbecile rapacity blew through it all, like a whiff from some corpse. By Jove!I’ve never seen anything so unreal in my life. And outside, the silentwilderness surrounding this cleared speck on the earth struck me as somethinggreat and invincible, like evil or truth, waiting patiently for the passingaway of this fantastic invasion.
“Oh, these months! Well, never mind. Various things happened. One eveninga grass shed full of calico, cotton prints, beads, and I don’t know whatelse, burst into a blaze so suddenly that you would have thought the earth hadopened to let an avenging fire consume all that trash. I was smoking my pipequietly by my dismantled steamer, and saw them all cutting capers in the light,with their arms lifted high, when the stout man with moustaches came tearingdown to the river, a tin pail in his hand, assured me that everybody was‘behaving splendidly, splendidly,’ dipped about a quart of waterand tore back again. I noticed there was a hole in the bottom of his pail.
“I strolled up. There was no hurry. You see the thing had gone off like abox of matches. It had been hopeless from the very first. The flame had leapedhigh, driven everybody back, lighted up everything—and collapsed. Theshed was already a heap of embers glowing fiercely. A nigger was being beatennear by. They said he had caused the fire in some way; be that as it may, hewas screeching most horribly. I saw him, later, for several days, sitting in abit of shade looking very sick and trying to recover himself; afterwards hearose and went out—and the wilderness without a sound took him into itsbosom again. As I approached the glow from the dark I found myself at the backof two men, talking. I heard the name of Kurtz pronounced, then the words,‘take advantage of this unfortunate accident.’ One of the men wasthe manager. I wished him a good evening. ‘Did you ever see anything likeit—eh? it is incredible,’ he said, and walked off. The other manremained. He was a first-class agent, young, gentlemanly, a bit reserved, witha forked little beard and a hooked nose. He was stand-offish with the otheragents, and they on their side said he was the manager’s spy upon them.As to me, I had hardly ever spoken to him before. We got into talk, and by andby we strolled away from the hissing ruins. Then he asked me to his room, whichwas in the main building of the station. He struck a match, and I perceivedthat this young aristocrat had not only a silver-mounted dressing-case but alsoa whole candle all to himself. Just at that time the manager was the only mansupposed to have any right to candles. Native mats covered the clay walls; acollection of spears, assegais, shields, knives was hung up in trophies. Thebusiness intrusted to this fellow was the making of bricks—so I had beeninformed; but there wasn’t a fragment of a brick anywhere in the station,and he had been there more than a year—waiting. It seems he could notmake bricks without something, I don’t know what—straw maybe.Anyway, it could not be found there and as it was not likely to be sent fromEurope, it did not appear clear to me what he was waiting for. An act ofspecial creation perhaps. However, they were all waiting—all the sixteenor twenty pilgrims of them—for something; and upon my word it did notseem an uncongenial occupation, from the way they took it, though the onlything that ever came to them was disease—as far as I could see. Theybeguiled the time by back-biting and intriguing against each other in a foolishkind of way. There was an air of plotting about that station, but nothing cameof it, of course. It was as unreal as everything else—as thephilanthropic pretence of the whole concern, as their talk, as theirgovernment, as their show of work. The only real feeling was a desire to getappointed to a trading-post where ivory was to be had, so that they could earnpercentages. They intrigued and slandered and hated each other only on thataccount—but as to effectually lifting a little finger—oh, no. Byheavens! there is something after all in the world allowing one man to steal ahorse while another must not look at a halter. Steal a horse straight out. Verywell. He has done it. Perhaps he can ride. But there is a way of looking at ahalter that would provoke the most charitable of saints into a kick.
“I had no idea why he wanted to be sociable, but as we chatted in thereit suddenly occurred to me the fellow was trying to get at something—infact, pumping me. He alluded constantly to Europe, to the people I was supposedto know there—putting leading questions as to my acquaintances in thesepulchral city, and so on. His little eyes glittered like micadiscs—with curiosity—though he tried to keep up a bit ofsuperciliousness. At first I was astonished, but very soon I became awfullycurious to see what he would find out from me. I couldn’t possiblyimagine what I had in me to make it worth his while. It was very pretty to seehow he baffled himself, for in truth my body was full only of chills, and myhead had nothing in it but that wretched steamboat business. It was evident hetook me for a perfectly shameless prevaricator. At last he got angry, and, toconceal a movement of furious annoyance, he yawned. I rose. Then I noticed asmall sketch in oils, on a panel, representing a woman, draped and blindfolded,carrying a lighted torch. The background was sombre—almost black. Themovement of the woman was stately, and the effect of the torchlight on the facewas sinister.
“It arrested me, and he stood by civilly, holding an empty half-pintchampagne bottle (medical comforts) with the candle stuck in it. To my questionhe said Mr. Kurtz had painted this—in this very station more than a yearago—while waiting for means to go to his trading post. ‘Tell me,pray,’ said I, ‘who is this Mr. Kurtz?’
“‘The chief of the Inner Station,’ he answered in a shorttone, looking away. ‘Much obliged,’ I said, laughing. ‘Andyou are the brickmaker of the Central Station. Every one knows that.’ Hewas silent for a while. ‘He is a prodigy,’ he said at last.‘He is an emissary of pity and science and progress, and devil knows whatelse. We want,’ he began to declaim suddenly, ‘for the guidance ofthe cause intrusted to us by Europe, so to speak, higher intelligence, widesympathies, a singleness of purpose.’ ‘Who says that?’ Iasked. ‘Lots of them,’ he replied. ‘Some even write that; andso he comes here, a special being, as you ought to know.’‘Why ought I to know?’ I interrupted, really surprised. He paid noattention. ‘Yes. Today he is chief of the best station, next year he willbe assistant-manager, two years more and... but I dare-say you know what hewill be in two years’ time. You are of the new gang—the gang ofvirtue. The same people who sent him specially also recommended you. Oh,don’t say no. I’ve my own eyes to trust.’ Light dawned uponme. My dear aunt’s influential acquaintances were producing an unexpectedeffect upon that young man. I nearly burst into a laugh. ‘Do you read theCompany’s confidential correspondence?’ I asked. He hadn’t aword to say. It was great fun. ‘When Mr. Kurtz,’ I continued,severely, ‘is General Manager, you won’t have theopportunity.’
“He blew the candle out suddenly, and we went outside. The moon hadrisen. Black figures strolled about listlessly, pouring water on the glow,whence proceeded a sound of hissing; steam ascended in the moonlight, thebeaten nigger groaned somewhere. ‘What a row the brute makes!’ saidthe indefatigable man with the moustaches, appearing near us. ‘Serve himright. Transgression—punishment—bang! Pitiless, pitiless.That’s the only way. This will prevent all conflagrations for the future.I was just telling the manager...’ He noticed my companion, and becamecrestfallen all at once. ‘Not in bed yet,’ he said, with a kind ofservile heartiness; ‘it’s so natural. Ha!Danger—agitation.’ He vanished. I went on to the riverside, and theother followed me. I heard a scathing murmur at my ear, ‘Heap ofmuffs—go to.’ The pilgrims could be seen in knots gesticulating,discussing. Several had still their staves in their hands. I verily believethey took these sticks to bed with them. Beyond the fence the forest stood upspectrally in the moonlight, and through that dim stir, through the faintsounds of that lamentable courtyard, the silence of the land went home toone’s very heart—its mystery, its greatness, the amazing reality ofits concealed life. The hurt nigger moaned feebly somewhere near by, and thenfetched a deep sigh that made me mend my pace away from there. I felt a handintroducing itself under my arm. ‘My dear sir,’ said the fellow,‘I don’t want to be misunderstood, and especially by you, who willsee Mr. Kurtz long before I can have that pleasure. I wouldn’t like himto get a false idea of my disposition....’
“I let him run on, this papier-mache Mephistopheles, and it seemedto me that if I tried I could poke my forefinger through him, and would findnothing inside but a little loose dirt, maybe. He, don’t you see, hadbeen planning to be assistant-manager by and by under the present man, and Icould see that the coming of that Kurtz had upset them both not a little. Hetalked precipitately, and I did not try to stop him. I had my shoulders againstthe wreck of my steamer, hauled up on the slope like a carcass of some bigriver animal. The smell of mud, of primeval mud, by Jove! was in my nostrils,the high stillness of primeval forest was before my eyes; there were shinypatches on the black creek. The moon had spread over everything a thin layer ofsilver—over the rank grass, over the mud, upon the wall of mattedvegetation standing higher than the wall of a temple, over the great river Icould see through a sombre gap glittering, glittering, as it flowed broadly bywithout a murmur. All this was great, expectant, mute, while the man jabberedabout himself. I wondered whether the stillness on the face of the immensitylooking at us two were meant as an appeal or as a menace. What were we who hadstrayed in here? Could we handle that dumb thing, or would it handle us? I felthow big, how confoundedly big, was that thing that couldn’t talk, andperhaps was deaf as well. What was in there? I could see a little ivory comingout from there, and I had heard Mr. Kurtz was in there. I had heard enoughabout it, too—God knows! Yet somehow it didn’t bring any image withit—no more than if I had been told an angel or a fiend was in there. Ibelieved it in the same way one of you might believe there are inhabitants inthe planet Mars. I knew once a Scotch sailmaker who was certain, dead sure,there were people in Mars. If you asked him for some idea how they looked andbehaved, he would get shy and mutter something about ‘walking onall-fours.’ If you as much as smiled, he would—though a man ofsixty—offer to fight you. I would not have gone so far as to fight forKurtz, but I went for him near enough to a lie. You know I hate, detest, andcan’t bear a lie, not because I am straighter than the rest of us, butsimply because it appalls me. There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortalityin lies—which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world—what Iwant to forget. It makes me miserable and sick, like biting something rottenwould do. Temperament, I suppose. Well, I went near enough to it by letting theyoung fool there believe anything he liked to imagine as to my influence inEurope. I became in an instant as much of a pretence as the rest of thebewitched pilgrims. This simply because I had a notion it somehow would be ofhelp to that Kurtz whom at the time I did not see—you understand. He wasjust a word for me. I did not see the man in the name any more than you do. Doyou see him? Do you see the story? Do you see anything? It seems to me I amtrying to tell you a dream—making a vain attempt, because no relation ofa dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity,surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion ofbeing captured by the incredible which is of the very essence ofdreams....”
He was silent for a while.
“... No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensationof any given epoch of one’s existence—that which makes its truth,its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. Welive, as we dream—alone....”
He paused again as if reflecting, then added:
“Of course in this you fellows see more than I could then. You see me,whom you know....”
It had become so pitch dark that we listeners could hardly see one another. Fora long time already he, sitting apart, had been no more to us than a voice.There was not a word from anybody. The others might have been asleep, but I wasawake. I listened, I listened on the watch for the sentence, for the word, thatwould give me the clue to the faint uneasiness inspired by this narrative thatseemed to shape itself without human lips in the heavy night-air of the river.
“... Yes—I let him run on,” Marlow began again, “andthink what he pleased about the powers that were behind me. I did! And therewas nothing behind me! There was nothing but that wretched, old, mangledsteamboat I was leaning against, while he talked fluently about ‘thenecessity for every man to get on.’ ‘And when one comes out here,you conceive, it is not to gaze at the moon.’ Mr. Kurtz was a‘universal genius,’ but even a genius would find it easier to workwith ‘adequate tools—intelligent men.’ He did not makebricks—why, there was a physical impossibility in the way—as I waswell aware; and if he did secretarial work for the manager, it was because‘no sensible man rejects wantonly the confidence of his superiors.’Did I see it? I saw it. What more did I want? What I really wanted was rivets,by heaven! Rivets. To get on with the work—to stop the hole. Rivets Iwanted. There were cases of them down at the coast—cases—piledup—burst—split! You kicked a loose rivet at every second step inthat station-yard on the hillside. Rivets had rolled into the grove of death.You could fill your pockets with rivets for the trouble of stoopingdown—and there wasn’t one rivet to be found where it was wanted. Wehad plates that would do, but nothing to fasten them with. And every week themessenger, a long negro, letter-bag on shoulder and staff in hand, left ourstation for the coast. And several times a week a coast caravan came in withtrade goods—ghastly glazed calico that made you shudder only to look atit, glass beads value about a penny a quart, confounded spotted cottonhandkerchiefs. And no rivets. Three carriers could have brought all that waswanted to set that steamboat afloat.
“He was becoming confidential now, but I fancy my unresponsive attitudemust have exasperated him at last, for he judged it necessary to inform me hefeared neither God nor devil, let alone any mere man. I said I could see thatvery well, but what I wanted was a certain quantity of rivets—and rivetswere what really Mr. Kurtz wanted, if he had only known it. Now letters went tothe coast every week.... ‘My dear sir,’ he cried, ‘I writefrom dictation.’ I demanded rivets. There was a way—for anintelligent man. He changed his manner; became very cold, and suddenly began totalk about a hippopotamus; wondered whether sleeping on board the steamer (Istuck to my salvage night and day) I wasn’t disturbed. There was an oldhippo that had the bad habit of getting out on the bank and roaming at nightover the station grounds. The pilgrims used to turn out in a body and emptyevery rifle they could lay hands on at him. Some even had sat up o’nights for him. All this energy was wasted, though. ‘That animal has acharmed life,’ he said; ‘but you can say this only of brutes inthis country. No man—you apprehend me?—no man here bears a charmedlife.’ He stood there for a moment in the moonlight with his delicatehooked nose set a little askew, and his mica eyes glittering without a wink,then, with a curt Good-night, he strode off. I could see he was disturbed andconsiderably puzzled, which made me feel more hopeful than I had been for days.It was a great comfort to turn from that chap to my influential friend, thebattered, twisted, ruined, tin-pot steamboat. I clambered on board. She rangunder my feet like an empty Huntley & Palmer biscuit-tin kicked along agutter; she was nothing so solid in make, and rather less pretty in shape, butI had expended enough hard work on her to make me love her. No influentialfriend would have served me better. She had given me a chance to come out abit—to find out what I could do. No, I don’t like work. I hadrather laze about and think of all the fine things that can be done. Idon’t like work—no man does—but I like what is in thework—the chance to find yourself. Your own reality—for yourself,not for others—what no other man can ever know. They can only see themere show, and never can tell what it really means.
“I was not surprised to see somebody sitting aft, on the deck, with hislegs dangling over the mud. You see I rather chummed with the few mechanicsthere were in that station, whom the other pilgrims naturally despised—onaccount of their imperfect manners, I suppose. This was the foreman—aboiler-maker by trade—a good worker. He was a lank, bony, yellow-facedman, with big intense eyes. His aspect was worried, and his head was as bald asthe palm of my hand; but his hair in falling seemed to have stuck to his chin,and had prospered in the new locality, for his beard hung down to his waist. Hewas a widower with six young children (he had left them in charge of a sisterof his to come out there), and the passion of his life was pigeon-flying. Hewas an enthusiast and a connoisseur. He would rave about pigeons. After workhours he used sometimes to come over from his hut for a talk about his childrenand his pigeons; at work, when he had to crawl in the mud under the bottom ofthe steamboat, he would tie up that beard of his in a kind of white serviettehe brought for the purpose. It had loops to go over his ears. In the evening hecould be seen squatted on the bank rinsing that wrapper in the creek with greatcare, then spreading it solemnly on a bush to dry.
“I slapped him on the back and shouted, ‘We shall haverivets!’ He scrambled to his feet exclaiming, ‘No! Rivets!’as though he couldn’t believe his ears. Then in a low voice,‘You... eh?’ I don’t know why we behaved like lunatics. I putmy finger to the side of my nose and nodded mysteriously. ‘Good foryou!’ he cried, snapped his fingers above his head, lifting one foot. Itried a jig. We capered on the iron deck. A frightful clatter came out of thathulk, and the virgin forest on the other bank of the creek sent it back in athundering roll upon the sleeping station. It must have made some of thepilgrims sit up in their hovels. A dark figure obscured the lighted doorway ofthe manager’s hut, vanished, then, a second or so after, the doorwayitself vanished, too. We stopped, and the silence driven away by the stampingof our feet flowed back again from the recesses of the land. The great wall ofvegetation, an exuberant and entangled mass of trunks, branches, leaves,boughs, festoons, motionless in the moonlight, was like a rioting invasion ofsoundless life, a rolling wave of plants, piled up, crested, ready to toppleover the creek, to sweep every little man of us out of his little existence.And it moved not. A deadened burst of mighty splashes and snorts reached usfrom afar, as though an icthyosaurus had been taking a bath of glitter in thegreat river. ‘After all,’ said the boiler-maker in a reasonabletone, ‘why shouldn’t we get the rivets?’ Why not, indeed! Idid not know of any reason why we shouldn’t. ‘They’ll come inthree weeks,’ I said confidently.
“But they didn’t. Instead of rivets there came an invasion, aninfliction, a visitation. It came in sections during the next three weeks, eachsection headed by a donkey carrying a white man in new clothes and tan shoes,bowing from that elevation right and left to the impressed pilgrims. Aquarrelsome band of footsore sulky niggers trod on the heels of the donkey; alot of tents, camp-stools, tin boxes, white cases, brown bales would be shotdown in the courtyard, and the air of mystery would deepen a little over themuddle of the station. Five such instalments came, with their absurd air ofdisorderly flight with the loot of innumerable outfit shops and provisionstores, that, one would think, they were lugging, after a raid, into thewilderness for equitable division. It was an inextricable mess of things decentin themselves but that human folly made look like the spoils of thieving.
“This devoted band called itself the Eldorado Exploring Expedition, and Ibelieve they were sworn to secrecy. Their talk, however, was the talk of sordidbuccaneers: it was reckless without hardihood, greedy without audacity, andcruel without courage; there was not an atom of foresight or of seriousintention in the whole batch of them, and they did not seem aware these thingsare wanted for the work of the world. To tear treasure out of the bowels of theland was their desire, with no more moral purpose at the back of it than thereis in burglars breaking into a safe. Who paid the expenses of the nobleenterprise I don’t know; but the uncle of our manager was leader of thatlot.
“In exterior he resembled a butcher in a poor neighbourhood, and his eyeshad a look of sleepy cunning. He carried his fat paunch with ostentation on hisshort legs, and during the time his gang infested the station spoke to no onebut his nephew. You could see these two roaming about all day long with theirheads close together in an everlasting confab.
“I had given up worrying myself about the rivets. One’s capacityfor that kind of folly is more limited than you would suppose. I saidHang!—and let things slide. I had plenty of time for meditation, and nowand then I would give some thought to Kurtz. I wasn’t very interested inhim. No. Still, I was curious to see whether this man, who had come outequipped with moral ideas of some sort, would climb to the top after all andhow he would set about his work when there.”
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“One evening as I was lying flat on the deck of my steamboat, I heardvoices approaching—and there were the nephew and the uncle strollingalong the bank. I laid my head on my arm again, and had nearly lost myself in adoze, when somebody said in my ear, as it were: ‘I am as harmless as alittle child, but I don’t like to be dictated to. Am I themanager—or am I not? I was ordered to send him there. It’sincredible.’ ... I became aware that the two were standing on the shorealongside the forepart of the steamboat, just below my head. I did not move; itdid not occur to me to move: I was sleepy. ‘It isunpleasant,’ grunted the uncle. ‘He has asked the Administration tobe sent there,’ said the other, ‘with the idea of showing what hecould do; and I was instructed accordingly. Look at the influence that man musthave. Is it not frightful?’ They both agreed it was frightful, then madeseveral bizarre remarks: ‘Make rain and fine weather—oneman—the Council—by the nose’—bits of absurd sentencesthat got the better of my drowsiness, so that I had pretty near the whole of mywits about me when the uncle said, ‘The climate may do away with thisdifficulty for you. Is he alone there?’ ‘Yes,’ answered themanager; ‘he sent his assistant down the river with a note to me in theseterms: “Clear this poor devil out of the country, and don’t bothersending more of that sort. I had rather be alone than have the kind of men youcan dispose of with me.” It was more than a year ago. Can you imaginesuch impudence!’ ‘Anything since then?’ asked the otherhoarsely. ‘Ivory,’ jerked the nephew; ‘lots of it—primesort—lots—most annoying, from him.’ ‘And withthat?’ questioned the heavy rumble. ‘Invoice,’ was the replyfired out, so to speak. Then silence. They had been talking about Kurtz.
“I was broad awake by this time, but, lying perfectly at ease, remainedstill, having no inducement to change my position. ‘How did that ivorycome all this way?’ growled the elder man, who seemed very vexed. Theother explained that it had come with a fleet of canoes in charge of an Englishhalf-caste clerk Kurtz had with him; that Kurtz had apparently intended toreturn himself, the station being by that time bare of goods and stores, butafter coming three hundred miles, had suddenly decided to go back, which hestarted to do alone in a small dugout with four paddlers, leaving thehalf-caste to continue down the river with the ivory. The two fellows thereseemed astounded at anybody attempting such a thing. They were at a loss for anadequate motive. As to me, I seemed to see Kurtz for the first time. It was adistinct glimpse: the dugout, four paddling savages, and the lone white manturning his back suddenly on the headquarters, on relief, on thoughts ofhome—perhaps; setting his face towards the depths of the wilderness,towards his empty and desolate station. I did not know the motive. Perhaps hewas just simply a fine fellow who stuck to his work for its own sake. His name,you understand, had not been pronounced once. He was ‘that man.’The half-caste, who, as far as I could see, had conducted a difficult trip withgreat prudence and pluck, was invariably alluded to as ‘thatscoundrel.’ The ‘scoundrel’ had reported that the‘man’ had been very ill—had recovered imperfectly.... The twobelow me moved away then a few paces, and strolled back and forth at somelittle distance. I heard: ‘Military post—doctor—two hundredmiles—quite alone now—unavoidable delays—nine months—nonews—strange rumours.’ They approached again, just as the managerwas saying, ‘No one, as far as I know, unless a species of wanderingtrader—a pestilential fellow, snapping ivory from the natives.’ Whowas it they were talking about now? I gathered in snatches that this was someman supposed to be in Kurtz’s district, and of whom the manager did notapprove. ‘We will not be free from unfair competition till one of thesefellows is hanged for an example,’ he said. ‘Certainly,’grunted the other; ‘get him hanged! Why not? Anything—anything canbe done in this country. That’s what I say; nobody here, you understand,here, can endanger your position. And why? You stand theclimate—you outlast them all. The danger is in Europe; but there before Ileft I took care to—’ They moved off and whispered, then theirvoices rose again. ‘The extraordinary series of delays is not my fault. Idid my best.’ The fat man sighed. ‘Very sad.’ ‘And thepestiferous absurdity of his talk,’ continued the other; ‘hebothered me enough when he was here. “Each station should be like abeacon on the road towards better things, a centre for trade of course, butalso for humanizing, improving, instructing.” Conceive you—thatass! And he wants to be manager! No, it’s—’ Here he gotchoked by excessive indignation, and I lifted my head the least bit. I wassurprised to see how near they were—right under me. I could have spatupon their hats. They were looking on the ground, absorbed in thought. Themanager was switching his leg with a slender twig: his sagacious relativelifted his head. ‘You have been well since you came out this time?’he asked. The other gave a start. ‘Who? I? Oh! Like a charm—like acharm. But the rest—oh, my goodness! All sick. They die so quick, too,that I haven’t the time to send them out of the country—it’sincredible!’ ‘Hm’m. Just so,’ grunted the uncle.‘Ah! my boy, trust to this—I say, trust to this.’ I saw himextend his short flipper of an arm for a gesture that took in the forest, thecreek, the mud, the river—seemed to beckon with a dishonouring flourishbefore the sunlit face of the land a treacherous appeal to the lurking death,to the hidden evil, to the profound darkness of its heart. It was so startlingthat I leaped to my feet and looked back at the edge of the forest, as though Ihad expected an answer of some sort to that black display of confidence. Youknow the foolish notions that come to one sometimes. The high stillnessconfronted these two figures with its ominous patience, waiting for the passingaway of a fantastic invasion.
“They swore aloud together—out of sheer fright, Ibelieve—then pretending not to know anything of my existence, turned backto the station. The sun was low; and leaning forward side by side, they seemedto be tugging painfully uphill their two ridiculous shadows of unequal length,that trailed behind them slowly over the tall grass without bending a singleblade.
“In a few days the Eldorado Expedition went into the patient wilderness,that closed upon it as the sea closes over a diver. Long afterwards the newscame that all the donkeys were dead. I know nothing as to the fate of the lessvaluable animals. They, no doubt, like the rest of us, found what theydeserved. I did not inquire. I was then rather excited at the prospect ofmeeting Kurtz very soon. When I say very soon I mean it comparatively. It wasjust two months from the day we left the creek when we came to the bank belowKurtz’s station.
“Going up that river was like traveling back to the earliest beginningsof the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings.An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was warm,thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in the brilliance of sunshine. Thelong stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of overshadoweddistances. On silvery sand-banks hippos and alligators sunned themselves sideby side. The broadening waters flowed through a mob of wooded islands; you lostyour way on that river as you would in a desert, and butted all day longagainst shoals, trying to find the channel, till you thought yourself bewitchedand cut off for ever from everything you had knownonce—somewhere—far away—in another existence perhaps. Therewere moments when one’s past came back to one, as it will sometimes whenyou have not a moment to spare for yourself; but it came in the shape of anunrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelmingrealities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence. And thisstillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillnessof an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at youwith a vengeful aspect. I got used to it afterwards; I did not see it any more;I had no time. I had to keep guessing at the channel; I had to discern, mostlyby inspiration, the signs of hidden banks; I watched for sunken stones; I waslearning to clap my teeth smartly before my heart flew out, when I shaved by afluke some infernal sly old snag that would have ripped the life out of thetin-pot steamboat and drowned all the pilgrims; I had to keep a lookout for thesigns of dead wood we could cut up in the night for next day’s steaming.When you have to attend to things of that sort, to the mere incidents of thesurface, the reality—the reality, I tell you—fades. The inner truthis hidden—luckily, luckily. But I felt it all the same; I felt often itsmysterious stillness watching me at my monkey tricks, just as it watches youfellows performing on your respective tight-ropes for—what is it?half-a-crown a tumble—”
“Try to be civil, Marlow,” growled a voice, and I knew there was atleast one listener awake besides myself.
“I beg your pardon. I forgot the heartache which makes up the rest of theprice. And indeed what does the price matter, if the trick be well done? You doyour tricks very well. And I didn’t do badly either, since I managed notto sink that steamboat on my first trip. It’s a wonder to me yet. Imaginea blindfolded man set to drive a van over a bad road. I sweated and shiveredover that business considerably, I can tell you. After all, for a seaman, toscrape the bottom of the thing that’s supposed to float all the timeunder his care is the unpardonable sin. No one may know of it, but you neverforget the thump—eh? A blow on the very heart. You remember it, you dreamof it, you wake up at night and think of it—years after—and go hotand cold all over. I don’t pretend to say that steamboat floated all thetime. More than once she had to wade for a bit, with twenty cannibals splashingaround and pushing. We had enlisted some of these chaps on the way for a crew.Fine fellows—cannibals—in their place. They were men one could workwith, and I am grateful to them. And, after all, they did not eat each otherbefore my face: they had brought along a provision of hippo-meat which wentrotten, and made the mystery of the wilderness stink in my nostrils. Phoo! Ican sniff it now. I had the manager on board and three or four pilgrims withtheir staves—all complete. Sometimes we came upon a station close by thebank, clinging to the skirts of the unknown, and the white men rushing out of atumble-down hovel, with great gestures of joy and surprise and welcome, seemedvery strange—had the appearance of being held there captive by a spell.The word ivory would ring in the air for a while—and on we went againinto the silence, along empty reaches, round the still bends, between the highwalls of our winding way, reverberating in hollow claps the ponderous beat ofthe stern-wheel. Trees, trees, millions of trees, massive, immense, running uphigh; and at their foot, hugging the bank against the stream, crept the littlebegrimed steamboat, like a sluggish beetle crawling on the floor of a loftyportico. It made you feel very small, very lost, and yet it was not altogetherdepressing, that feeling. After all, if you were small, the grimy beetlecrawled on—which was just what you wanted it to do. Where the pilgrimsimagined it crawled to I don’t know. To some place where they expected toget something. I bet! For me it crawled towards Kurtz—exclusively; butwhen the steam-pipes started leaking we crawled very slow. The reaches openedbefore us and closed behind, as if the forest had stepped leisurely across thewater to bar the way for our return. We penetrated deeper and deeper into theheart of darkness. It was very quiet there. At night sometimes the roll ofdrums behind the curtain of trees would run up the river and remain sustainedfaintly, as if hovering in the air high over our heads, till the first break ofday. Whether it meant war, peace, or prayer we could not tell. The dawns wereheralded by the descent of a chill stillness; the wood-cutters slept, theirfires burned low; the snapping of a twig would make you start. We werewanderers on a prehistoric earth, on an earth that wore the aspect of anunknown planet. We could have fancied ourselves the first of men takingpossession of an accursed inheritance, to be subdued at the cost of profoundanguish and of excessive toil. But suddenly, as we struggled round a bend,there would be a glimpse of rush walls, of peaked grass-roofs, a burst ofyells, a whirl of black limbs, a mass of hands clapping, of feet stamping, ofbodies swaying, of eyes rolling, under the droop of heavy and motionlessfoliage. The steamer toiled along slowly on the edge of a black andincomprehensible frenzy. The prehistoric man was cursing us, praying to us,welcoming us—who could tell? We were cut off from the comprehension ofour surroundings; we glided past like phantoms, wondering and secretlyappalled, as sane men would be before an enthusiastic outbreak in a madhouse.We could not understand because we were too far and could not remember becausewe were travelling in the night of first ages, of those ages that are gone,leaving hardly a sign—and no memories.
“The earth seemed unearthly. We are accustomed to look upon the shackledform of a conquered monster, but there—there you could look at a thingmonstrous and free. It was unearthly, and the men were—No, they were notinhuman. Well, you know, that was the worst of it—this suspicion of theirnot being inhuman. It would come slowly to one. They howled and leaped, andspun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you was just the thought oftheir humanity—like yours—the thought of your remote kinship withthis wild and passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough; but if you wereman enough you would admit to yourself that there was in you just the faintesttrace of a response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion ofthere being a meaning in it which you—you so remote from the night offirst ages—could comprehend. And why not? The mind of man is capable ofanything—because everything is in it, all the past as well as all thefuture. What was there after all? Joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, valour,rage—who can tell?—but truth—truth stripped of its cloak oftime. Let the fool gape and shudder—the man knows, and can look onwithout a wink. But he must at least be as much of a man as these on the shore.He must meet that truth with his own true stuff—with his own inbornstrength. Principles won’t do. Acquisitions, clothes, prettyrags—rags that would fly off at the first good shake. No; you want adeliberate belief. An appeal to me in this fiendish row—is there? Verywell; I hear; I admit, but I have a voice, too, and for good or evil mine isthe speech that cannot be silenced. Of course, a fool, what with sheer frightand fine sentiments, is always safe. Who’s that grunting? You wonder Ididn’t go ashore for a howl and a dance? Well, no—I didn’t.Fine sentiments, you say? Fine sentiments, be hanged! I had no time. I had tomess about with white-lead and strips of woolen blanket helping to put bandageson those leaky steam-pipes—I tell you. I had to watch the steering, andcircumvent those snags, and get the tin-pot along by hook or by crook. Therewas surface-truth enough in these things to save a wiser man. And betweenwhiles I had to look after the savage who was fireman. He was an improvedspecimen; he could fire up a vertical boiler. He was there below me, and, uponmy word, to look at him was as edifying as seeing a dog in a parody of breechesand a feather hat, walking on his hind-legs. A few months of training had donefor that really fine chap. He squinted at the steam-gauge and at thewater-gauge with an evident effort of intrepidity—and he had filed teeth,too, the poor devil, and the wool of his pate shaved into queer patterns, andthree ornamental scars on each of his cheeks. He ought to have been clappinghis hands and stamping his feet on the bank, instead of which he was hard atwork, a thrall to strange witchcraft, full of improving knowledge. He wasuseful because he had been instructed; and what he knew was this—thatshould the water in that transparent thing disappear, the evil spirit insidethe boiler would get angry through the greatness of his thirst, and take aterrible vengeance. So he sweated and fired up and watched the glass fearfully(with an impromptu charm, made of rags, tied to his arm, and a piece ofpolished bone, as big as a watch, stuck flatways through his lower lip), whilethe wooded banks slipped past us slowly, the short noise was left behind, theinterminable miles of silence—and we crept on, towards Kurtz. But thesnags were thick, the water was treacherous and shallow, the boiler seemedindeed to have a sulky devil in it, and thus neither that fireman nor I had anytime to peer into our creepy thoughts.
“Some fifty miles below the Inner Station we came upon a hut of reeds, aninclined and melancholy pole, with the unrecognizable tatters of what had beena flag of some sort flying from it, and a neatly stacked wood-pile. This wasunexpected. We came to the bank, and on the stack of firewood found a flatpiece of board with some faded pencil-writing on it. When deciphered it said:‘Wood for you. Hurry up. Approach cautiously.’ There was asignature, but it was illegible—not Kurtz—a much longer word.‘Hurry up.’ Where? Up the river? ‘Approach cautiously.’We had not done so. But the warning could not have been meant for the placewhere it could be only found after approach. Something was wrong above. Butwhat—and how much? That was the question. We commented adversely upon theimbecility of that telegraphic style. The bush around said nothing, and wouldnot let us look very far, either. A torn curtain of red twill hung in thedoorway of the hut, and flapped sadly in our faces. The dwelling wasdismantled; but we could see a white man had lived there not very long ago.There remained a rude table—a plank on two posts; a heap of rubbishreposed in a dark corner, and by the door I picked up a book. It had lost itscovers, and the pages had been thumbed into a state of extremely dirtysoftness; but the back had been lovingly stitched afresh with white cottonthread, which looked clean yet. It was an extraordinary find. Its title was,An Inquiry into some Points of Seamanship, by a man Towser,Towson—some such name—Master in his Majesty’s Navy. Thematter looked dreary reading enough, with illustrative diagrams and repulsivetables of figures, and the copy was sixty years old. I handled this amazingantiquity with the greatest possible tenderness, lest it should dissolve in myhands. Within, Towson or Towser was inquiring earnestly into the breakingstrain of ships’ chains and tackle, and other such matters. Not a veryenthralling book; but at the first glance you could see there a singleness ofintention, an honest concern for the right way of going to work, which madethese humble pages, thought out so many years ago, luminous with another than aprofessional light. The simple old sailor, with his talk of chains andpurchases, made me forget the jungle and the pilgrims in a delicious sensationof having come upon something unmistakably real. Such a book being there waswonderful enough; but still more astounding were the notes pencilled in themargin, and plainly referring to the text. I couldn’t believe my eyes!They were in cipher! Yes, it looked like cipher. Fancy a man lugging with him abook of that description into this nowhere and studying it—and makingnotes—in cipher at that! It was an extravagant mystery.
“I had been dimly aware for some time of a worrying noise, and when Ilifted my eyes I saw the wood-pile was gone, and the manager, aided by all thepilgrims, was shouting at me from the riverside. I slipped the book into mypocket. I assure you to leave off reading was like tearing myself away from theshelter of an old and solid friendship.
“I started the lame engine ahead. ‘It must be this miserabletrader—this intruder,’ exclaimed the manager, looking backmalevolently at the place we had left. ‘He must be English,’ Isaid. ‘It will not save him from getting into trouble if he is notcareful,’ muttered the manager darkly. I observed with assumed innocencethat no man was safe from trouble in this world.
“The current was more rapid now, the steamer seemed at her last gasp, thestern-wheel flopped languidly, and I caught myself listening on tiptoe for thenext beat of the boat, for in sober truth I expected the wretched thing to giveup every moment. It was like watching the last flickers of a life. But still wecrawled. Sometimes I would pick out a tree a little way ahead to measure ourprogress towards Kurtz by, but I lost it invariably before we got abreast. Tokeep the eyes so long on one thing was too much for human patience. The managerdisplayed a beautiful resignation. I fretted and fumed and took to arguing withmyself whether or no I would talk openly with Kurtz; but before I could come toany conclusion it occurred to me that my speech or my silence, indeed anyaction of mine, would be a mere futility. What did it matter what any one knewor ignored? What did it matter who was manager? One gets sometimes such a flashof insight. The essentials of this affair lay deep under the surface, beyond myreach, and beyond my power of meddling.
“Towards the evening of the second day we judged ourselves about eightmiles from Kurtz’s station. I wanted to push on; but the manager lookedgrave, and told me the navigation up there was so dangerous that it would beadvisable, the sun being very low already, to wait where we were till nextmorning. Moreover, he pointed out that if the warning to approach cautiouslywere to be followed, we must approach in daylight—not at dusk or in thedark. This was sensible enough. Eight miles meant nearly three hours’steaming for us, and I could also see suspicious ripples at the upper end ofthe reach. Nevertheless, I was annoyed beyond expression at the delay, and mostunreasonably, too, since one night more could not matter much after so manymonths. As we had plenty of wood, and caution was the word, I brought up in themiddle of the stream. The reach was narrow, straight, with high sides like arailway cutting. The dusk came gliding into it long before the sun had set. Thecurrent ran smooth and swift, but a dumb immobility sat on the banks. Theliving trees, lashed together by the creepers and every living bush of theundergrowth, might have been changed into stone, even to the slenderest twig,to the lightest leaf. It was not sleep—it seemed unnatural, like a stateof trance. Not the faintest sound of any kind could be heard. You looked onamazed, and began to suspect yourself of being deaf—then the night camesuddenly, and struck you blind as well. About three in the morning some largefish leaped, and the loud splash made me jump as though a gun had been fired.When the sun rose there was a white fog, very warm and clammy, and moreblinding than the night. It did not shift or drive; it was just there, standingall round you like something solid. At eight or nine, perhaps, it lifted as ashutter lifts. We had a glimpse of the towering multitude of trees, of theimmense matted jungle, with the blazing little ball of the sun hanging overit—all perfectly still—and then the white shutter came down again,smoothly, as if sliding in greased grooves. I ordered the chain, which we hadbegun to heave in, to be paid out again. Before it stopped running with amuffled rattle, a cry, a very loud cry, as of infinite desolation, soaredslowly in the opaque air. It ceased. A complaining clamour, modulated in savagediscords, filled our ears. The sheer unexpectedness of it made my hair stirunder my cap. I don’t know how it struck the others: to me it seemed asthough the mist itself had screamed, so suddenly, and apparently from all sidesat once, did this tumultuous and mournful uproar arise. It culminated in ahurried outbreak of almost intolerably excessive shrieking, which stoppedshort, leaving us stiffened in a variety of silly attitudes, and obstinatelylistening to the nearly as appalling and excessive silence. ‘Good God!What is the meaning—’ stammered at my elbow one of thepilgrims—a little fat man, with sandy hair and red whiskers, who woresidespring boots, and pink pyjamas tucked into his socks. Two others remainedopen-mouthed a whole minute, then dashed into the little cabin, to rush outincontinently and stand darting scared glances, with Winchesters at‘ready’ in their hands. What we could see was just the steamer wewere on, her outlines blurred as though she had been on the point ofdissolving, and a misty strip of water, perhaps two feet broad, aroundher—and that was all. The rest of the world was nowhere, as far as oureyes and ears were concerned. Just nowhere. Gone, disappeared; swept offwithout leaving a whisper or a shadow behind.
“I went forward, and ordered the chain to be hauled in short, so as to beready to trip the anchor and move the steamboat at once if necessary.‘Will they attack?’ whispered an awed voice. ‘We will be allbutchered in this fog,’ murmured another. The faces twitched with thestrain, the hands trembled slightly, the eyes forgot to wink. It was verycurious to see the contrast of expressions of the white men and of the blackfellows of our crew, who were as much strangers to that part of the river aswe, though their homes were only eight hundred miles away. The whites, ofcourse greatly discomposed, had besides a curious look of being painfullyshocked by such an outrageous row. The others had an alert, naturallyinterested expression; but their faces were essentially quiet, even those ofthe one or two who grinned as they hauled at the chain. Several exchangedshort, grunting phrases, which seemed to settle the matter to theirsatisfaction. Their headman, a young, broad-chested black, severely draped indark-blue fringed cloths, with fierce nostrils and his hair all done upartfully in oily ringlets, stood near me. ‘Aha!’ I said, just forgood fellowship’s sake. ‘Catch ’im,’ he snapped, with abloodshot widening of his eyes and a flash of sharp teeth—‘catch’im. Give ’im to us.’ ‘To you, eh?’ I asked;‘what would you do with them?’ ‘Eat ’im!’ he saidcurtly, and, leaning his elbow on the rail, looked out into the fog in adignified and profoundly pensive attitude. I would no doubt have been properlyhorrified, had it not occurred to me that he and his chaps must be very hungry:that they must have been growing increasingly hungry for at least this monthpast. They had been engaged for six months (I don’t think a single one ofthem had any clear idea of time, as we at the end of countless ages have. Theystill belonged to the beginnings of time—had no inherited experience toteach them as it were), and of course, as long as there was a piece of paperwritten over in accordance with some farcical law or other made down the river,it didn’t enter anybody’s head to trouble how they would live.Certainly they had brought with them some rotten hippo-meat, whichcouldn’t have lasted very long, anyway, even if the pilgrimshadn’t, in the midst of a shocking hullabaloo, thrown a considerablequantity of it overboard. It looked like a high-handed proceeding; but it wasreally a case of legitimate self-defence. You can’t breathe dead hippowaking, sleeping, and eating, and at the same time keep your precarious grip onexistence. Besides that, they had given them every week three pieces of brasswire, each about nine inches long; and the theory was they were to buy theirprovisions with that currency in riverside villages. You can see howthat worked. There were either no villages, or the people were hostile,or the director, who like the rest of us fed out of tins, with an occasionalold he-goat thrown in, didn’t want to stop the steamer for some more orless recondite reason. So, unless they swallowed the wire itself, or made loopsof it to snare the fishes with, I don’t see what good their extravagantsalary could be to them. I must say it was paid with a regularity worthy of alarge and honourable trading company. For the rest, the only thing toeat—though it didn’t look eatable in the least—I saw in theirpossession was a few lumps of some stuff like half-cooked dough, of a dirtylavender colour, they kept wrapped in leaves, and now and then swallowed apiece of, but so small that it seemed done more for the looks of the thing thanfor any serious purpose of sustenance. Why in the name of all the gnawingdevils of hunger they didn’t go for us—they were thirty tofive—and have a good tuck-in for once, amazes me now when I think of it.They were big powerful men, with not much capacity to weigh the consequences,with courage, with strength, even yet, though their skins were no longer glossyand their muscles no longer hard. And I saw that something restraining, one ofthose human secrets that baffle probability, had come into play there. I lookedat them with a swift quickening of interest—not because it occurred to meI might be eaten by them before very long, though I own to you that just then Iperceived—in a new light, as it were—how unwholesome the pilgrimslooked, and I hoped, yes, I positively hoped, that my aspect was notso—what shall I say?—so—unappetizing: a touch of fantasticvanity which fitted well with the dream-sensation that pervaded all my days atthat time. Perhaps I had a little fever, too. One can’t live withone’s finger everlastingly on one’s pulse. I had often ‘alittle fever,’ or a little touch of other things—the playfulpaw-strokes of the wilderness, the preliminary trifling before the more seriousonslaught which came in due course. Yes; I looked at them as you would on anyhuman being, with a curiosity of their impulses, motives, capacities,weaknesses, when brought to the test of an inexorable physical necessity.Restraint! What possible restraint? Was it superstition, disgust, patience,fear—or some kind of primitive honour? No fear can stand up to hunger, nopatience can wear it out, disgust simply does not exist where hunger is; and asto superstition, beliefs, and what you may call principles, they are less thanchaff in a breeze. Don’t you know the devilry of lingering starvation,its exasperating torment, its black thoughts, its sombre and brooding ferocity?Well, I do. It takes a man all his inborn strength to fight hunger properly.It’s really easier to face bereavement, dishonour, and the perdition ofone’s soul—than this kind of prolonged hunger. Sad, but true. Andthese chaps, too, had no earthly reason for any kind of scruple. Restraint! Iwould just as soon have expected restraint from a hyena prowling amongst thecorpses of a battlefield. But there was the fact facing me—the factdazzling, to be seen, like the foam on the depths of the sea, like a ripple onan unfathomable enigma, a mystery greater—when I thought of it—thanthe curious, inexplicable note of desperate grief in this savage clamour thathad swept by us on the river-bank, behind the blind whiteness of the fog.
“Two pilgrims were quarrelling in hurried whispers as to which bank.‘Left.’ ‘no, no; how can you? Right, right, of course.’‘It is very serious,’ said the manager’s voice behind me;‘I would be desolated if anything should happen to Mr. Kurtz before wecame up.’ I looked at him, and had not the slightest doubt he wassincere. He was just the kind of man who would wish to preserve appearances.That was his restraint. But when he muttered something about going on at once,I did not even take the trouble to answer him. I knew, and he knew, that it wasimpossible. Were we to let go our hold of the bottom, we would be absolutely inthe air—in space. We wouldn’t be able to tell where we were goingto—whether up or down stream, or across—till we fetched against onebank or the other—and then we wouldn’t know at first which it was.Of course I made no move. I had no mind for a smash-up. You couldn’timagine a more deadly place for a shipwreck. Whether we drowned at once or not,we were sure to perish speedily in one way or another. ‘I authorize youto take all the risks,’ he said, after a short silence. ‘I refuseto take any,’ I said shortly; which was just the answer he expected,though its tone might have surprised him. ‘Well, I must defer to yourjudgment. You are captain,’ he said with marked civility. I turned myshoulder to him in sign of my appreciation, and looked into the fog. How longwould it last? It was the most hopeless lookout. The approach to this Kurtzgrubbing for ivory in the wretched bush was beset by as many dangers as thoughhe had been an enchanted princess sleeping in a fabulous castle. ‘Willthey attack, do you think?’ asked the manager, in a confidential tone.
“I did not think they would attack, for several obvious reasons. Thethick fog was one. If they left the bank in their canoes they would get lost init, as we would be if we attempted to move. Still, I had also judged the jungleof both banks quite impenetrable—and yet eyes were in it, eyes that hadseen us. The riverside bushes were certainly very thick; but the undergrowthbehind was evidently penetrable. However, during the short lift I had seen nocanoes anywhere in the reach—certainly not abreast of the steamer. Butwhat made the idea of attack inconceivable to me was the nature of thenoise—of the cries we had heard. They had not the fierce character bodingimmediate hostile intention. Unexpected, wild, and violent as they had been,they had given me an irresistible impression of sorrow. The glimpse of thesteamboat had for some reason filled those savages with unrestrained grief. Thedanger, if any, I expounded, was from our proximity to a great human passionlet loose. Even extreme grief may ultimately vent itself in violence—butmore generally takes the form of apathy....
“You should have seen the pilgrims stare! They had no heart to grin, oreven to revile me: but I believe they thought me gone mad—with fright,maybe. I delivered a regular lecture. My dear boys, it was no good bothering.Keep a lookout? Well, you may guess I watched the fog for the signs of liftingas a cat watches a mouse; but for anything else our eyes were of no more use tous than if we had been buried miles deep in a heap of cotton-wool. It felt likeit, too—choking, warm, stifling. Besides, all I said, though it soundedextravagant, was absolutely true to fact. What we afterwards alluded to as anattack was really an attempt at repulse. The action was very far from beingaggressive—it was not even defensive, in the usual sense: it wasundertaken under the stress of desperation, and in its essence was purelyprotective.
“It developed itself, I should say, two hours after the fog lifted, andits commencement was at a spot, roughly speaking, about a mile and a half belowKurtz’s station. We had just floundered and flopped round a bend, when Isaw an islet, a mere grassy hummock of bright green, in the middle of thestream. It was the only thing of the kind; but as we opened the reach more, Iperceived it was the head of a long sand-bank, or rather of a chain of shallowpatches stretching down the middle of the river. They were discoloured, justawash, and the whole lot was seen just under the water, exactly as aman’s backbone is seen running down the middle of his back under theskin. Now, as far as I did see, I could go to the right or to the left of this.I didn’t know either channel, of course. The banks looked pretty wellalike, the depth appeared the same; but as I had been informed the station wason the west side, I naturally headed for the western passage.
“No sooner had we fairly entered it than I became aware it was muchnarrower than I had supposed. To the left of us there was the longuninterrupted shoal, and to the right a high, steep bank heavily overgrown withbushes. Above the bush the trees stood in serried ranks. The twigs overhung thecurrent thickly, and from distance to distance a large limb of some treeprojected rigidly over the stream. It was then well on in the afternoon, theface of the forest was gloomy, and a broad strip of shadow had already fallenon the water. In this shadow we steamed up—very slowly, as you mayimagine. I sheered her well inshore—the water being deepest near thebank, as the sounding-pole informed me.
“One of my hungry and forbearing friends was sounding in the bows justbelow me. This steamboat was exactly like a decked scow. On the deck, therewere two little teakwood houses, with doors and windows. The boiler was in thefore-end, and the machinery right astern. Over the whole there was a lightroof, supported on stanchions. The funnel projected through that roof, and infront of the funnel a small cabin built of light planks served for apilot-house. It contained a couch, two camp-stools, a loaded Martini-Henryleaning in one corner, a tiny table, and the steering-wheel. It had a wide doorin front and a broad shutter at each side. All these were always thrown open,of course. I spent my days perched up there on the extreme fore-end of thatroof, before the door. At night I slept, or tried to, on the couch. An athleticblack belonging to some coast tribe and educated by my poor predecessor, wasthe helmsman. He sported a pair of brass earrings, wore a blue cloth wrapperfrom the waist to the ankles, and thought all the world of himself. He was themost unstable kind of fool I had ever seen. He steered with no end of a swaggerwhile you were by; but if he lost sight of you, he became instantly the prey ofan abject funk, and would let that cripple of a steamboat get the upper hand ofhim in a minute.
“I was looking down at the sounding-pole, and feeling much annoyed to seeat each try a little more of it stick out of that river, when I saw my polemangive up on the business suddenly, and stretch himself flat on the deck, withouteven taking the trouble to haul his pole in. He kept hold on it though, and ittrailed in the water. At the same time the fireman, whom I could also see belowme, sat down abruptly before his furnace and ducked his head. I was amazed.Then I had to look at the river mighty quick, because there was a snag in thefairway. Sticks, little sticks, were flying about—thick: they werewhizzing before my nose, dropping below me, striking behind me against mypilot-house. All this time the river, the shore, the woods, were veryquiet—perfectly quiet. I could only hear the heavy splashing thump of thestern-wheel and the patter of these things. We cleared the snag clumsily.Arrows, by Jove! We were being shot at! I stepped in quickly to close theshutter on the landside. That fool-helmsman, his hands on the spokes, waslifting his knees high, stamping his feet, champing his mouth, like a reined-inhorse. Confound him! And we were staggering within ten feet of the bank. I hadto lean right out to swing the heavy shutter, and I saw a face amongst theleaves on the level with my own, looking at me very fierce and steady; and thensuddenly, as though a veil had been removed from my eyes, I made out, deep inthe tangled gloom, naked breasts, arms, legs, glaring eyes—the bush wasswarming with human limbs in movement, glistening of bronze colour. The twigsshook, swayed, and rustled, the arrows flew out of them, and then the shuttercame to. ‘Steer her straight,’ I said to the helmsman. He held hishead rigid, face forward; but his eyes rolled, he kept on lifting and settingdown his feet gently, his mouth foamed a little. ‘Keep quiet!’ Isaid in a fury. I might just as well have ordered a tree not to sway in thewind. I darted out. Below me there was a great scuffle of feet on the irondeck; confused exclamations; a voice screamed, ‘Can you turn back?’I caught sight of a V-shaped ripple on the water ahead. What? Another snag! Afusillade burst out under my feet. The pilgrims had opened with theirWinchesters, and were simply squirting lead into that bush. A deuce of a lot ofsmoke came up and drove slowly forward. I swore at it. Now I couldn’t seethe ripple or the snag either. I stood in the doorway, peering, and the arrowscame in swarms. They might have been poisoned, but they looked as though theywouldn’t kill a cat. The bush began to howl. Our wood-cutters raised awarlike whoop; the report of a rifle just at my back deafened me. I glancedover my shoulder, and the pilot-house was yet full of noise and smoke when Imade a dash at the wheel. The fool-nigger had dropped everything, to throw theshutter open and let off that Martini-Henry. He stood before the wide opening,glaring, and I yelled at him to come back, while I straightened the suddentwist out of that steamboat. There was no room to turn even if I had wanted to,the snag was somewhere very near ahead in that confounded smoke, there was notime to lose, so I just crowded her into the bank—right into the bank,where I knew the water was deep.
“We tore slowly along the overhanging bushes in a whirl of broken twigsand flying leaves. The fusillade below stopped short, as I had foreseen itwould when the squirts got empty. I threw my head back to a glinting whizz thattraversed the pilot-house, in at one shutter-hole and out at the other. Lookingpast that mad helmsman, who was shaking the empty rifle and yelling at theshore, I saw vague forms of men running bent double, leaping, gliding,distinct, incomplete, evanescent. Something big appeared in the air before theshutter, the rifle went overboard, and the man stepped back swiftly, looked atme over his shoulder in an extraordinary, profound, familiar manner, and fellupon my feet. The side of his head hit the wheel twice, and the end of whatappeared a long cane clattered round and knocked over a little camp-stool. Itlooked as though after wrenching that thing from somebody ashore he had losthis balance in the effort. The thin smoke had blown away, we were clear of thesnag, and looking ahead I could see that in another hundred yards or so I wouldbe free to sheer off, away from the bank; but my feet felt so very warm and wetthat I had to look down. The man had rolled on his back and stared straight upat me; both his hands clutched that cane. It was the shaft of a spear that,either thrown or lunged through the opening, had caught him in the side, justbelow the ribs; the blade had gone in out of sight, after making a frightfulgash; my shoes were full; a pool of blood lay very still, gleaming dark-redunder the wheel; his eyes shone with an amazing lustre. The fusillade burst outagain. He looked at me anxiously, gripping the spear like something precious,with an air of being afraid I would try to take it away from him. I had to makean effort to free my eyes from his gaze and attend to the steering. With onehand I felt above my head for the line of the steam whistle, and jerked outscreech after screech hurriedly. The tumult of angry and warlike yells waschecked instantly, and then from the depths of the woods went out such atremulous and prolonged wail of mournful fear and utter despair as may beimagined to follow the flight of the last hope from the earth. There was agreat commotion in the bush; the shower of arrows stopped, a few dropping shotsrang out sharply—then silence, in which the languid beat of thestern-wheel came plainly to my ears. I put the helm hard a-starboard at themoment when the pilgrim in pink pyjamas, very hot and agitated, appeared in thedoorway. ‘The manager sends me—’ he began in an officialtone, and stopped short. ‘Good God!’ he said, glaring at thewounded man.
“We two whites stood over him, and his lustrous and inquiring glanceenveloped us both. I declare it looked as though he would presently put to ussome questions in an understandable language; but he died without uttering asound, without moving a limb, without twitching a muscle. Only in the very lastmoment, as though in response to some sign we could not see, to some whisper wecould not hear, he frowned heavily, and that frown gave to his black death-maskan inconceivably sombre, brooding, and menacing expression. The lustre ofinquiring glance faded swiftly into vacant glassiness. ‘Can yousteer?’ I asked the agent eagerly. He looked very dubious; but I made agrab at his arm, and he understood at once I meant him to steer whether or no.To tell you the truth, I was morbidly anxious to change my shoes and socks.‘He is dead,’ murmured the fellow, immensely impressed. ‘Nodoubt about it,’ said I, tugging like mad at the shoe-laces. ‘Andby the way, I suppose Mr. Kurtz is dead as well by this time.’
“For the moment that was the dominant thought. There was a sense ofextreme disappointment, as though I had found out I had been striving aftersomething altogether without a substance. I couldn’t have been moredisgusted if I had travelled all this way for the sole purpose of talking withMr. Kurtz. Talking with... I flung one shoe overboard, and became aware thatthat was exactly what I had been looking forward to—a talk with Kurtz. Imade the strange discovery that I had never imagined him as doing, you know,but as discoursing. I didn’t say to myself, ‘Now I will never seehim,’ or ‘Now I will never shake him by the hand,’ but,‘Now I will never hear him.’ The man presented himself as a voice.Not of course that I did not connect him with some sort of action. Hadn’tI been told in all the tones of jealousy and admiration that he had collected,bartered, swindled, or stolen more ivory than all the other agents together?That was not the point. The point was in his being a gifted creature, and thatof all his gifts the one that stood out preeminently, that carried with it asense of real presence, was his ability to talk, his words—the gift ofexpression, the bewildering, the illuminating, the most exalted and the mostcontemptible, the pulsating stream of light, or the deceitful flow from theheart of an impenetrable darkness.
“The other shoe went flying unto the devil-god of that river. I thought,‘By Jove! it’s all over. We are too late; he has vanished—thegift has vanished, by means of some spear, arrow, or club. I will never hearthat chap speak after all’—and my sorrow had a startlingextravagance of emotion, even such as I had noticed in the howling sorrow ofthese savages in the bush. I couldn’t have felt more of lonely desolationsomehow, had I been robbed of a belief or had missed my destiny in life.... Whydo you sigh in this beastly way, somebody? Absurd? Well, absurd. Good Lord!mustn’t a man ever—Here, give me some tobacco.”...
There was a pause of profound stillness, then a match flared, andMarlow’s lean face appeared, worn, hollow, with downward folds anddropped eyelids, with an aspect of concentrated attention; and as he tookvigorous draws at his pipe, it seemed to retreat and advance out of the nightin the regular flicker of tiny flame. The match went out.
“Absurd!” he cried. “This is the worst of trying to tell....Here you all are, each moored with two good addresses, like a hulk with twoanchors, a butcher round one corner, a policeman round another, excellentappetites, and temperature normal—you hear—normal from year’send to year’s end. And you say, Absurd! Absurd be—exploded! Absurd!My dear boys, what can you expect from a man who out of sheer nervousness hadjust flung overboard a pair of new shoes! Now I think of it, it is amazing Idid not shed tears. I am, upon the whole, proud of my fortitude. I was cut tothe quick at the idea of having lost the inestimable privilege of listening tothe gifted Kurtz. Of course I was wrong. The privilege was waiting for me. Oh,yes, I heard more than enough. And I was right, too. A voice. He was verylittle more than a voice. And I heard—him—it—thisvoice—other voices—all of them were so little more thanvoices—and the memory of that time itself lingers around me, impalpable,like a dying vibration of one immense jabber, silly, atrocious, sordid, savage,or simply mean, without any kind of sense. Voices, voices—even the girlherself—now—”
He was silent for a long time.
“I laid the ghost of his gifts at last with a lie,” he began,suddenly. “Girl! What? Did I mention a girl? Oh, she is out ofit—completely. They—the women, I mean—are out ofit—should be out of it. We must help them to stay in that beautiful worldof their own, lest ours gets worse. Oh, she had to be out of it. You shouldhave heard the disinterred body of Mr. Kurtz saying, ‘My Intended.’You would have perceived directly then how completely she was out of it. Andthe lofty frontal bone of Mr. Kurtz! They say the hair goes on growingsometimes, but this—ah—specimen, was impressively bald. Thewilderness had patted him on the head, and, behold, it was like a ball—anivory ball; it had caressed him, and—lo!—he had withered; it hadtaken him, loved him, embraced him, got into his veins, consumed his flesh, andsealed his soul to its own by the inconceivable ceremonies of some devilishinitiation. He was its spoiled and pampered favourite. Ivory? I should thinkso. Heaps of it, stacks of it. The old mud shanty was bursting with it. Youwould think there was not a single tusk left either above or below the groundin the whole country. ‘Mostly fossil,’ the manager had remarked,disparagingly. It was no more fossil than I am; but they call it fossil when itis dug up. It appears these niggers do bury the tusks sometimes—butevidently they couldn’t bury this parcel deep enough to save the giftedMr. Kurtz from his fate. We filled the steamboat with it, and had to pile a loton the deck. Thus he could see and enjoy as long as he could see, because theappreciation of this favour had remained with him to the last. You should haveheard him say, ‘My ivory.’ Oh, yes, I heard him. ‘MyIntended, my ivory, my station, my river, my—’ everything belongedto him. It made me hold my breath in expectation of hearing the wildernessburst into a prodigious peal of laughter that would shake the fixed stars intheir places. Everything belonged to him—but that was a trifle. The thingwas to know what he belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him fortheir own. That was the reflection that made you creepy all over. It wasimpossible—it was not good for one either—trying to imagine. He hadtaken a high seat amongst the devils of the land—I mean literally. Youcan’t understand. How could you?—with solid pavement under yourfeet, surrounded by kind neighbours ready to cheer you or to fall on you,stepping delicately between the butcher and the policeman, in the holy terrorof scandal and gallows and lunatic asylums—how can you imagine whatparticular region of the first ages a man’s untrammelled feet may takehim into by the way of solitude—utter solitude without apoliceman—by the way of silence—utter silence, where no warningvoice of a kind neighbour can be heard whispering of public opinion? Theselittle things make all the great difference. When they are gone you must fallback upon your own innate strength, upon your own capacity for faithfulness. Ofcourse you may be too much of a fool to go wrong—too dull even to knowyou are being assaulted by the powers of darkness. I take it, no fool ever madea bargain for his soul with the devil; the fool is too much of a fool, or thedevil too much of a devil—I don’t know which. Or you may be such athunderingly exalted creature as to be altogether deaf and blind to anythingbut heavenly sights and sounds. Then the earth for you is only a standingplace—and whether to be like this is your loss or your gain I won’tpretend to say. But most of us are neither one nor the other. The earth for usis a place to live in, where we must put up with sights, with sounds, withsmells, too, by Jove!—breathe dead hippo, so to speak, and not becontaminated. And there, don’t you see? Your strength comes in, the faithin your ability for the digging of unostentatious holes to bury the stuffin—your power of devotion, not to yourself, but to an obscure,back-breaking business. And that’s difficult enough. Mind, I am nottrying to excuse or even explain—I am trying to account to myselffor—for—Mr. Kurtz—for the shade of Mr. Kurtz. This initiatedwraith from the back of Nowhere honoured me with its amazing confidence beforeit vanished altogether. This was because it could speak English to me. Theoriginal Kurtz had been educated partly in England, and—as he was goodenough to say himself—his sympathies were in the right place. His motherwas half-English, his father was half-French. All Europe contributed to themaking of Kurtz; and by and by I learned that, most appropriately, theInternational Society for the Suppression of Savage Customs had intrusted himwith the making of a report, for its future guidance. And he had written it,too. I’ve seen it. I’ve read it. It was eloquent, vibrating witheloquence, but too high-strung, I think. Seventeen pages of close writing hehad found time for! But this must have been before his—let ussay—nerves, went wrong, and caused him to preside at certain midnightdances ending with unspeakable rites, which—as far as I reluctantlygathered from what I heard at various times—were offered up tohim—do you understand?—to Mr. Kurtz himself. But it was a beautifulpiece of writing. The opening paragraph, however, in the light of laterinformation, strikes me now as ominous. He began with the argument that wewhites, from the point of development we had arrived at, ‘mustnecessarily appear to them [savages] in the nature of supernaturalbeings—we approach them with the might of a deity,’ and so on, andso on. ‘By the simple exercise of our will we can exert a power for goodpractically unbounded,’ etc., etc. From that point he soared and took mewith him. The peroration was magnificent, though difficult to remember, youknow. It gave me the notion of an exotic Immensity ruled by an augustBenevolence. It made me tingle with enthusiasm. This was the unbounded power ofeloquence—of words—of burning noble words. There were no practicalhints to interrupt the magic current of phrases, unless a kind of note at thefoot of the last page, scrawled evidently much later, in an unsteady hand, maybe regarded as the exposition of a method. It was very simple, and at the endof that moving appeal to every altruistic sentiment it blazed at you, luminousand terrifying, like a flash of lightning in a serene sky: ‘Exterminateall the brutes!’ The curious part was that he had apparently forgottenall about that valuable postscriptum, because, later on, when he in a sensecame to himself, he repeatedly entreated me to take good care of ‘mypamphlet’ (he called it), as it was sure to have in the future a goodinfluence upon his career. I had full information about all these things, and,besides, as it turned out, I was to have the care of his memory. I’vedone enough for it to give me the indisputable right to lay it, if I choose,for an everlasting rest in the dust-bin of progress, amongst all the sweepingsand, figuratively speaking, all the dead cats of civilization. But then, yousee, I can’t choose. He won’t be forgotten. Whatever he was, he wasnot common. He had the power to charm or frighten rudimentary souls into anaggravated witch-dance in his honour; he could also fill the small souls of thepilgrims with bitter misgivings: he had one devoted friend at least, and he hadconquered one soul in the world that was neither rudimentary nor tainted withself-seeking. No; I can’t forget him, though I am not prepared to affirmthe fellow was exactly worth the life we lost in getting to him. I missed mylate helmsman awfully—I missed him even while his body was still lying inthe pilot-house. Perhaps you will think it passing strange this regret for asavage who was no more account than a grain of sand in a black Sahara. Well,don’t you see, he had done something, he had steered; for months I hadhim at my back—a help—an instrument. It was a kind of partnership.He steered for me—I had to look after him, I worried about hisdeficiencies, and thus a subtle bond had been created, of which I only becameaware when it was suddenly broken. And the intimate profundity of that look hegave me when he received his hurt remains to this day in my memory—like aclaim of distant kinship affirmed in a supreme moment.
“Poor fool! If he had only left that shutter alone. He had no restraint,no restraint—just like Kurtz—a tree swayed by the wind. As soon asI had put on a dry pair of slippers, I dragged him out, after first jerking thespear out of his side, which operation I confess I performed with my eyes shuttight. His heels leaped together over the little doorstep; his shoulders werepressed to my breast; I hugged him from behind desperately. Oh! he was heavy,heavy; heavier than any man on earth, I should imagine. Then without more ado Itipped him overboard. The current snatched him as though he had been a wisp ofgrass, and I saw the body roll over twice before I lost sight of it for ever.All the pilgrims and the manager were then congregated on the awning-deck aboutthe pilot-house, chattering at each other like a flock of excited magpies, andthere was a scandalized murmur at my heartless promptitude. What they wanted tokeep that body hanging about for I can’t guess. Embalm it, maybe. But Ihad also heard another, and a very ominous, murmur on the deck below. Myfriends the wood-cutters were likewise scandalized, and with a better show ofreason—though I admit that the reason itself was quite inadmissible. Oh,quite! I had made up my mind that if my late helmsman was to be eaten, thefishes alone should have him. He had been a very second-rate helmsman whilealive, but now he was dead he might have become a first-class temptation, andpossibly cause some startling trouble. Besides, I was anxious to take thewheel, the man in pink pyjamas showing himself a hopeless duffer at thebusiness.
“This I did directly the simple funeral was over. We were goinghalf-speed, keeping right in the middle of the stream, and I listened to thetalk about me. They had given up Kurtz, they had given up the station; Kurtzwas dead, and the station had been burnt—and so on—and so on. Thered-haired pilgrim was beside himself with the thought that at least this poorKurtz had been properly avenged. ‘Say! We must have made a gloriousslaughter of them in the bush. Eh? What do you think? Say?’ He positivelydanced, the bloodthirsty little gingery beggar. And he had nearly fainted whenhe saw the wounded man! I could not help saying, ‘You made a glorious lotof smoke, anyhow.’ I had seen, from the way the tops of the bushesrustled and flew, that almost all the shots had gone too high. You can’thit anything unless you take aim and fire from the shoulder; but these chapsfired from the hip with their eyes shut. The retreat, I maintained—and Iwas right—was caused by the screeching of the steam whistle. Upon thisthey forgot Kurtz, and began to howl at me with indignant protests.
“The manager stood by the wheel murmuring confidentially about thenecessity of getting well away down the river before dark at all events, when Isaw in the distance a clearing on the riverside and the outlines of some sortof building. ‘What’s this?’ I asked. He clapped his hands inwonder. ‘The station!’ he cried. I edged in at once, still goinghalf-speed.
“Through my glasses I saw the slope of a hill interspersed with raretrees and perfectly free from undergrowth. A long decaying building on thesummit was half buried in the high grass; the large holes in the peaked roofgaped black from afar; the jungle and the woods made a background. There was noenclosure or fence of any kind; but there had been one apparently, for near thehouse half-a-dozen slim posts remained in a row, roughly trimmed, and withtheir upper ends ornamented with round carved balls. The rails, or whateverthere had been between, had disappeared. Of course the forest surrounded allthat. The river-bank was clear, and on the waterside I saw a white man under ahat like a cart-wheel beckoning persistently with his whole arm. Examining theedge of the forest above and below, I was almost certain I could seemovements—human forms gliding here and there. I steamed past prudently,then stopped the engines and let her drift down. The man on the shore began toshout, urging us to land. ‘We have been attacked,’ screamed themanager. ‘I know—I know. It’s all right,’ yelled backthe other, as cheerful as you please. ‘Come along. It’s all right.I am glad.’
“His aspect reminded me of something I had seen—something funny Ihad seen somewhere. As I manoeuvred to get alongside, I was asking myself,‘What does this fellow look like?’ Suddenly I got it. He lookedlike a harlequin. His clothes had been made of some stuff that was brownholland probably, but it was covered with patches all over, with brightpatches, blue, red, and yellow—patches on the back, patches on the front,patches on elbows, on knees; coloured binding around his jacket, scarlet edgingat the bottom of his trousers; and the sunshine made him look extremely gay andwonderfully neat withal, because you could see how beautifully all thispatching had been done. A beardless, boyish face, very fair, no features tospeak of, nose peeling, little blue eyes, smiles and frowns chasing each otherover that open countenance like sunshine and shadow on a wind-swept plain.‘Look out, captain!’ he cried; ‘there’s a snag lodgedin here last night.’ What! Another snag? I confess I swore shamefully. Ihad nearly holed my cripple, to finish off that charming trip. The harlequin onthe bank turned his little pug-nose up to me. ‘You English?’ heasked, all smiles. ‘Are you?’ I shouted from the wheel. The smilesvanished, and he shook his head as if sorry for my disappointment. Then hebrightened up. ‘Never mind!’ he cried encouragingly. ‘Are wein time?’ I asked. ‘He is up there,’ he replied, with a tossof the head up the hill, and becoming gloomy all of a sudden. His face was likethe autumn sky, overcast one moment and bright the next.
“When the manager, escorted by the pilgrims, all of them armed to theteeth, had gone to the house this chap came on board. ‘I say, Idon’t like this. These natives are in the bush,’ I said. He assuredme earnestly it was all right. ‘They are simple people,’ he added;‘well, I am glad you came. It took me all my time to keep themoff.’ ‘But you said it was all right,’ I cried. ‘Oh,they meant no harm,’ he said; and as I stared he corrected himself,‘Not exactly.’ Then vivaciously, ‘My faith, your pilot-housewants a clean-up!’ In the next breath he advised me to keep enough steamon the boiler to blow the whistle in case of any trouble. ‘One goodscreech will do more for you than all your rifles. They are simplepeople,’ he repeated. He rattled away at such a rate he quite overwhelmedme. He seemed to be trying to make up for lots of silence, and actually hinted,laughing, that such was the case. ‘Don’t you talk with Mr.Kurtz?’ I said. ‘You don’t talk with that man—youlisten to him,’ he exclaimed with severe exaltation. ‘Butnow—’ He waved his arm, and in the twinkling of an eye was in theuttermost depths of despondency. In a moment he came up again with a jump,possessed himself of both my hands, shook them continuously, while he gabbled:‘Brother sailor... honour... pleasure... delight... introduce myself...Russian... son of an arch-priest... Government of Tambov... What? Tobacco!English tobacco; the excellent English tobacco! Now, that’s brotherly.Smoke? Where’s a sailor that does not smoke?”
“The pipe soothed him, and gradually I made out he had run away fromschool, had gone to sea in a Russian ship; ran away again; served some time inEnglish ships; was now reconciled with the arch-priest. He made a point ofthat. ‘But when one is young one must see things, gather experience,ideas; enlarge the mind.’ ‘Here!’ I interrupted. ‘Youcan never tell! Here I met Mr. Kurtz,’ he said, youthfully solemn andreproachful. I held my tongue after that. It appears he had persuaded a Dutchtrading-house on the coast to fit him out with stores and goods, and hadstarted for the interior with a light heart and no more idea of what wouldhappen to him than a baby. He had been wandering about that river for nearlytwo years alone, cut off from everybody and everything. ‘I am not soyoung as I look. I am twenty-five,’ he said. ‘At first old VanShuyten would tell me to go to the devil,’ he narrated with keenenjoyment; ‘but I stuck to him, and talked and talked, till at last hegot afraid I would talk the hind-leg off his favourite dog, so he gave me somecheap things and a few guns, and told me he hoped he would never see my faceagain. Good old Dutchman, Van Shuyten. I’ve sent him one small lot ofivory a year ago, so that he can’t call me a little thief when I getback. I hope he got it. And for the rest I don’t care. I had some woodstacked for you. That was my old house. Did you see?’
“I gave him Towson’s book. He made as though he would kiss me, butrestrained himself. ‘The only book I had left, and I thought I had lostit,’ he said, looking at it ecstatically. ‘So many accidents happento a man going about alone, you know. Canoes get upset sometimes—andsometimes you’ve got to clear out so quick when the people getangry.’ He thumbed the pages. ‘You made notes in Russian?’ Iasked. He nodded. ‘I thought they were written in cipher,’ I said.He laughed, then became serious. ‘I had lots of trouble to keep thesepeople off,’ he said. ‘Did they want to kill you?’ I asked.‘Oh, no!’ he cried, and checked himself. ‘Why did they attackus?’ I pursued. He hesitated, then said shamefacedly, ‘Theydon’t want him to go.’ ‘Don’t they?’ I saidcuriously. He nodded a nod full of mystery and wisdom. ‘I tellyou,’ he cried, ‘this man has enlarged my mind.’ He openedhis arms wide, staring at me with his little blue eyes that were perfectlyround.”
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“I looked at him, lost in astonishment. There he was before me, inmotley, as though he had absconded from a troupe of mimes, enthusiastic,fabulous. His very existence was improbable, inexplicable, and altogetherbewildering. He was an insoluble problem. It was inconceivable how he hadexisted, how he had succeeded in getting so far, how he had managed toremain—why he did not instantly disappear. ‘I went a littlefarther,’ he said, ‘then still a little farther—till I hadgone so far that I don’t know how I’ll ever get back. Never mind.Plenty time. I can manage. You take Kurtz away quick—quick—I tellyou.’ The glamour of youth enveloped his parti-coloured rags, hisdestitution, his loneliness, the essential desolation of his futile wanderings.For months—for years—his life hadn’t been worth a day’spurchase; and there he was gallantly, thoughtlessly alive, to all appearancesindestructible solely by the virtue of his few years and of his unreflectingaudacity. I was seduced into something like admiration—like envy. Glamoururged him on, glamour kept him unscathed. He surely wanted nothing from thewilderness but space to breathe in and to push on through. His need was toexist, and to move onwards at the greatest possible risk, and with a maximum ofprivation. If the absolutely pure, uncalculating, unpractical spirit ofadventure had ever ruled a human being, it ruled this bepatched youth. I almostenvied him the possession of this modest and clear flame. It seemed to haveconsumed all thought of self so completely, that even while he was talking toyou, you forgot that it was he—the man before your eyes—who hadgone through these things. I did not envy him his devotion to Kurtz, though. Hehad not meditated over it. It came to him, and he accepted it with a sort ofeager fatalism. I must say that to me it appeared about the most dangerousthing in every way he had come upon so far.
“They had come together unavoidably, like two ships becalmed near eachother, and lay rubbing sides at last. I suppose Kurtz wanted an audience,because on a certain occasion, when encamped in the forest, they had talked allnight, or more probably Kurtz had talked. ‘We talked ofeverything,’ he said, quite transported at the recollection. ‘Iforgot there was such a thing as sleep. The night did not seem to last an hour.Everything! Everything!... Of love, too.’ ‘Ah, he talked to you oflove!’ I said, much amused. ‘It isn’t what you think,’he cried, almost passionately. ‘It was in general. He made me seethings—things.’
“He threw his arms up. We were on deck at the time, and the headman of mywood-cutters, lounging near by, turned upon him his heavy and glittering eyes.I looked around, and I don’t know why, but I assure you that never, neverbefore, did this land, this river, this jungle, the very arch of this blazingsky, appear to me so hopeless and so dark, so impenetrable to human thought, sopitiless to human weakness. ‘And, ever since, you have been with him, ofcourse?’ I said.
“On the contrary. It appears their intercourse had been very much brokenby various causes. He had, as he informed me proudly, managed to nurse Kurtzthrough two illnesses (he alluded to it as you would to some risky feat), butas a rule Kurtz wandered alone, far in the depths of the forest. ‘Veryoften coming to this station, I had to wait days and days before he would turnup,’ he said. ‘Ah, it was worth waitingfor!—sometimes.’ ‘What was he doing? exploring orwhat?’ I asked. ‘Oh, yes, of course’; he had discovered lotsof villages, a lake, too—he did not know exactly in what direction; itwas dangerous to inquire too much—but mostly his expeditions had been forivory. ‘But he had no goods to trade with by that time,’ Iobjected. ‘There’s a good lot of cartridges left even yet,’he answered, looking away. ‘To speak plainly, he raided thecountry,’ I said. He nodded. ‘Not alone, surely!’ He mutteredsomething about the villages round that lake. ‘Kurtz got the tribe tofollow him, did he?’ I suggested. He fidgeted a little. ‘Theyadored him,’ he said. The tone of these words was so extraordinary that Ilooked at him searchingly. It was curious to see his mingled eagerness andreluctance to speak of Kurtz. The man filled his life, occupied his thoughts,swayed his emotions. ‘What can you expect?’ he burst out; ‘hecame to them with thunder and lightning, you know—and they had never seenanything like it—and very terrible. He could be very terrible. Youcan’t judge Mr. Kurtz as you would an ordinary man. No, no, no!Now—just to give you an idea—I don’t mind telling you, hewanted to shoot me, too, one day—but I don’t judge him.’‘Shoot you!’ I cried. ‘What for?’ ‘Well, I had asmall lot of ivory the chief of that village near my house gave me. You see Iused to shoot game for them. Well, he wanted it, and wouldn’t hearreason. He declared he would shoot me unless I gave him the ivory and thencleared out of the country, because he could do so, and had a fancy for it, andthere was nothing on earth to prevent him killing whom he jolly well pleased.And it was true, too. I gave him the ivory. What did I care! But I didn’tclear out. No, no. I couldn’t leave him. I had to be careful, of course,till we got friendly again for a time. He had his second illness then.Afterwards I had to keep out of the way; but I didn’t mind. He was livingfor the most part in those villages on the lake. When he came down to theriver, sometimes he would take to me, and sometimes it was better for me to becareful. This man suffered too much. He hated all this, and somehow hecouldn’t get away. When I had a chance I begged him to try and leavewhile there was time; I offered to go back with him. And he would say yes, andthen he would remain; go off on another ivory hunt; disappear for weeks; forgethimself amongst these people—forget himself—you know.’‘Why! he’s mad,’ I said. He protested indignantly. Mr. Kurtzcouldn’t be mad. If I had heard him talk, only two days ago, Iwouldn’t dare hint at such a thing.... I had taken up my binoculars whilewe talked, and was looking at the shore, sweeping the limit of the forest ateach side and at the back of the house. The consciousness of there being peoplein that bush, so silent, so quiet—as silent and quiet as the ruined houseon the hill—made me uneasy. There was no sign on the face of nature ofthis amazing tale that was not so much told as suggested to me in desolateexclamations, completed by shrugs, in interrupted phrases, in hints ending indeep sighs. The woods were unmoved, like a mask—heavy, like the closeddoor of a prison—they looked with their air of hidden knowledge, ofpatient expectation, of unapproachable silence. The Russian was explaining tome that it was only lately that Mr. Kurtz had come down to the river, bringingalong with him all the fighting men of that lake tribe. He had been absent forseveral months—getting himself adored, I suppose—and had come downunexpectedly, with the intention to all appearance of making a raid eitheracross the river or down stream. Evidently the appetite for more ivory had gotthe better of the—what shall I say?—less material aspirations.However he had got much worse suddenly. ‘I heard he was lying helpless,and so I came up—took my chance,’ said the Russian. ‘Oh, heis bad, very bad.’ I directed my glass to the house. There were no signsof life, but there was the ruined roof, the long mud wall peeping above thegrass, with three little square window-holes, no two of the same size; all thisbrought within reach of my hand, as it were. And then I made a brusquemovement, and one of the remaining posts of that vanished fence leaped up inthe field of my glass. You remember I told you I had been struck at thedistance by certain attempts at ornamentation, rather remarkable in the ruinousaspect of the place. Now I had suddenly a nearer view, and its first result wasto make me throw my head back as if before a blow. Then I went carefully frompost to post with my glass, and I saw my mistake. These round knobs were notornamental but symbolic; they were expressive and puzzling, striking anddisturbing—food for thought and also for vultures if there had been anylooking down from the sky; but at all events for such ants as were industriousenough to ascend the pole. They would have been even more impressive, thoseheads on the stakes, if their faces had not been turned to the house. Only one,the first I had made out, was facing my way. I was not so shocked as you maythink. The start back I had given was really nothing but a movement ofsurprise. I had expected to see a knob of wood there, you know. I returneddeliberately to the first I had seen—and there it was, black, dried,sunken, with closed eyelids—a head that seemed to sleep at the top ofthat pole, and, with the shrunken dry lips showing a narrow white line of theteeth, was smiling, too, smiling continuously at some endless and jocose dreamof that eternal slumber.
“I am not disclosing any trade secrets. In fact, the manager saidafterwards that Mr. Kurtz’s methods had ruined the district. I have noopinion on that point, but I want you clearly to understand that there wasnothing exactly profitable in these heads being there. They only showed thatMr. Kurtz lacked restraint in the gratification of his various lusts, thatthere was something wanting in him—some small matter which, when thepressing need arose, could not be found under his magnificent eloquence.Whether he knew of this deficiency himself I can’t say. I think theknowledge came to him at last—only at the very last. But the wildernesshad found him out early, and had taken on him a terrible vengeance for thefantastic invasion. I think it had whispered to him things about himself whichhe did not know, things of which he had no conception till he took counsel withthis great solitude—and the whisper had proved irresistibly fascinating.It echoed loudly within him because he was hollow at the core.... I put downthe glass, and the head that had appeared near enough to be spoken to seemed atonce to have leaped away from me into inaccessible distance.
“The admirer of Mr. Kurtz was a bit crestfallen. In a hurried, indistinctvoice he began to assure me he had not dared to take these—say,symbols—down. He was not afraid of the natives; they would not stir tillMr. Kurtz gave the word. His ascendancy was extraordinary. The camps of thesepeople surrounded the place, and the chiefs came every day to see him. Theywould crawl.... ‘I don’t want to know anything of the ceremoniesused when approaching Mr. Kurtz,’ I shouted. Curious, this feeling thatcame over me that such details would be more intolerable than those headsdrying on the stakes under Mr. Kurtz’s windows. After all, that was onlya savage sight, while I seemed at one bound to have been transported into somelightless region of subtle horrors, where pure, uncomplicated savagery was apositive relief, being something that had a right toexist—obviously—in the sunshine. The young man looked at me withsurprise. I suppose it did not occur to him that Mr. Kurtz was no idol of mine.He forgot I hadn’t heard any of these splendid monologues on, what wasit? on love, justice, conduct of life—or what not. If it had come tocrawling before Mr. Kurtz, he crawled as much as the veriest savage of themall. I had no idea of the conditions, he said: these heads were the heads ofrebels. I shocked him excessively by laughing. Rebels! What would be the nextdefinition I was to hear? There had been enemies, criminals, workers—andthese were rebels. Those rebellious heads looked very subdued to me on theirsticks. ‘You don’t know how such a life tries a man likeKurtz,’ cried Kurtz’s last disciple. ‘Well, and you?’ Isaid. ‘I! I! I am a simple man. I have no great thoughts. I want nothingfrom anybody. How can you compare me to...?’ His feelings were too muchfor speech, and suddenly he broke down. ‘I don’t understand,’he groaned. ‘I’ve been doing my best to keep him alive, andthat’s enough. I had no hand in all this. I have no abilities. Therehasn’t been a drop of medicine or a mouthful of invalid food for monthshere. He was shamefully abandoned. A man like this, with such ideas.Shamefully! Shamefully! I—I—haven’t slept for the last tennights...’
“His voice lost itself in the calm of the evening. The long shadows ofthe forest had slipped downhill while we talked, had gone far beyond the ruinedhovel, beyond the symbolic row of stakes. All this was in the gloom, while wedown there were yet in the sunshine, and the stretch of the river abreast ofthe clearing glittered in a still and dazzling splendour, with a murky andovershadowed bend above and below. Not a living soul was seen on the shore. Thebushes did not rustle.
“Suddenly round the corner of the house a group of men appeared, asthough they had come up from the ground. They waded waist-deep in the grass, ina compact body, bearing an improvised stretcher in their midst. Instantly, inthe emptiness of the landscape, a cry arose whose shrillness pierced the stillair like a sharp arrow flying straight to the very heart of the land; and, asif by enchantment, streams of human beings—of naked humanbeings—with spears in their hands, with bows, with shields, with wildglances and savage movements, were poured into the clearing by the dark-facedand pensive forest. The bushes shook, the grass swayed for a time, and theneverything stood still in attentive immobility.
“‘Now, if he does not say the right thing to them we are all donefor,’ said the Russian at my elbow. The knot of men with the stretcherhad stopped, too, halfway to the steamer, as if petrified. I saw the man on thestretcher sit up, lank and with an uplifted arm, above the shoulders of thebearers. ‘Let us hope that the man who can talk so well of love ingeneral will find some particular reason to spare us this time,’ I said.I resented bitterly the absurd danger of our situation, as if to be at themercy of that atrocious phantom had been a dishonouring necessity. I could nothear a sound, but through my glasses I saw the thin arm extended commandingly,the lower jaw moving, the eyes of that apparition shining darkly far in itsbony head that nodded with grotesque jerks. Kurtz—Kurtz—that meansshort in German—don’t it? Well, the name was as true as everythingelse in his life—and death. He looked at least seven feet long. Hiscovering had fallen off, and his body emerged from it pitiful and appalling asfrom a winding-sheet. I could see the cage of his ribs all astir, the bones ofhis arm waving. It was as though an animated image of death carved out of oldivory had been shaking its hand with menaces at a motionless crowd of men madeof dark and glittering bronze. I saw him open his mouth wide—it gave hima weirdly voracious aspect, as though he had wanted to swallow all the air, allthe earth, all the men before him. A deep voice reached me faintly. He musthave been shouting. He fell back suddenly. The stretcher shook as the bearersstaggered forward again, and almost at the same time I noticed that the crowdof savages was vanishing without any perceptible movement of retreat, as if theforest that had ejected these beings so suddenly had drawn them in again as thebreath is drawn in a long aspiration.
“Some of the pilgrims behind the stretcher carried his arms—twoshot-guns, a heavy rifle, and a light revolver-carbine—the thunderboltsof that pitiful Jupiter. The manager bent over him murmuring as he walkedbeside his head. They laid him down in one of the little cabins—just aroom for a bed place and a camp-stool or two, you know. We had brought hisbelated correspondence, and a lot of torn envelopes and open letters litteredhis bed. His hand roamed feebly amongst these papers. I was struck by the fireof his eyes and the composed languor of his expression. It was not so much theexhaustion of disease. He did not seem in pain. This shadow looked satiated andcalm, as though for the moment it had had its fill of all the emotions.
“He rustled one of the letters, and looking straight in my face said,‘I am glad.’ Somebody had been writing to him about me. Thesespecial recommendations were turning up again. The volume of tone he emittedwithout effort, almost without the trouble of moving his lips, amazed me. Avoice! a voice! It was grave, profound, vibrating, while the man did not seemcapable of a whisper. However, he had enough strength in him—factitiousno doubt—to very nearly make an end of us, as you shall hear directly.
“The manager appeared silently in the doorway; I stepped out at once andhe drew the curtain after me. The Russian, eyed curiously by the pilgrims, wasstaring at the shore. I followed the direction of his glance.
“Dark human shapes could be made out in the distance, flittingindistinctly against the gloomy border of the forest, and near the river twobronze figures, leaning on tall spears, stood in the sunlight under fantastichead-dresses of spotted skins, warlike and still in statuesque repose. And fromright to left along the lighted shore moved a wild and gorgeous apparition of awoman.
“She walked with measured steps, draped in striped and fringed cloths,treading the earth proudly, with a slight jingle and flash of barbarousornaments. She carried her head high; her hair was done in the shape of ahelmet; she had brass leggings to the knee, brass wire gauntlets to the elbow,a crimson spot on her tawny cheek, innumerable necklaces of glass beads on herneck; bizarre things, charms, gifts of witch-men, that hung about her,glittered and trembled at every step. She must have had the value of severalelephant tusks upon her. She was savage and superb, wild-eyed and magnificent;there was something ominous and stately in her deliberate progress. And in thehush that had fallen suddenly upon the whole sorrowful land, the immensewilderness, the colossal body of the fecund and mysterious life seemed to lookat her, pensive, as though it had been looking at the image of its owntenebrous and passionate soul.
“She came abreast of the steamer, stood still, and faced us. Her longshadow fell to the water’s edge. Her face had a tragic and fierce aspectof wild sorrow and of dumb pain mingled with the fear of some struggling,half-shaped resolve. She stood looking at us without a stir, and like thewilderness itself, with an air of brooding over an inscrutable purpose. A wholeminute passed, and then she made a step forward. There was a low jingle, aglint of yellow metal, a sway of fringed draperies, and she stopped as if herheart had failed her. The young fellow by my side growled. The pilgrimsmurmured at my back. She looked at us all as if her life had depended upon theunswerving steadiness of her glance. Suddenly she opened her bared arms andthrew them up rigid above her head, as though in an uncontrollable desire totouch the sky, and at the same time the swift shadows darted out on the earth,swept around on the river, gathering the steamer into a shadowy embrace. Aformidable silence hung over the scene.
“She turned away slowly, walked on, following the bank, and passed intothe bushes to the left. Once only her eyes gleamed back at us in the dusk ofthe thickets before she disappeared.
“‘If she had offered to come aboard I really think I would havetried to shoot her,’ said the man of patches, nervously. ‘I havebeen risking my life every day for the last fortnight to keep her out of thehouse. She got in one day and kicked up a row about those miserable rags Ipicked up in the storeroom to mend my clothes with. I wasn’t decent. Atleast it must have been that, for she talked like a fury to Kurtz for an hour,pointing at me now and then. I don’t understand the dialect of thistribe. Luckily for me, I fancy Kurtz felt too ill that day to care, or therewould have been mischief. I don’t understand.... No—it’s toomuch for me. Ah, well, it’s all over now.’
“At this moment I heard Kurtz’s deep voice behind the curtain:‘Save me!—save the ivory, you mean. Don’t tell me. Saveme! Why, I’ve had to save you. You are interrupting my plans now.Sick! Sick! Not so sick as you would like to believe. Never mind. I’llcarry my ideas out yet—I will return. I’ll show you what can bedone. You with your little peddling notions—you are interfering with me.I will return. I....’
“The manager came out. He did me the honour to take me under the arm andlead me aside. ‘He is very low, very low,’ he said. He consideredit necessary to sigh, but neglected to be consistently sorrowful. ‘Wehave done all we could for him—haven’t we? But there is nodisguising the fact, Mr. Kurtz has done more harm than good to the Company. Hedid not see the time was not ripe for vigorous action. Cautiously,cautiously—that’s my principle. We must be cautious yet. Thedistrict is closed to us for a time. Deplorable! Upon the whole, the trade willsuffer. I don’t deny there is a remarkable quantity of ivory—mostlyfossil. We must save it, at all events—but look how precarious theposition is—and why? Because the method is unsound.’ ‘Doyou,’ said I, looking at the shore, ‘call it “unsoundmethod?”’ ‘Without doubt,’ he exclaimed hotly.‘Don’t you?’... ‘No method at all,’ I murmuredafter a while. ‘Exactly,’ he exulted. ‘I anticipated this.Shows a complete want of judgment. It is my duty to point it out in the properquarter.’ ‘Oh,’ said I, ‘that fellow—what’shis name?—the brickmaker, will make a readable report for you.’ Heappeared confounded for a moment. It seemed to me I had never breathed anatmosphere so vile, and I turned mentally to Kurtz for relief—positivelyfor relief. ‘Nevertheless I think Mr. Kurtz is a remarkable man,’ Isaid with emphasis. He started, dropped on me a heavy glance, said veryquietly, ‘he was,’ and turned his back on me. My hour offavour was over; I found myself lumped along with Kurtz as a partisan ofmethods for which the time was not ripe: I was unsound! Ah! but it wassomething to have at least a choice of nightmares.
“I had turned to the wilderness really, not to Mr. Kurtz, who, I wasready to admit, was as good as buried. And for a moment it seemed to me as if Ialso were buried in a vast grave full of unspeakable secrets. I felt anintolerable weight oppressing my breast, the smell of the damp earth, theunseen presence of victorious corruption, the darkness of an impenetrablenight.... The Russian tapped me on the shoulder. I heard him mumbling andstammering something about ‘brother seaman—couldn’tconceal—knowledge of matters that would affect Mr. Kurtz’sreputation.’ I waited. For him evidently Mr. Kurtz was not in his grave;I suspect that for him Mr. Kurtz was one of the immortals. ‘Well!’said I at last, ‘speak out. As it happens, I am Mr. Kurtz’sfriend—in a way.’
“He stated with a good deal of formality that had we not been ‘ofthe same profession,’ he would have kept the matter to himself withoutregard to consequences. ‘He suspected there was an active ill-willtowards him on the part of these white men that—’ ‘You areright,’ I said, remembering a certain conversation I had overheard.‘The manager thinks you ought to be hanged.’ He showed a concern atthis intelligence which amused me at first. ‘I had better get out of theway quietly,’ he said earnestly. ‘I can do no more for Kurtz now,and they would soon find some excuse. What’s to stop them? There’sa military post three hundred miles from here.’ ‘Well, upon myword,’ said I, ‘perhaps you had better go if you have any friendsamongst the savages near by.’ ‘Plenty,’ he said. ‘Theyare simple people—and I want nothing, you know.’ He stood bitinghis lip, then: ‘I don’t want any harm to happen to these whiteshere, but of course I was thinking of Mr. Kurtz’s reputation—butyou are a brother seaman and—’ ‘All right,’ said I,after a time. ‘Mr. Kurtz’s reputation is safe with me.’ I didnot know how truly I spoke.
“He informed me, lowering his voice, that it was Kurtz who had orderedthe attack to be made on the steamer. ‘He hated sometimes the idea ofbeing taken away—and then again.... But I don’t understand thesematters. I am a simple man. He thought it would scare you away—that youwould give it up, thinking him dead. I could not stop him. Oh, I had an awfultime of it this last month.’ ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Heis all right now.’ ‘Ye-e-es,’ he muttered, not very convincedapparently. ‘Thanks,’ said I; ‘I shall keep my eyesopen.’ ‘But quiet-eh?’ he urged anxiously. ‘It would beawful for his reputation if anybody here—’ I promised a completediscretion with great gravity. ‘I have a canoe and three black fellowswaiting not very far. I am off. Could you give me a few Martini-Henrycartridges?’ I could, and did, with proper secrecy. He helped himself,with a wink at me, to a handful of my tobacco. ‘Between sailors—youknow—good English tobacco.’ At the door of the pilot-house heturned round—‘I say, haven’t you a pair of shoes you couldspare?’ He raised one leg. ‘Look.’ The soles were tied withknotted strings sandalwise under his bare feet. I rooted out an old pair, atwhich he looked with admiration before tucking it under his left arm. One ofhis pockets (bright red) was bulging with cartridges, from the other (darkblue) peeped ‘Towson’s Inquiry,’ etc., etc. He seemed tothink himself excellently well equipped for a renewed encounter with thewilderness. ‘Ah! I’ll never, never meet such a man again. You oughtto have heard him recite poetry—his own, too, it was, he told me.Poetry!’ He rolled his eyes at the recollection of these delights.‘Oh, he enlarged my mind!’ ‘Good-bye,’ said I. He shookhands and vanished in the night. Sometimes I ask myself whether I had everreally seen him—whether it was possible to meet such a phenomenon!...
“When I woke up shortly after midnight his warning came to my mind withits hint of danger that seemed, in the starred darkness, real enough to make meget up for the purpose of having a look round. On the hill a big fire burned,illuminating fitfully a crooked corner of the station-house. One of the agentswith a picket of a few of our blacks, armed for the purpose, was keeping guardover the ivory; but deep within the forest, red gleams that wavered, thatseemed to sink and rise from the ground amongst confused columnar shapes ofintense blackness, showed the exact position of the camp where Mr.Kurtz’s adorers were keeping their uneasy vigil. The monotonous beatingof a big drum filled the air with muffled shocks and a lingering vibration. Asteady droning sound of many men chanting each to himself some weirdincantation came out from the black, flat wall of the woods as the humming ofbees comes out of a hive, and had a strange narcotic effect upon my half-awakesenses. I believe I dozed off leaning over the rail, till an abrupt burst ofyells, an overwhelming outbreak of a pent-up and mysterious frenzy, woke me upin a bewildered wonder. It was cut short all at once, and the low droning wenton with an effect of audible and soothing silence. I glanced casually into thelittle cabin. A light was burning within, but Mr. Kurtz was not there.
“I think I would have raised an outcry if I had believed my eyes. But Ididn’t believe them at first—the thing seemed so impossible. Thefact is I was completely unnerved by a sheer blank fright, pure abstractterror, unconnected with any distinct shape of physical danger. What made thisemotion so overpowering was—how shall I define it?—the moral shockI received, as if something altogether monstrous, intolerable to thought andodious to the soul, had been thrust upon me unexpectedly. This lasted of coursethe merest fraction of a second, and then the usual sense of commonplace,deadly danger, the possibility of a sudden onslaught and massacre, or somethingof the kind, which I saw impending, was positively welcome and composing. Itpacified me, in fact, so much that I did not raise an alarm.
“There was an agent buttoned up inside an ulster and sleeping on a chairon deck within three feet of me. The yells had not awakened him; he snored veryslightly; I left him to his slumbers and leaped ashore. I did not betray Mr.Kurtz—it was ordered I should never betray him—it was written Ishould be loyal to the nightmare of my choice. I was anxious to deal with thisshadow by myself alone—and to this day I don’t know why I was sojealous of sharing with any one the peculiar blackness of that experience.
“As soon as I got on the bank I saw a trail—a broad trail throughthe grass. I remember the exultation with which I said to myself, ‘Hecan’t walk—he is crawling on all-fours—I’ve gothim.’ The grass was wet with dew. I strode rapidly with clenched fists. Ifancy I had some vague notion of falling upon him and giving him a drubbing. Idon’t know. I had some imbecile thoughts. The knitting old woman with thecat obtruded herself upon my memory as a most improper person to be sitting atthe other end of such an affair. I saw a row of pilgrims squirting lead in theair out of Winchesters held to the hip. I thought I would never get back to thesteamer, and imagined myself living alone and unarmed in the woods to anadvanced age. Such silly things—you know. And I remember I confounded thebeat of the drum with the beating of my heart, and was pleased at its calmregularity.
“I kept to the track though—then stopped to listen. The night wasvery clear; a dark blue space, sparkling with dew and starlight, in which blackthings stood very still. I thought I could see a kind of motion ahead of me. Iwas strangely cocksure of everything that night. I actually left the track andran in a wide semicircle (I verily believe chuckling to myself) so as to get infront of that stir, of that motion I had seen—if indeed I had seenanything. I was circumventing Kurtz as though it had been a boyish game.
“I came upon him, and, if he had not heard me coming, I would have fallenover him, too, but he got up in time. He rose, unsteady, long, pale,indistinct, like a vapour exhaled by the earth, and swayed slightly, misty andsilent before me; while at my back the fires loomed between the trees, and themurmur of many voices issued from the forest. I had cut him off cleverly; butwhen actually confronting him I seemed to come to my senses, I saw the dangerin its right proportion. It was by no means over yet. Suppose he began toshout? Though he could hardly stand, there was still plenty of vigour in hisvoice. ‘Go away—hide yourself,’ he said, in that profoundtone. It was very awful. I glanced back. We were within thirty yards from thenearest fire. A black figure stood up, strode on long black legs, waving longblack arms, across the glow. It had horns—antelope horns, Ithink—on its head. Some sorcerer, some witch-man, no doubt: it lookedfiendlike enough. ‘Do you know what you are doing?’ I whispered.‘Perfectly,’ he answered, raising his voice for that single word:it sounded to me far off and yet loud, like a hail through a speaking-trumpet.‘If he makes a row we are lost,’ I thought to myself. This clearlywas not a case for fisticuffs, even apart from the very natural aversion I hadto beat that Shadow—this wandering and tormented thing. ‘You willbe lost,’ I said—‘utterly lost.’ One gets sometimessuch a flash of inspiration, you know. I did say the right thing, though indeedhe could not have been more irretrievably lost than he was at this very moment,when the foundations of our intimacy were being laid—to endure—toendure—even to the end—even beyond.
“‘I had immense plans,’ he muttered irresolutely.‘Yes,’ said I; ‘but if you try to shout I’ll smash yourhead with—’ There was not a stick or a stone near. ‘I willthrottle you for good,’ I corrected myself. ‘I was on the thresholdof great things,’ he pleaded, in a voice of longing, with a wistfulnessof tone that made my blood run cold. ‘And now for this stupidscoundrel—’ ‘Your success in Europe is assured in anycase,’ I affirmed steadily. I did not want to have the throttling of him,you understand—and indeed it would have been very little use for anypractical purpose. I tried to break the spell—the heavy, mute spell ofthe wilderness—that seemed to draw him to its pitiless breast by theawakening of forgotten and brutal instincts, by the memory of gratified andmonstrous passions. This alone, I was convinced, had driven him out to the edgeof the forest, to the bush, towards the gleam of fires, the throb of drums, thedrone of weird incantations; this alone had beguiled his unlawful soul beyondthe bounds of permitted aspirations. And, don’t you see, the terror ofthe position was not in being knocked on the head—though I had a verylively sense of that danger, too—but in this, that I had to deal with abeing to whom I could not appeal in the name of anything high or low. I had,even like the niggers, to invoke him—himself—his own exalted andincredible degradation. There was nothing either above or below him, and I knewit. He had kicked himself loose of the earth. Confound the man! he had kickedthe very earth to pieces. He was alone, and I before him did not know whether Istood on the ground or floated in the air. I’ve been telling you what wesaid—repeating the phrases we pronounced—but what’s the good?They were common everyday words—the familiar, vague sounds exchanged onevery waking day of life. But what of that? They had behind them, to my mind,the terrific suggestiveness of words heard in dreams, of phrases spoken innightmares. Soul! If anybody ever struggled with a soul, I am the man. And Iwasn’t arguing with a lunatic either. Believe me or not, his intelligencewas perfectly clear—concentrated, it is true, upon himself with horribleintensity, yet clear; and therein was my only chance—barring, of course,the killing him there and then, which wasn’t so good, on account ofunavoidable noise. But his soul was mad. Being alone in the wilderness, it hadlooked within itself, and, by heavens! I tell you, it had gone mad. Ihad—for my sins, I suppose—to go through the ordeal of looking intoit myself. No eloquence could have been so withering to one’s belief inmankind as his final burst of sincerity. He struggled with himself, too. I sawit—I heard it. I saw the inconceivable mystery of a soul that knew norestraint, no faith, and no fear, yet struggling blindly with itself. I kept myhead pretty well; but when I had him at last stretched on the couch, I wiped myforehead, while my legs shook under me as though I had carried half a ton on myback down that hill. And yet I had only supported him, his bony arm claspedround my neck—and he was not much heavier than a child.
“When next day we left at noon, the crowd, of whose presence behind thecurtain of trees I had been acutely conscious all the time, flowed out of thewoods again, filled the clearing, covered the slope with a mass of naked,breathing, quivering, bronze bodies. I steamed up a bit, then swung downstream, and two thousand eyes followed the evolutions of the splashing,thumping, fierce river-demon beating the water with its terrible tail andbreathing black smoke into the air. In front of the first rank, along theriver, three men, plastered with bright red earth from head to foot, struttedto and fro restlessly. When we came abreast again, they faced the river,stamped their feet, nodded their horned heads, swayed their scarlet bodies;they shook towards the fierce river-demon a bunch of black feathers, a mangyskin with a pendent tail—something that looked a dried gourd; theyshouted periodically together strings of amazing words that resembled no soundsof human language; and the deep murmurs of the crowd, interrupted suddenly,were like the responses of some satanic litany.
“We had carried Kurtz into the pilot-house: there was more air there.Lying on the couch, he stared through the open shutter. There was an eddy inthe mass of human bodies, and the woman with helmeted head and tawny cheeksrushed out to the very brink of the stream. She put out her hands, shoutedsomething, and all that wild mob took up the shout in a roaring chorus ofarticulated, rapid, breathless utterance.
“‘Do you understand this?’ I asked.
“He kept on looking out past me with fiery, longing eyes, with a mingledexpression of wistfulness and hate. He made no answer, but I saw a smile, asmile of indefinable meaning, appear on his colourless lips that a moment aftertwitched convulsively. ‘Do I not?’ he said slowly, gasping, as ifthe words had been torn out of him by a supernatural power.
“I pulled the string of the whistle, and I did this because I saw thepilgrims on deck getting out their rifles with an air of anticipating a jollylark. At the sudden screech there was a movement of abject terror through thatwedged mass of bodies. ‘Don’t! don’t you frighten themaway,’ cried some one on deck disconsolately. I pulled the string timeafter time. They broke and ran, they leaped, they crouched, they swerved, theydodged the flying terror of the sound. The three red chaps had fallen flat,face down on the shore, as though they had been shot dead. Only the barbarousand superb woman did not so much as flinch, and stretched tragically her barearms after us over the sombre and glittering river.
“And then that imbecile crowd down on the deck started their little fun,and I could see nothing more for smoke.
“The brown current ran swiftly out of the heart of darkness, bearing usdown towards the sea with twice the speed of our upward progress; andKurtz’s life was running swiftly, too, ebbing, ebbing out of his heartinto the sea of inexorable time. The manager was very placid, he had no vitalanxieties now, he took us both in with a comprehensive and satisfied glance:the ‘affair’ had come off as well as could be wished. I saw thetime approaching when I would be left alone of the party of ‘unsoundmethod.’ The pilgrims looked upon me with disfavour. I was, so to speak,numbered with the dead. It is strange how I accepted this unforeseenpartnership, this choice of nightmares forced upon me in the tenebrous landinvaded by these mean and greedy phantoms.
“Kurtz discoursed. A voice! a voice! It rang deep to the very last. Itsurvived his strength to hide in the magnificent folds of eloquence the barrendarkness of his heart. Oh, he struggled! he struggled! The wastes of his wearybrain were haunted by shadowy images now—images of wealth and famerevolving obsequiously round his unextinguishable gift of noble and loftyexpression. My Intended, my station, my career, my ideas—these were thesubjects for the occasional utterances of elevated sentiments. The shade of theoriginal Kurtz frequented the bedside of the hollow sham, whose fate it was tobe buried presently in the mould of primeval earth. But both the diabolic loveand the unearthly hate of the mysteries it had penetrated fought for thepossession of that soul satiated with primitive emotions, avid of lying fame,of sham distinction, of all the appearances of success and power.
“Sometimes he was contemptibly childish. He desired to have kings meethim at railway-stations on his return from some ghastly Nowhere, where heintended to accomplish great things. ‘You show them you have in yousomething that is really profitable, and then there will be no limits to therecognition of your ability,’ he would say. ‘Of course you musttake care of the motives—right motives—always.’ The longreaches that were like one and the same reach, monotonous bends that wereexactly alike, slipped past the steamer with their multitude of secular treeslooking patiently after this grimy fragment of another world, the forerunner ofchange, of conquest, of trade, of massacres, of blessings. I lookedahead—piloting. ‘Close the shutter,’ said Kurtz suddenly oneday; ‘I can’t bear to look at this.’ I did so. There was asilence. ‘Oh, but I will wring your heart yet!’ he cried at theinvisible wilderness.
“We broke down—as I had expected—and had to lie up forrepairs at the head of an island. This delay was the first thing that shookKurtz’s confidence. One morning he gave me a packet of papers and aphotograph—the lot tied together with a shoe-string. ‘Keep this forme,’ he said. ‘This noxious fool’ (meaning the manager)‘is capable of prying into my boxes when I am not looking.’ In theafternoon I saw him. He was lying on his back with closed eyes, and I withdrewquietly, but I heard him mutter, ‘Live rightly, die, die...’ Ilistened. There was nothing more. Was he rehearsing some speech in his sleep,or was it a fragment of a phrase from some newspaper article? He had beenwriting for the papers and meant to do so again, ‘for the furthering ofmy ideas. It’s a duty.’
“His was an impenetrable darkness. I looked at him as you peer down at aman who is lying at the bottom of a precipice where the sun never shines. But Ihad not much time to give him, because I was helping the engine-driver to taketo pieces the leaky cylinders, to straighten a bent connecting-rod, and inother such matters. I lived in an infernal mess of rust, filings, nuts, bolts,spanners, hammers, ratchet-drills—things I abominate, because Idon’t get on with them. I tended the little forge we fortunately hadaboard; I toiled wearily in a wretched scrap-heap—unless I had the shakestoo bad to stand.
“One evening coming in with a candle I was startled to hear him say alittle tremulously, ‘I am lying here in the dark waiting fordeath.’ The light was within a foot of his eyes. I forced myself tomurmur, ‘Oh, nonsense!’ and stood over him as if transfixed.
“Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have neverseen before, and hope never to see again. Oh, I wasn’t touched. I wasfascinated. It was as though a veil had been rent. I saw on that ivory face theexpression of sombre pride, of ruthless power, of craven terror—of anintense and hopeless despair. Did he live his life again in every detail ofdesire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of completeknowledge? He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision—he criedout twice, a cry that was no more than a breath:
“‘The horror! The horror!’
“I blew the candle out and left the cabin. The pilgrims were dining inthe mess-room, and I took my place opposite the manager, who lifted his eyes togive me a questioning glance, which I successfully ignored. He leaned back,serene, with that peculiar smile of his sealing the unexpressed depths of hismeanness. A continuous shower of small flies streamed upon the lamp, upon thecloth, upon our hands and faces. Suddenly the manager’s boy put hisinsolent black head in the doorway, and said in a tone of scathing contempt:
“‘Mistah Kurtz—he dead.’
“All the pilgrims rushed out to see. I remained, and went on with mydinner. I believe I was considered brutally callous. However, I did not eatmuch. There was a lamp in there—light, don’t you know—andoutside it was so beastly, beastly dark. I went no more near the remarkable manwho had pronounced a judgment upon the adventures of his soul on this earth.The voice was gone. What else had been there? But I am of course aware thatnext day the pilgrims buried something in a muddy hole.
“And then they very nearly buried me.
“However, as you see, I did not go to join Kurtz there and then. I didnot. I remained to dream the nightmare out to the end, and to show my loyaltyto Kurtz once more. Destiny. My destiny! Droll thing life is—thatmysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most youcan hope from it is some knowledge of yourself—that comes toolate—a crop of unextinguishable regrets. I have wrestled with death. Itis the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an impalpablegreyness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators,without clamour, without glory, without the great desire of victory, withoutthe great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid scepticism, withoutmuch belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary. Ifsuch is the form of ultimate wisdom, then life is a greater riddle than some ofus think it to be. I was within a hair’s breadth of the last opportunityfor pronouncement, and I found with humiliation that probably I would havenothing to say. This is the reason why I affirm that Kurtz was a remarkableman. He had something to say. He said it. Since I had peeped over the edgemyself, I understand better the meaning of his stare, that could not see theflame of the candle, but was wide enough to embrace the whole universe,piercing enough to penetrate all the hearts that beat in the darkness. He hadsummed up—he had judged. ‘The horror!’ He was a remarkableman. After all, this was the expression of some sort of belief; it had candour,it had conviction, it had a vibrating note of revolt in its whisper, it had theappalling face of a glimpsed truth—the strange commingling of desire andhate. And it is not my own extremity I remember best—a vision of greynesswithout form filled with physical pain, and a careless contempt for theevanescence of all things—even of this pain itself. No! It is hisextremity that I seem to have lived through. True, he had made that laststride, he had stepped over the edge, while I had been permitted to draw backmy hesitating foot. And perhaps in this is the whole difference; perhaps allthe wisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just compressed into thatinappreciable moment of time in which we step over the threshold of theinvisible. Perhaps! I like to think my summing-up would not have been a word ofcareless contempt. Better his cry—much better. It was an affirmation, amoral victory paid for by innumerable defeats, by abominable terrors, byabominable satisfactions. But it was a victory! That is why I have remainedloyal to Kurtz to the last, and even beyond, when a long time after I heardonce more, not his own voice, but the echo of his magnificent eloquence thrownto me from a soul as translucently pure as a cliff of crystal.
“No, they did not bury me, though there is a period of time which Iremember mistily, with a shuddering wonder, like a passage through someinconceivable world that had no hope in it and no desire. I found myself backin the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through thestreets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamouscookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and sillydreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledgeof life was to me an irritating pretence, because I felt so sure they could notpossibly know the things I knew. Their bearing, which was simply the bearing ofcommonplace individuals going about their business in the assurance of perfectsafety, was offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the faceof a danger it is unable to comprehend. I had no particular desire to enlightenthem, but I had some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in theirfaces so full of stupid importance. I daresay I was not very well at that time.I tottered about the streets—there were various affairs tosettle—grinning bitterly at perfectly respectable persons. I admit mybehaviour was inexcusable, but then my temperature was seldom normal in thesedays. My dear aunt’s endeavours to ‘nurse up my strength’seemed altogether beside the mark. It was not my strength that wanted nursing,it was my imagination that wanted soothing. I kept the bundle of papers givenme by Kurtz, not knowing exactly what to do with it. His mother had diedlately, watched over, as I was told, by his Intended. A clean-shaved man, withan official manner and wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, called on me one day andmade inquiries, at first circuitous, afterwards suavely pressing, about what hewas pleased to denominate certain ‘documents.’ I was not surprised,because I had had two rows with the manager on the subject out there. I hadrefused to give up the smallest scrap out of that package, and I took the sameattitude with the spectacled man. He became darkly menacing at last, and withmuch heat argued that the Company had the right to every bit of informationabout its ‘territories.’ And said he, ‘Mr. Kurtz’sknowledge of unexplored regions must have been necessarily extensive andpeculiar—owing to his great abilities and to the deplorable circumstancesin which he had been placed: therefore—’ I assured him Mr.Kurtz’s knowledge, however extensive, did not bear upon the problems ofcommerce or administration. He invoked then the name of science. ‘Itwould be an incalculable loss if,’ etc., etc. I offered him the report onthe ‘Suppression of Savage Customs,’ with the postscriptum tornoff. He took it up eagerly, but ended by sniffing at it with an air ofcontempt. ‘This is not what we had a right to expect,’ he remarked.‘Expect nothing else,’ I said. ‘There are only privateletters.’ He withdrew upon some threat of legal proceedings, and I sawhim no more; but another fellow, calling himself Kurtz’s cousin, appearedtwo days later, and was anxious to hear all the details about his dearrelative’s last moments. Incidentally he gave me to understand that Kurtzhad been essentially a great musician. ‘There was the making of animmense success,’ said the man, who was an organist, I believe, with lankgrey hair flowing over a greasy coat-collar. I had no reason to doubt hisstatement; and to this day I am unable to say what was Kurtz’sprofession, whether he ever had any—which was the greatest of histalents. I had taken him for a painter who wrote for the papers, or else for ajournalist who could paint—but even the cousin (who took snuff during theinterview) could not tell me what he had been—exactly. He was a universalgenius—on that point I agreed with the old chap, who thereupon blew hisnose noisily into a large cotton handkerchief and withdrew in senile agitation,bearing off some family letters and memoranda without importance. Ultimately ajournalist anxious to know something of the fate of his ‘dearcolleague’ turned up. This visitor informed me Kurtz’s propersphere ought to have been politics ‘on the popular side.’ He hadfurry straight eyebrows, bristly hair cropped short, an eyeglass on a broadribbon, and, becoming expansive, confessed his opinion that Kurtz reallycouldn’t write a bit—‘but heavens! how that man could talk.He electrified large meetings. He had faith—don’t you see?—hehad the faith. He could get himself to believe anything—anything. Hewould have been a splendid leader of an extreme party.’ ‘Whatparty?’ I asked. ‘Any party,’ answered the other. ‘Hewas an—an—extremist.’ Did I not think so? I assented. Did Iknow, he asked, with a sudden flash of curiosity, ‘what it was that hadinduced him to go out there?’ ‘Yes,’ said I, and forthwithhanded him the famous Report for publication, if he thought fit. He glancedthrough it hurriedly, mumbling all the time, judged ‘it would do,’and took himself off with this plunder.
“Thus I was left at last with a slim packet of letters and thegirl’s portrait. She struck me as beautiful—I mean she had abeautiful expression. I know that the sunlight can be made to lie, too, yet onefelt that no manipulation of light and pose could have conveyed the delicateshade of truthfulness upon those features. She seemed ready to listen withoutmental reservation, without suspicion, without a thought for herself. Iconcluded I would go and give her back her portrait and those letters myself.Curiosity? Yes; and also some other feeling perhaps. All that had beenKurtz’s had passed out of my hands: his soul, his body, his station, hisplans, his ivory, his career. There remained only his memory and hisIntended—and I wanted to give that up, too, to the past, in away—to surrender personally all that remained of him with me to thatoblivion which is the last word of our common fate. I don’t defendmyself. I had no clear perception of what it was I really wanted. Perhaps itwas an impulse of unconscious loyalty, or the fulfilment of one of those ironicnecessities that lurk in the facts of human existence. I don’t know. Ican’t tell. But I went.
“I thought his memory was like the other memories of the dead thataccumulate in every man’s life—a vague impress on the brain ofshadows that had fallen on it in their swift and final passage; but before thehigh and ponderous door, between the tall houses of a street as still anddecorous as a well-kept alley in a cemetery, I had a vision of him on thestretcher, opening his mouth voraciously, as if to devour all the earth withall its mankind. He lived then before me; he lived as much as he had everlived—a shadow insatiable of splendid appearances, of frightfulrealities; a shadow darker than the shadow of the night, and draped nobly inthe folds of a gorgeous eloquence. The vision seemed to enter the house withme—the stretcher, the phantom-bearers, the wild crowd of obedientworshippers, the gloom of the forests, the glitter of the reach between themurky bends, the beat of the drum, regular and muffled like the beating of aheart—the heart of a conquering darkness. It was a moment of triumph forthe wilderness, an invading and vengeful rush which, it seemed to me, I wouldhave to keep back alone for the salvation of another soul. And the memory ofwhat I had heard him say afar there, with the horned shapes stirring at myback, in the glow of fires, within the patient woods, those broken phrases cameback to me, were heard again in their ominous and terrifying simplicity. Iremembered his abject pleading, his abject threats, the colossal scale of hisvile desires, the meanness, the torment, the tempestuous anguish of his soul.And later on I seemed to see his collected languid manner, when he said oneday, ‘This lot of ivory now is really mine. The Company did not pay forit. I collected it myself at a very great personal risk. I am afraid they willtry to claim it as theirs though. H’m. It is a difficult case. What doyou think I ought to do—resist? Eh? I want no more thanjustice.’... He wanted no more than justice—no more than justice. Irang the bell before a mahogany door on the first floor, and while I waited heseemed to stare at me out of the glassy panel—stare with that wide andimmense stare embracing, condemning, loathing all the universe. I seemed tohear the whispered cry, “The horror! The horror!”
“The dusk was falling. I had to wait in a lofty drawing-room with threelong windows from floor to ceiling that were like three luminous and bedrapedcolumns. The bent gilt legs and backs of the furniture shone in indistinctcurves. The tall marble fireplace had a cold and monumental whiteness. A grandpiano stood massively in a corner; with dark gleams on the flat surfaces like asombre and polished sarcophagus. A high door opened—closed. I rose.
“She came forward, all in black, with a pale head, floating towards me inthe dusk. She was in mourning. It was more than a year since his death, morethan a year since the news came; she seemed as though she would remember andmourn forever. She took both my hands in hers and murmured, ‘I had heardyou were coming.’ I noticed she was not very young—I mean notgirlish. She had a mature capacity for fidelity, for belief, for suffering. Theroom seemed to have grown darker, as if all the sad light of the cloudy eveninghad taken refuge on her forehead. This fair hair, this pale visage, this purebrow, seemed surrounded by an ashy halo from which the dark eyes looked out atme. Their glance was guileless, profound, confident, and trustful. She carriedher sorrowful head as though she were proud of that sorrow, as though she wouldsay, ‘I—I alone know how to mourn for him as he deserves.’But while we were still shaking hands, such a look of awful desolation cameupon her face that I perceived she was one of those creatures that are not theplaythings of Time. For her he had died only yesterday. And, by Jove! theimpression was so powerful that for me, too, he seemed to have died onlyyesterday—nay, this very minute. I saw her and him in the same instant oftime—his death and her sorrow—I saw her sorrow in the very momentof his death. Do you understand? I saw them together—I heard themtogether. She had said, with a deep catch of the breath, ‘I havesurvived’ while my strained ears seemed to hear distinctly, mingled withher tone of despairing regret, the summing up whisper of his eternalcondemnation. I asked myself what I was doing there, with a sensation of panicin my heart as though I had blundered into a place of cruel and absurdmysteries not fit for a human being to behold. She motioned me to a chair. Wesat down. I laid the packet gently on the little table, and she put her handover it.... ‘You knew him well,’ she murmured, after a moment ofmourning silence.
“‘Intimacy grows quickly out there,’ I said. ‘I knewhim as well as it is possible for one man to know another.’
“‘And you admired him,’ she said. ‘It was impossible toknow him and not to admire him. Was it?’
“‘He was a remarkable man,’ I said, unsteadily. Then beforethe appealing fixity of her gaze, that seemed to watch for more words on mylips, I went on, ‘It was impossible not to—’
“‘Love him,’ she finished eagerly, silencing me into anappalled dumbness. ‘How true! how true! But when you think that no oneknew him so well as I! I had all his noble confidence. I knew him best.’
“‘You knew him best,’ I repeated. And perhaps she did. Butwith every word spoken the room was growing darker, and only her forehead,smooth and white, remained illumined by the inextinguishable light of beliefand love.
“‘You were his friend,’ she went on. ‘Hisfriend,’ she repeated, a little louder. ‘You must have been, if hehad given you this, and sent you to me. I feel I can speak to you—and oh!I must speak. I want you—you who have heard his last words—to knowI have been worthy of him.... It is not pride.... Yes! I am proud to know Iunderstood him better than any one on earth—he told me so himself. Andsince his mother died I have had no one—noone—to—to—’
“I listened. The darkness deepened. I was not even sure whether he hadgiven me the right bundle. I rather suspect he wanted me to take care ofanother batch of his papers which, after his death, I saw the manager examiningunder the lamp. And the girl talked, easing her pain in the certitude of mysympathy; she talked as thirsty men drink. I had heard that her engagement withKurtz had been disapproved by her people. He wasn’t rich enough orsomething. And indeed I don’t know whether he had not been a pauper allhis life. He had given me some reason to infer that it was his impatience ofcomparative poverty that drove him out there.
“‘... Who was not his friend who had heard him speak once?’she was saying. ‘He drew men towards him by what was best in them.’She looked at me with intensity. ‘It is the gift of the great,’ shewent on, and the sound of her low voice seemed to have the accompaniment of allthe other sounds, full of mystery, desolation, and sorrow, I had everheard—the ripple of the river, the soughing of the trees swayed by thewind, the murmurs of the crowds, the faint ring of incomprehensible words criedfrom afar, the whisper of a voice speaking from beyond the threshold of aneternal darkness. ‘But you have heard him! You know!’ she cried.
“‘Yes, I know,’ I said with something like despair in myheart, but bowing my head before the faith that was in her, before that greatand saving illusion that shone with an unearthly glow in the darkness, in thetriumphant darkness from which I could not have defended her—from which Icould not even defend myself.
“‘What a loss to me—to us!’—she corrected herselfwith beautiful generosity; then added in a murmur, ‘To the world.’By the last gleams of twilight I could see the glitter of her eyes, full oftears—of tears that would not fall.
“‘I have been very happy—very fortunate—veryproud,’ she went on. ‘Too fortunate. Too happy for a little while.And now I am unhappy for—for life.’
“She stood up; her fair hair seemed to catch all the remaining light in aglimmer of gold. I rose, too.
“‘And of all this,’ she went on mournfully, ‘of all hispromise, and of all his greatness, of his generous mind, of his noble heart,nothing remains—nothing but a memory. You and I—’
“‘We shall always remember him,’ I said hastily.
“‘No!’ she cried. ‘It is impossible that all thisshould be lost—that such a life should be sacrificed to leavenothing—but sorrow. You know what vast plans he had. I knew of them,too—I could not perhaps understand—but others knew of them.Something must remain. His words, at least, have not died.’
“‘His words will remain,’ I said.
“‘And his example,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Menlooked up to him—his goodness shone in every act. Hisexample—’
“‘True,’ I said; ‘his example, too. Yes, his example. Iforgot that.’
“‘But I do not. I cannot—I cannot believe—not yet. Icannot believe that I shall never see him again, that nobody will see himagain, never, never, never.’
“She put out her arms as if after a retreating figure, stretching themback and with clasped pale hands across the fading and narrow sheen of thewindow. Never see him! I saw him clearly enough then. I shall see this eloquentphantom as long as I live, and I shall see her, too, a tragic and familiarShade, resembling in this gesture another one, tragic also, and bedecked withpowerless charms, stretching bare brown arms over the glitter of the infernalstream, the stream of darkness. She said suddenly very low, ‘He died ashe lived.’
“‘His end,’ said I, with dull anger stirring in me,‘was in every way worthy of his life.’
“‘And I was not with him,’ she murmured. My anger subsidedbefore a feeling of infinite pity.
“‘Everything that could be done—’ I mumbled.
“‘Ah, but I believed in him more than any one on earth—morethan his own mother, more than—himself. He needed me! Me! I would havetreasured every sigh, every word, every sign, every glance.’
“I felt like a chill grip on my chest. ‘Don’t,’ I said,in a muffled voice.
“‘Forgive me. I—I have mourned so long in silence—insilence.... You were with him—to the last? I think of his loneliness.Nobody near to understand him as I would have understood. Perhaps no one tohear....’
“‘To the very end,’ I said, shakily. ‘I heard his verylast words....’ I stopped in a fright.
“‘Repeat them,’ she murmured in a heart-broken tone. ‘Iwant—I want—something—something—to—to livewith.’
“I was on the point of crying at her, ‘Don’t you hearthem?’ The dusk was repeating them in a persistent whisper all around us,in a whisper that seemed to swell menacingly like the first whisper of a risingwind. ‘The horror! The horror!’
“‘His last word—to live with,’ she insisted.‘Don’t you understand I loved him—I loved him—I lovedhim!’
“I pulled myself together and spoke slowly.
“‘The last word he pronounced was—your name.’
“I heard a light sigh and then my heart stood still, stopped dead shortby an exulting and terrible cry, by the cry of inconceivable triumph and ofunspeakable pain. ‘I knew it—I was sure!’... She knew. Shewas sure. I heard her weeping; she had hidden her face in her hands. It seemedto me that the house would collapse before I could escape, that the heavenswould fall upon my head. But nothing happened. The heavens do not fall for sucha trifle. Would they have fallen, I wonder, if I had rendered Kurtz thatjustice which was his due? Hadn’t he said he wanted only justice? But Icouldn’t. I could not tell her. It would have been too dark—toodark altogether....”
Marlow ceased, and sat apart, indistinct and silent, in the pose of ameditating Buddha. Nobody moved for a time. “We have lost the first ofthe ebb,” said the Director suddenly. I raised my head. The offing wasbarred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to theuttermost ends of the earth flowed sombre under an overcast sky—seemed tolead into the heart of an immense darkness.
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FIRST ACT
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Morning-room in Algernon’s flat in Half-Moon Street. The room isluxuriously and artistically furnished. The sound of a piano is heard in theadjoining room.[Lane is arranging afternoon tea on the table, and after the musichas ceased, Algernon enters.]ALGERNON.Did you hear what I was playing, Lane?LANE.I didn’t think it polite to listen, sir.ALGERNON.I’m sorry for that, for your sake. I don’t playaccurately—any one can play accurately—but I play with wonderfulexpression. As far as the piano is concerned, sentiment is my forte. I keepscience for Life.LANE.Yes, sir.ALGERNON.And, speaking of the science of Life, have you got the cucumber sandwiches cutfor Lady Bracknell?LANE.Yes, sir. [Hands them on a salver.]ALGERNON.[Inspects them, takes two, and sits down on the sofa.] Oh! . . . by the way,Lane, I see from your book that on Thursday night, when Lord Shoreman and Mr.Worthing were dining with me, eight bottles of champagne are entered as havingbeen consumed.LANE.Yes, sir; eight bottles and a pint.ALGERNON.Why is it that at a bachelor’s establishment the servants invariablydrink the champagne? I ask merely for information.LANE.I attribute it to the superior quality of the wine, sir. I have often observedthat in married households the champagne is rarely of a first-rate brand.ALGERNON.Good heavens! Is marriage so demoralising as that?LANE.I believe it is a very pleasant state, sir. I have had very littleexperience of it myself up to the present. I have only been married once. Thatwas in consequence of a misunderstanding between myself and a young person.ALGERNON.[Languidly.] I don’t know that I am much interested in your familylife, Lane.LANE.No, sir; it is not a very interesting subject. I never think of it myself.ALGERNON.Very natural, I am sure. That will do, Lane, thank you.LANE.Thank you, sir. [Lane goes out.]ALGERNON.Lane’s views on marriage seem somewhat lax. Really, if the lower ordersdon’t set us a good example, what on earth is the use of them? They seem,as a class, to have absolutely no sense of moral responsibility.[Enter Lane.]LANE.Mr. Ernest Worthing.[Enter Jack.][Lane goes out.]ALGERNON.How are you, my dear Ernest? What brings you up to town?JACK.Oh, pleasure, pleasure! What else should bring one anywhere? Eating as usual, Isee, Algy!ALGERNON.[Stiffly.] I believe it is customary in good society to take some slightrefreshment at five o’clock. Where have you been since last Thursday?JACK.[Sitting down on the sofa.] In the country.ALGERNON.What on earth do you do there?JACK.[Pulling off his gloves.] When one is in town one amuses oneself. Whenone is in the country one amuses other people. It is excessively boring.ALGERNON.And who are the people you amuse?JACK.[Airily.] Oh, neighbours, neighbours.ALGERNON.Got nice neighbours in your part of Shropshire?JACK.Perfectly horrid! Never speak to one of them.ALGERNON.How immensely you must amuse them! [Goes over and takes sandwich.] By the way,Shropshire is your county, is it not?JACK.Eh? Shropshire? Yes, of course. Hallo! Why all these cups? Why cucumbersandwiches? Why such reckless extravagance in one so young? Who is coming totea?ALGERNON.Oh! merely Aunt Augusta and Gwendolen.JACK.How perfectly delightful!ALGERNON.Yes, that is all very well; but I am afraid Aunt Augusta won’t quiteapprove of your being here.JACK.May I ask why?ALGERNON.My dear fellow, the way you flirt with Gwendolen is perfectly disgraceful. Itis almost as bad as the way Gwendolen flirts with you.JACK.I am in love with Gwendolen. I have come up to town expressly to propose toher.ALGERNON.I thought you had come up for pleasure? . . . I call that business.JACK.How utterly unromantic you are!ALGERNON.I really don’t see anything romantic in proposing. It is very romantic tobe in love. But there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal. Why, onemay be accepted. One usually is, I believe. Then the excitement is all over.The very essence of romance is uncertainty. If ever I get married, I’llcertainly try to forget the fact.JACK.I have no doubt about that, dear Algy. The Divorce Court was specially inventedfor people whose memories are so curiously constituted.ALGERNON.Oh! there is no use speculating on that subject. Divorces are made inHeaven—[Jack puts out his hand to take a sandwich. Algernonat once interferes.] Please don’t touch the cucumber sandwiches. They areordered specially for Aunt Augusta. [Takes one and eats it.]JACK.Well, you have been eating them all the time.ALGERNON.That is quite a different matter. She is my aunt. [Takes plate from below.]Have some bread and butter. The bread and butter is for Gwendolen. Gwendolen isdevoted to bread and butter.JACK.[Advancing to table and helping himself.] And very good bread and butter it istoo.ALGERNON.Well, my dear fellow, you need not eat as if you were going to eat it all. Youbehave as if you were married to her already. You are not married to heralready, and I don’t think you ever will be.JACK.Why on earth do you say that?ALGERNON.Well, in the first place girls never marry the men they flirt with. Girlsdon’t think it right.JACK.Oh, that is nonsense!ALGERNON.It isn’t. It is a great truth. It accounts for the extraordinary numberof bachelors that one sees all over the place. In the second place, Idon’t give my consent.JACK.Your consent!ALGERNON.My dear fellow, Gwendolen is my first cousin. And before I allow you to marryher, you will have to clear up the whole question of Cecily. [Rings bell.]JACK.Cecily! What on earth do you mean? What do you mean, Algy, by Cecily! Idon’t know any one of the name of Cecily.[Enter Lane.]ALGERNON.Bring me that cigarette case Mr. Worthing left in the smoking-room the lasttime he dined here.LANE.Yes, sir. [Lane goes out.]JACK.Do you mean to say you have had my cigarette case all this time? I wish togoodness you had let me know. I have been writing frantic letters to ScotlandYard about it. I was very nearly offering a large reward.ALGERNON.Well, I wish you would offer one. I happen to be more than usually hard up.JACK.There is no good offering a large reward now that the thing is found.[Enter Lane with the cigarette case on a salver. Algernontakes it at once. Lane goes out.]ALGERNON.I think that is rather mean of you, Ernest, I must say. [Opens case andexamines it.] However, it makes no matter, for, now that I look at theinscription inside, I find that the thing isn’t yours after all.JACK.Of course it’s mine. [Moving to him.] You have seen me with it a hundredtimes, and you have no right whatsoever to read what is written inside. It is avery ungentlemanly thing to read a private cigarette case.ALGERNON.Oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what one should read andwhat one shouldn’t. More than half of modern culture depends on what oneshouldn’t read.JACK.I am quite aware of the fact, and I don’t propose to discuss modernculture. It isn’t the sort of thing one should talk of in private. Isimply want my cigarette case back.ALGERNON.Yes; but this isn’t your cigarette case. This cigarette case is a presentfrom some one of the name of Cecily, and you said you didn’t know any oneof that name.JACK.Well, if you want to know, Cecily happens to be my aunt.ALGERNON.Your aunt!JACK.Yes. Charming old lady she is, too. Lives at Tunbridge Wells. Just give it backto me, Algy.ALGERNON.[Retreating to back of sofa.] But why does she call herself little Cecily ifshe is your aunt and lives at Tunbridge Wells? [Reading.] ‘From littleCecily with her fondest love.’JACK.[Moving to sofa and kneeling upon it.] My dear fellow, what on earth is therein that? Some aunts are tall, some aunts are not tall. That is a matter thatsurely an aunt may be allowed to decide for herself. You seem to think thatevery aunt should be exactly like your aunt! That is absurd! For Heaven’ssake give me back my cigarette case. [Follows Algernon round the room.]ALGERNON.Yes. But why does your aunt call you her uncle? ‘From little Cecily, withher fondest love to her dear Uncle Jack.’ There is no objection, I admit,to an aunt being a small aunt, but why an aunt, no matter what her size may be,should call her own nephew her uncle, I can’t quite make out. Besides,your name isn’t Jack at all; it is Ernest.JACK.It isn’t Ernest; it’s Jack.ALGERNON.You have always told me it was Ernest. I have introduced you to every one asErnest. You answer to the name of Ernest. You look as if your name was Ernest.You are the most earnest-looking person I ever saw in my life. It is perfectlyabsurd your saying that your name isn’t Ernest. It’s on your cards.Here is one of them. [Taking it from case.] ‘Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4,The Albany.’ I’ll keep this as a proof that your name is Ernest ifever you attempt to deny it to me, or to Gwendolen, or to any one else. [Putsthe card in his pocket.]JACK.Well, my name is Ernest in town and Jack in the country, and the cigarette casewas given to me in the country.ALGERNON.Yes, but that does not account for the fact that your small Aunt Cecily, wholives at Tunbridge Wells, calls you her dear uncle. Come, old boy, you had muchbetter have the thing out at once.JACK.My dear Algy, you talk exactly as if you were a dentist. It is very vulgar totalk like a dentist when one isn’t a dentist. It produces a falseimpression.ALGERNON.Well, that is exactly what dentists always do. Now, go on! Tell me the wholething. I may mention that I have always suspected you of being a confirmed andsecret Bunburyist; and I am quite sure of it now.JACK.Bunburyist? What on earth do you mean by a Bunburyist?ALGERNON.I’ll reveal to you the meaning of that incomparable expression as soon asyou are kind enough to inform me why you are Ernest in town and Jack in thecountry.JACK.Well, produce my cigarette case first.ALGERNON.Here it is. [Hands cigarette case.] Now produce your explanation, and pray makeit improbable. [Sits on sofa.]JACK.My dear fellow, there is nothing improbable about my explanation at all. Infact it’s perfectly ordinary. Old Mr. Thomas Cardew, who adopted me whenI was a little boy, made me in his will guardian to his grand-daughter, MissCecily Cardew. Cecily, who addresses me as her uncle from motives of respectthat you could not possibly appreciate, lives at my place in the country underthe charge of her admirable governess, Miss Prism.ALGERNON.Where is that place in the country, by the way?JACK.That is nothing to you, dear boy. You are not going to be invited . . . I maytell you candidly that the place is not in Shropshire.ALGERNON.I suspected that, my dear fellow! I have Bunburyed all over Shropshire on twoseparate occasions. Now, go on. Why are you Ernest in town and Jack in thecountry?JACK.My dear Algy, I don’t know whether you will be able to understand my realmotives. You are hardly serious enough. When one is placed in the position ofguardian, one has to adopt a very high moral tone on all subjects. It’sone’s duty to do so. And as a high moral tone can hardly be said toconduce very much to either one’s health or one’s happiness, inorder to get up to town I have always pretended to have a younger brother ofthe name of Ernest, who lives in the Albany, and gets into the most dreadfulscrapes. That, my dear Algy, is the whole truth pure and simple.ALGERNON.The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would be very tedious ifit were either, and modern literature a complete impossibility!JACK.That wouldn’t be at all a bad thing.ALGERNON.Literary criticism is not your forte, my dear fellow. Don’t try it. Youshould leave that to people who haven’t been at a University. They do itso well in the daily papers. What you really are is a Bunburyist. I was quiteright in saying you were a Bunburyist. You are one of the most advancedBunburyists I know.JACK.What on earth do you mean?ALGERNON.You have invented a very useful younger brother called Ernest, in order thatyou may be able to come up to town as often as you like. I have invented aninvaluable permanent invalid called Bunbury, in order that I may be able to godown into the country whenever I choose. Bunbury is perfectly invaluable. If itwasn’t for Bunbury’s extraordinary bad health, for instance, Iwouldn’t be able to dine with you at Willis’s to-night, for I havebeen really engaged to Aunt Augusta for more than a week.JACK.I haven’t asked you to dine with me anywhere to-night.ALGERNON.I know. You are absurdly careless about sending out invitations. It is veryfoolish of you. Nothing annoys people so much as not receiving invitations.JACK.You had much better dine with your Aunt Augusta.ALGERNON.I haven’t the smallest intention of doing anything of the kind. To beginwith, I dined there on Monday, and once a week is quite enough to dine withone’s own relations. In the second place, whenever I do dine there I amalways treated as a member of the family, and sent down with either no woman atall, or two. In the third place, I know perfectly well whom she will place menext to, to-night. She will place me next Mary Farquhar, who always flirts withher own husband across the dinner-table. That is not very pleasant. Indeed, itis not even decent . . . and that sort of thing is enormously on the increase.The amount of women in London who flirt with their own husbands is perfectlyscandalous. It looks so bad. It is simply washing one’s clean linen inpublic. Besides, now that I know you to be a confirmed Bunburyist I naturallywant to talk to you about Bunburying. I want to tell you the rules.JACK.I’m not a Bunburyist at all. If Gwendolen accepts me, I am going to killmy brother, indeed I think I’ll kill him in any case. Cecily is a littletoo much interested in him. It is rather a bore. So I am going to get rid ofErnest. And I strongly advise you to do the same with Mr. . . . with yourinvalid friend who has the absurd name.ALGERNON.Nothing will induce me to part with Bunbury, and if you ever get married, whichseems to me extremely problematic, you will be very glad to know Bunbury. A manwho marries without knowing Bunbury has a very tedious time of it.JACK.That is nonsense. If I marry a charming girl like Gwendolen, and she is theonly girl I ever saw in my life that I would marry, I certainly won’twant to know Bunbury.ALGERNON.Then your wife will. You don’t seem to realise, that in married lifethree is company and two is none.JACK.[Sententiously.] That, my dear young friend, is the theory that the corruptFrench Drama has been propounding for the last fifty years.ALGERNON.Yes; and that the happy English home has proved in half the time.JACK.For heaven’s sake, don’t try to be cynical. It’s perfectlyeasy to be cynical.ALGERNON.My dear fellow, it isn’t easy to be anything nowadays. There’s sucha lot of beastly competition about. [The sound of an electric bell is heard.]Ah! that must be Aunt Augusta. Only relatives, or creditors, ever ring in thatWagnerian manner. Now, if I get her out of the way for ten minutes, so that youcan have an opportunity for proposing to Gwendolen, may I dine with youto-night at Willis’s?JACK.I suppose so, if you want to.ALGERNON.Yes, but you must be serious about it. I hate people who are not serious aboutmeals. It is so shallow of them.[Enter Lane.]LANE.Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax.[Algernon goes forward to meet them. Enter Lady Bracknell andGwendolen.]LADY BRACKNELL.Good afternoon, dear Algernon, I hope you are behaving very well.ALGERNON.I’m feeling very well, Aunt Augusta.LADY BRACKNELL.That’s not quite the same thing. In fact the two things rarely gotogether. [Sees Jack and bows to him with icy coldness.]ALGERNON.[To Gwendolen.] Dear me, you are smart!GWENDOLEN.I am always smart! Am I not, Mr. Worthing?JACK.You’re quite perfect, Miss Fairfax.GWENDOLEN.Oh! I hope I am not that. It would leave no room for developments, and I intendto develop in many directions. [Gwendolen and Jack sit downtogether in the corner.]LADY BRACKNELL.I’m sorry if we are a little late, Algernon, but I was obliged to call ondear Lady Harbury. I hadn’t been there since her poor husband’sdeath. I never saw a woman so altered; she looks quite twenty years younger.And now I’ll have a cup of tea, and one of those nice cucumber sandwichesyou promised me.ALGERNON.Certainly, Aunt Augusta. [Goes over to tea-table.]LADY BRACKNELL.Won’t you come and sit here, Gwendolen?GWENDOLEN.Thanks, mamma, I’m quite comfortable where I am.ALGERNON.[Picking up empty plate in horror.] Good heavens! Lane! Why are there nocucumber sandwiches? I ordered them specially.LANE.[Gravely.] There were no cucumbers in the market this morning, sir. I went downtwice.ALGERNON.No cucumbers!LANE.No, sir. Not even for ready money.ALGERNON.That will do, Lane, thank you.LANE.Thank you, sir. [Goes out.]ALGERNON.I am greatly distressed, Aunt Augusta, about there being no cucumbers, not evenfor ready money.LADY BRACKNELL.It really makes no matter, Algernon. I had some crumpets with Lady Harbury, whoseems to me to be living entirely for pleasure now.ALGERNON.I hear her hair has turned quite gold from grief.LADY BRACKNELL.It certainly has changed its colour. From what cause I, of course, cannot say.[Algernon crosses and hands tea.] Thank you. I’ve quite a treatfor you to-night, Algernon. I am going to send you down with Mary Farquhar. Sheis such a nice woman, and so attentive to her husband. It’s delightful towatch them.ALGERNON.I am afraid, Aunt Augusta, I shall have to give up the pleasure of dining withyou to-night after all.LADY BRACKNELL.[Frowning.] I hope not, Algernon. It would put my table completely out. Youruncle would have to dine upstairs. Fortunately he is accustomed to that.ALGERNON.It is a great bore, and, I need hardly say, a terrible disappointment to me,but the fact is I have just had a telegram to say that my poor friend Bunburyis very ill again. [Exchanges glances with Jack.] They seem to think Ishould be with him.LADY BRACKNELL.It is very strange. This Mr. Bunbury seems to suffer from curiously bad health.ALGERNON.Yes; poor Bunbury is a dreadful invalid.LADY BRACKNELL.Well, I must say, Algernon, that I think it is high time that Mr. Bunbury madeup his mind whether he was going to live or to die. This shilly-shallying withthe question is absurd. Nor do I in any way approve of the modern sympathy withinvalids. I consider it morbid. Illness of any kind is hardly a thing to beencouraged in others. Health is the primary duty of life. I am always tellingthat to your poor uncle, but he never seems to take much notice . . . as far asany improvement in his ailment goes. I should be much obliged if you would askMr. Bunbury, from me, to be kind enough not to have a relapse on Saturday, forI rely on you to arrange my music for me. It is my last reception, and onewants something that will encourage conversation, particularly at the end ofthe season when every one has practically said whatever they had to say, which,in most cases, was probably not much.ALGERNON.I’ll speak to Bunbury, Aunt Augusta, if he is still conscious, and Ithink I can promise you he’ll be all right by Saturday. Of course themusic is a great difficulty. You see, if one plays good music, peopledon’t listen, and if one plays bad music people don’t talk. ButI’ll run over the programme I’ve drawn out, if you will kindly comeinto the next room for a moment.LADY BRACKNELL.Thank you, Algernon. It is very thoughtful of you. [Rising, and followingAlgernon.] I’m sure the programme will be delightful, after a fewexpurgations. French songs I cannot possibly allow. People always seem to thinkthat they are improper, and either look shocked, which is vulgar, or laugh,which is worse. But German sounds a thoroughly respectable language, andindeed, I believe is so. Gwendolen, you will accompany me.GWENDOLEN.Certainly, mamma.[Lady Bracknell and Algernon go into the music-room,Gwendolen remains behind.]JACK.Charming day it has been, Miss Fairfax.GWENDOLEN.Pray don’t talk to me about the weather, Mr. Worthing. Whenever peopletalk to me about the weather, I always feel quite certain that they meansomething else. And that makes me so nervous.JACK.I do mean something else.GWENDOLEN.I thought so. In fact, I am never wrong.JACK.And I would like to be allowed to take advantage of Lady Bracknell’stemporary absence . . .GWENDOLEN.I would certainly advise you to do so. Mamma has a way of coming back suddenlyinto a room that I have often had to speak to her about.JACK.[Nervously.] Miss Fairfax, ever since I met you I have admired you more thanany girl . . . I have ever met since . . . I met you.GWENDOLEN.Yes, I am quite well aware of the fact. And I often wish that in public, at anyrate, you had been more demonstrative. For me you have always had anirresistible fascination. Even before I met you I was far from indifferent toyou. [Jack looks at her in amazement.] We live, as I hope you know, Mr.Worthing, in an age of ideals. The fact is constantly mentioned in the moreexpensive monthly magazines, and has reached the provincial pulpits, I am told;and my ideal has always been to love some one of the name of Ernest. There issomething in that name that inspires absolute confidence. The moment Algernonfirst mentioned to me that he had a friend called Ernest, I knew I was destinedto love you.JACK.You really love me, Gwendolen?GWENDOLEN.Passionately!JACK.Darling! You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.GWENDOLEN.My own Ernest!JACK.But you don’t really mean to say that you couldn’t love me if myname wasn’t Ernest?GWENDOLEN.But your name is Ernest.JACK.Yes, I know it is. But supposing it was something else? Do you mean to say youcouldn’t love me then?GWENDOLEN.[Glibly.] Ah! that is clearly a metaphysical speculation, and like mostmetaphysical speculations has very little reference at all to the actual factsof real life, as we know them.JACK.Personally, darling, to speak quite candidly, I don’t much care about thename of Ernest . . . I don’t think the name suits me at all.GWENDOLEN.It suits you perfectly. It is a divine name. It has a music of its own. Itproduces vibrations.JACK.Well, really, Gwendolen, I must say that I think there are lots of other muchnicer names. I think Jack, for instance, a charming name.GWENDOLEN.Jack? . . . No, there is very little music in the name Jack, if any at all,indeed. It does not thrill. It produces absolutely no vibrations . . . I haveknown several Jacks, and they all, without exception, were more than usuallyplain. Besides, Jack is a notorious domesticity for John! And I pity any womanwho is married to a man called John. She would probably never be allowed toknow the entrancing pleasure of a single moment’s solitude. The onlyreally safe name is Ernest.JACK.Gwendolen, I must get christened at once—I mean we must get married atonce. There is no time to be lost.GWENDOLEN.Married, Mr. Worthing?JACK.[Astounded.] Well . . . surely. You know that I love you, and you led me tobelieve, Miss Fairfax, that you were not absolutely indifferent to me.GWENDOLEN.I adore you. But you haven’t proposed to me yet. Nothing has been said atall about marriage. The subject has not even been touched on.JACK.Well . . . may I propose to you now?GWENDOLEN.I think it would be an admirable opportunity. And to spare you any possibledisappointment, Mr. Worthing, I think it only fair to tell you quite franklybefore-hand that I am fully determined to accept you.JACK.Gwendolen!GWENDOLEN.Yes, Mr. Worthing, what have you got to say to me?JACK.You know what I have got to say to you.GWENDOLEN.Yes, but you don’t say it.JACK.Gwendolen, will you marry me? [Goes on his knees.]GWENDOLEN.Of course I will, darling. How long you have been about it! I am afraid youhave had very little experience in how to propose.JACK.My own one, I have never loved any one in the world but you.GWENDOLEN.Yes, but men often propose for practice. I know my brother Gerald does. All mygirl-friends tell me so. What wonderfully blue eyes you have, Ernest! They arequite, quite, blue. I hope you will always look at me just like that,especially when there are other people present. [Enter Lady Bracknell.]LADY BRACKNELL.Mr. Worthing! Rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent posture. It is mostindecorous.GWENDOLEN.Mamma! [He tries to rise; she restrains him.] I must beg you to retire. This isno place for you. Besides, Mr. Worthing has not quite finished yet.LADY BRACKNELL.Finished what, may I ask?GWENDOLEN.I am engaged to Mr. Worthing, mamma. [They rise together.]LADY BRACKNELL.Pardon me, you are not engaged to any one. When you do become engaged to someone, I, or your father, should his health permit him, will inform you of thefact. An engagement should come on a young girl as a surprise, pleasant orunpleasant, as the case may be. It is hardly a matter that she could be allowedto arrange for herself . . . And now I have a few questions to put to you, Mr.Worthing. While I am making these inquiries, you, Gwendolen, will wait for mebelow in the carriage.GWENDOLEN.[Reproachfully.] Mamma!LADY BRACKNELL.In the carriage, Gwendolen! [Gwendolen goes to the door. She andJack blow kisses to each other behind Lady Bracknell’sback. Lady Bracknell looks vaguely about as if she could not understandwhat the noise was. Finally turns round.] Gwendolen, the carriage!GWENDOLEN.Yes, mamma. [Goes out, looking back at Jack.]LADY BRACKNELL.[Sitting down.] You can take a seat, Mr. Worthing.[Looks in her pocket for note-book and pencil.]JACK.Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I prefer standing.LADY BRACKNELL.[Pencil and note-book in hand.] I feel bound to tell you that you are not downon my list of eligible young men, although I have the same list as the dearDuchess of Bolton has. We work together, in fact. However, I am quite ready toenter your name, should your answers be what a really affectionate motherrequires. Do you smoke?JACK.Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.LADY BRACKNELL.I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an occupation of some kind.There are far too many idle men in London as it is. How old are you?JACK.Twenty-nine.LADY BRACKNELL.A very good age to be married at. I have always been of opinion that a man whodesires to get married should know either everything or nothing. Which do youknow?JACK.[After some hesitation.] I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.LADY BRACKNELL.I am pleased to hear it. I do not approve of anything that tampers with naturalignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom isgone. The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately inEngland, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, itwould prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts ofviolence in Grosvenor Square. What is your income?JACK.Between seven and eight thousand a year.LADY BRACKNELL.[Makes a note in her book.] In land, or in investments?JACK.In investments, chiefly.LADY BRACKNELL.That is satisfactory. What between the duties expected of one duringone’s lifetime, and the duties exacted from one after one’s death,land has ceased to be either a profit or a pleasure. It gives one position, andprevents one from keeping it up. That’s all that can be said about land.JACK.I have a country house with some land, of course, attached to it, about fifteenhundred acres, I believe; but I don’t depend on that for my real income.In fact, as far as I can make out, the poachers are the only people who makeanything out of it.LADY BRACKNELL.A country house! How many bedrooms? Well, that point can be cleared upafterwards. You have a town house, I hope? A girl with a simple, unspoilednature, like Gwendolen, could hardly be expected to reside in the country.JACK.Well, I own a house in Belgrave Square, but it is let by the year to LadyBloxham. Of course, I can get it back whenever I like, at six months’notice.LADY BRACKNELL.Lady Bloxham? I don’t know her.JACK.Oh, she goes about very little. She is a lady considerably advanced in years.LADY BRACKNELL.Ah, nowadays that is no guarantee of respectability of character. What numberin Belgrave Square?JACK.149.LADY BRACKNELL.[Shaking her head.] The unfashionable side. I thought there was something.However, that could easily be altered.JACK.Do you mean the fashion, or the side?LADY BRACKNELL.[Sternly.] Both, if necessary, I presume. What are your politics?JACK.Well, I am afraid I really have none. I am a Liberal Unionist.LADY BRACKNELL.Oh, they count as Tories. They dine with us. Or come in the evening, at anyrate. Now to minor matters. Are your parents living?JACK.I have lost both my parents.LADY BRACKNELL.To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose bothlooks like carelessness. Who was your father? He was evidently a man of somewealth. Was he born in what the Radical papers call the purple of commerce, ordid he rise from the ranks of the aristocracy?JACK.I am afraid I really don’t know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I said Ihad lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that my parents seemto have lost me . . . I don’t actually know who I am by birth. I was . .. well, I was found.LADY BRACKNELL.Found!JACK.The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitable and kindlydisposition, found me, and gave me the name of Worthing, because he happened tohave a first-class ticket for Worthing in his pocket at the time. Worthing is aplace in Sussex. It is a seaside resort.LADY BRACKNELL.Where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-class ticket for thisseaside resort find you?JACK.[Gravely.] In a hand-bag.LADY BRACKNELL.A hand-bag?JACK.[Very seriously.] Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag—a somewhatlarge, black leather hand-bag, with handles to it—an ordinary hand-bag infact.LADY BRACKNELL.In what locality did this Mr. James, or Thomas, Cardew come across thisordinary hand-bag?JACK.In the cloak-room at Victoria Station. It was given to him in mistake for hisown.LADY BRACKNELL.The cloak-room at Victoria Station?JACK.Yes. The Brighton line.LADY BRACKNELL.The line is immaterial. Mr. Worthing, I confess I feel somewhat bewildered bywhat you have just told me. To be born, or at any rate bred, in a hand-bag,whether it had handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for theordinary decencies of family life that reminds one of the worst excesses of theFrench Revolution. And I presume you know what that unfortunate movement ledto? As for the particular locality in which the hand-bag was found, acloak-room at a railway station might serve to conceal a socialindiscretion—has probably, indeed, been used for that purpose beforenow—but it could hardly be regarded as an assured basis for a recognisedposition in good society.JACK.May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need hardly say I would doanything in the world to ensure Gwendolen’s happiness.LADY BRACKNELL.I would strongly advise you, Mr. Worthing, to try and acquire some relations assoon as possible, and to make a definite effort to produce at any rate oneparent, of either sex, before the season is quite over.JACK.Well, I don’t see how I could possibly manage to do that. I can producethe hand-bag at any moment. It is in my dressing-room at home. I really thinkthat should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.LADY BRACKNELL.Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly imagine that I and LordBracknell would dream of allowing our only daughter—a girl brought upwith the utmost care—to marry into a cloak-room, and form an alliancewith a parcel? Good morning, Mr. Worthing![Lady Bracknell sweeps out in majestic indignation.]JACK.Good morning! [Algernon, from the other room, strikes up the WeddingMarch. Jack looks perfectly furious, and goes to the door.] For goodness’sake don’t play that ghastly tune, Algy. How idiotic you are![The music stops and Algernon enters cheerily.]ALGERNON.Didn’t it go off all right, old boy? You don’t mean to sayGwendolen refused you? I know it is a way she has. She is always refusingpeople. I think it is most ill-natured of her.JACK.Oh, Gwendolen is as right as a trivet. As far as she is concerned, we areengaged. Her mother is perfectly unbearable. Never met such a Gorgon . . . Idon’t really know what a Gorgon is like, but I am quite sure that LadyBracknell is one. In any case, she is a monster, without being a myth, which israther unfair . . . I beg your pardon, Algy, I suppose I shouldn’t talkabout your own aunt in that way before you.ALGERNON.My dear boy, I love hearing my relations abused. It is the only thing thatmakes me put up with them at all. Relations are simply a tedious pack ofpeople, who haven’t got the remotest knowledge of how to live, nor thesmallest instinct about when to die.JACK.Oh, that is nonsense!ALGERNON.It isn’t!JACK.Well, I won’t argue about the matter. You always want to argue aboutthings.ALGERNON.That is exactly what things were originally made for.JACK.Upon my word, if I thought that, I’d shoot myself . . . [A pause.] Youdon’t think there is any chance of Gwendolen becoming like her mother inabout a hundred and fifty years, do you, Algy?ALGERNON.All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does.That’s his.JACK.Is that clever?ALGERNON.It is perfectly phrased! and quite as true as any observation in civilised lifeshould be.JACK.I am sick to death of cleverness. Everybody is clever nowadays. You can’tgo anywhere without meeting clever people. The thing has become an absolutepublic nuisance. I wish to goodness we had a few fools left.ALGERNON.We have.JACK.I should extremely like to meet them. What do they talk about?ALGERNON.The fools? Oh! about the clever people, of course.JACK.What fools!ALGERNON.By the way, did you tell Gwendolen the truth about your being Ernest in town,and Jack in the country?JACK.[In a very patronising manner.] My dear fellow, the truth isn’t quite thesort of thing one tells to a nice, sweet, refined girl. What extraordinaryideas you have about the way to behave to a woman!ALGERNON.The only way to behave to a woman is to make love to her, if she is pretty, andto some one else, if she is plain.JACK.Oh, that is nonsense.ALGERNON.What about your brother? What about the profligate Ernest?JACK.Oh, before the end of the week I shall have got rid of him. I’ll say hedied in Paris of apoplexy. Lots of people die of apoplexy, quite suddenly,don’t they?ALGERNON.Yes, but it’s hereditary, my dear fellow. It’s a sort of thing thatruns in families. You had much better say a severe chill.JACK.You are sure a severe chill isn’t hereditary, or anything of that kind?ALGERNON.Of course it isn’t!JACK.Very well, then. My poor brother Ernest is carried off suddenly, in Paris, by asevere chill. That gets rid of him.ALGERNON.But I thought you said that . . . Miss Cardew was a little too much interestedin your poor brother Ernest? Won’t she feel his loss a good deal?JACK.Oh, that is all right. Cecily is not a silly romantic girl, I am glad to say.She has got a capital appetite, goes long walks, and pays no attention at allto her lessons.ALGERNON.I would rather like to see Cecily.JACK.I will take very good care you never do. She is excessively pretty, and she isonly just eighteen.ALGERNON.Have you told Gwendolen yet that you have an excessively pretty ward who isonly just eighteen?JACK.Oh! one doesn’t blurt these things out to people. Cecily and Gwendolenare perfectly certain to be extremely great friends. I’ll bet youanything you like that half an hour after they have met, they will be callingeach other sister.ALGERNON.Women only do that when they have called each other a lot of other thingsfirst. Now, my dear boy, if we want to get a good table at Willis’s, wereally must go and dress. Do you know it is nearly seven?JACK.[Irritably.] Oh! It always is nearly seven.ALGERNON.Well, I’m hungry.JACK.I never knew you when you weren’t . . .ALGERNON.What shall we do after dinner? Go to a theatre?JACK.Oh no! I loathe listening.ALGERNON.Well, let us go to the Club?JACK.Oh, no! I hate talking.ALGERNON.Well, we might trot round to the Empire at ten?JACK.Oh, no! I can’t bear looking at things. It is so silly.ALGERNON.Well, what shall we do?JACK.Nothing!ALGERNON.It is awfully hard work doing nothing. However, I don’t mind hard workwhere there is no definite object of any kind.[Enter Lane.]LANE.Miss Fairfax.[Enter Gwendolen. Lane goes out.]ALGERNON.Gwendolen, upon my word!GWENDOLEN.Algy, kindly turn your back. I have something very particular to say to Mr.Worthing.ALGERNON.Really, Gwendolen, I don’t think I can allow this at all.GWENDOLEN.Algy, you always adopt a strictly immoral attitude towards life. You are notquite old enough to do that. [Algernon retires to the fireplace.]JACK.My own darling!GWENDOLEN.Ernest, we may never be married. From the expression on mamma’s face Ifear we never shall. Few parents nowadays pay any regard to what their childrensay to them. The old-fashioned respect for the young is fast dying out.Whatever influence I ever had over mamma, I lost at the age of three. Butalthough she may prevent us from becoming man and wife, and I may marry someone else, and marry often, nothing that she can possibly do can alter myeternal devotion to you.JACK.Dear Gwendolen!GWENDOLEN.The story of your romantic origin, as related to me by mamma, with unpleasingcomments, has naturally stirred the deeper fibres of my nature. Your Christianname has an irresistible fascination. The simplicity of your character makesyou exquisitely incomprehensible to me. Your town address at the Albany I have.What is your address in the country?JACK.The Manor House, Woolton, Hertfordshire.[Algernon, who has been carefully listening, smiles to himself, andwrites the address on his shirt-cuff. Then picks up the Railway Guide.]GWENDOLEN.There is a good postal service, I suppose? It may be necessary to do somethingdesperate. That of course will require serious consideration. I willcommunicate with you daily.JACK.My own one!GWENDOLEN.How long do you remain in town?JACK.Till Monday.GWENDOLEN.Good! Algy, you may turn round now.ALGERNON.Thanks, I’ve turned round already.GWENDOLEN.You may also ring the bell.JACK.You will let me see you to your carriage, my own darling?GWENDOLEN.Certainly.JACK.[To Lane, who now enters.] I will see Miss Fairfax out.LANE.Yes, sir. [Jack and Gwendolen go off.][Lane presents several letters on a salver to Algernon. It isto be surmised that they are bills, as Algernon, after looking at theenvelopes, tears them up.]ALGERNON.A glass of sherry, Lane.LANE.Yes, sir.ALGERNON.To-morrow, Lane, I’m going Bunburying.LANE.Yes, sir.ALGERNON.I shall probably not be back till Monday. You can put up my dress clothes, mysmoking jacket, and all the Bunbury suits . . .LANE.Yes, sir. [Handing sherry.]ALGERNON.I hope to-morrow will be a fine day, Lane.LANE.It never is, sir.ALGERNON.Lane, you’re a perfect pessimist.LANE.I do my best to give satisfaction, sir.[Enter Jack. Lane goes off.]JACK.There’s a sensible, intellectual girl! the only girl I ever cared for inmy life. [Algernon is laughing immoderately.] What on earth are you soamused at?ALGERNON.Oh, I’m a little anxious about poor Bunbury, that is all.JACK.If you don’t take care, your friend Bunbury will get you into a seriousscrape some day.ALGERNON.I love scrapes. They are the only things that are never serious.JACK.Oh, that’s nonsense, Algy. You never talk anything but nonsense.ALGERNON.Nobody ever does.[Jack looks indignantly at him, and leaves the room. Algernonlights a cigarette, reads his shirt-cuff, and smiles.]ACT DROP
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SECOND ACT
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Garden at the Manor House. A flight of grey stone steps leads up to thehouse. The garden, an old-fashioned one, full of roses. Time of year, July.Basket chairs, and a table covered with books, are set under a large yew-tree.[Miss Prism discovered seated at the table. Cecily is at theback watering flowers.]MISS PRISM.[Calling.] Cecily, Cecily! Surely such a utilitarian occupation as the wateringof flowers is rather Moulton’s duty than yours? Especially at a momentwhen intellectual pleasures await you. Your German grammar is on the table.Pray open it at page fifteen. We will repeat yesterday’s lesson.CECILY.[Coming over very slowly.] But I don’t like German. It isn’t at alla becoming language. I know perfectly well that I look quite plain after myGerman lesson.MISS PRISM.Child, you know how anxious your guardian is that you should improve yourselfin every way. He laid particular stress on your German, as he was leaving fortown yesterday. Indeed, he always lays stress on your German when he is leavingfor town.CECILY.Dear Uncle Jack is so very serious! Sometimes he is so serious that I think hecannot be quite well.MISS PRISM.[Drawing herself up.] Your guardian enjoys the best of health, and his gravityof demeanour is especially to be commended in one so comparatively young as heis. I know no one who has a higher sense of duty and responsibility.CECILY.I suppose that is why he often looks a little bored when we three are together.MISS PRISM.Cecily! I am surprised at you. Mr. Worthing has many troubles in his life. Idlemerriment and triviality would be out of place in his conversation. You mustremember his constant anxiety about that unfortunate young man his brother.CECILY.I wish Uncle Jack would allow that unfortunate young man, his brother, to comedown here sometimes. We might have a good influence over him, Miss Prism. I amsure you certainly would. You know German, and geology, and things of that kindinfluence a man very much. [Cecily begins to write in her diary.]MISS PRISM.[Shaking her head.] I do not think that even I could produce any effect on acharacter that according to his own brother’s admission is irretrievablyweak and vacillating. Indeed I am not sure that I would desire to reclaim him.I am not in favour of this modern mania for turning bad people into good peopleat a moment’s notice. As a man sows so let him reap. You must put awayyour diary, Cecily. I really don’t see why you should keep a diary atall.CECILY.I keep a diary in order to enter the wonderful secrets of my life. If Ididn’t write them down, I should probably forget all about them.MISS PRISM.Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us.CECILY.Yes, but it usually chronicles the things that have never happened, andcouldn’t possibly have happened. I believe that Memory is responsible fornearly all the three-volume novels that Mudie sends us.MISS PRISM.Do not speak slightingly of the three-volume novel, Cecily. I wrote one myselfin earlier days.CECILY.Did you really, Miss Prism? How wonderfully clever you are! I hope it did notend happily? I don’t like novels that end happily. They depress me somuch.MISS PRISM.The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what Fiction means.CECILY.I suppose so. But it seems very unfair. And was your novel ever published?MISS PRISM.Alas! no. The manuscript unfortunately was abandoned. [Cecily starts.] Iuse the word in the sense of lost or mislaid. To your work, child, thesespeculations are profitless.CECILY.[Smiling.] But I see dear Dr. Chasuble coming up through the garden.MISS PRISM.[Rising and advancing.] Dr. Chasuble! This is indeed a pleasure.[Enter Canon Chasuble.]CHASUBLE.And how are we this morning? Miss Prism, you are, I trust, well?CECILY.Miss Prism has just been complaining of a slight headache. I think it would doher so much good to have a short stroll with you in the Park, Dr. Chasuble.MISS PRISM.Cecily, I have not mentioned anything about a headache.CECILY.No, dear Miss Prism, I know that, but I felt instinctively that you had aheadache. Indeed I was thinking about that, and not about my German lesson,when the Rector came in.CHASUBLE.I hope, Cecily, you are not inattentive.CECILY.Oh, I am afraid I am.CHASUBLE.That is strange. Were I fortunate enough to be Miss Prism’s pupil, Iwould hang upon her lips. [Miss Prism glares.] I spokemetaphorically.—My metaphor was drawn from bees. Ahem! Mr. Worthing, Isuppose, has not returned from town yet?MISS PRISM.We do not expect him till Monday afternoon.CHASUBLE.Ah yes, he usually likes to spend his Sunday in London. He is not one of thosewhose sole aim is enjoyment, as, by all accounts, that unfortunate young manhis brother seems to be. But I must not disturb Egeria and her pupil anylonger.MISS PRISM.Egeria? My name is Lætitia, Doctor.CHASUBLE.[Bowing.] A classical allusion merely, drawn from the Pagan authors. I shallsee you both no doubt at Evensong?MISS PRISM.I think, dear Doctor, I will have a stroll with you. I find I have a headacheafter all, and a walk might do it good.CHASUBLE.With pleasure, Miss Prism, with pleasure. We might go as far as the schools andback.MISS PRISM.That would be delightful. Cecily, you will read your Political Economy in myabsence. The chapter on the Fall of the Rupee you may omit. It is somewhat toosensational. Even these metallic problems have their melodramatic side.[Goes down the garden with Dr. Chasuble.]CECILY.[Picks up books and throws them back on table.] Horrid Political Economy!Horrid Geography! Horrid, horrid German![Enter Merriman with a card on a salver.]MERRIMAN.Mr. Ernest Worthing has just driven over from the station. He has brought hisluggage with him.CECILY.[Takes the card and reads it.] ‘Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4, The Albany,W.’ Uncle Jack’s brother! Did you tell him Mr. Worthing was intown?MERRIMAN.Yes, Miss. He seemed very much disappointed. I mentioned that you and MissPrism were in the garden. He said he was anxious to speak to you privately fora moment.CECILY.Ask Mr. Ernest Worthing to come here. I suppose you had better talk to thehousekeeper about a room for him.MERRIMAN.Yes, Miss.[Merriman goes off.]CECILY.I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel rather frightened. Iam so afraid he will look just like every one else.[Enter Algernon, very gay and debonnair.] He does!ALGERNON.[Raising his hat.] You are my little cousin Cecily, I’m sure.CECILY.You are under some strange mistake. I am not little. In fact, I believe I ammore than usually tall for my age. [Algernon is rather taken aback.] ButI am your cousin Cecily. You, I see from your card, are Uncle Jack’sbrother, my cousin Ernest, my wicked cousin Ernest.ALGERNON.Oh! I am not really wicked at all, cousin Cecily. You mustn’t think thatI am wicked.CECILY.If you are not, then you have certainly been deceiving us all in a veryinexcusable manner. I hope you have not been leading a double life, pretendingto be wicked and being really good all the time. That would be hypocrisy.ALGERNON.[Looks at her in amazement.] Oh! Of course I have been rather reckless.CECILY.I am glad to hear it.ALGERNON.In fact, now you mention the subject, I have been very bad in my own small way.CECILY.I don’t think you should be so proud of that, though I am sure it musthave been very pleasant.ALGERNON.It is much pleasanter being here with you.CECILY.I can’t understand how you are here at all. Uncle Jack won’t beback till Monday afternoon.ALGERNON.That is a great disappointment. I am obliged to go up by the first train onMonday morning. I have a business appointment that I am anxious . . . to miss?CECILY.Couldn’t you miss it anywhere but in London?ALGERNON.No: the appointment is in London.CECILY.Well, I know, of course, how important it is not to keep a business engagement,if one wants to retain any sense of the beauty of life, but still I think youhad better wait till Uncle Jack arrives. I know he wants to speak to you aboutyour emigrating.ALGERNON.About my what?CECILY.Your emigrating. He has gone up to buy your outfit.ALGERNON.I certainly wouldn’t let Jack buy my outfit. He has no taste in necktiesat all.CECILY.I don’t think you will require neckties. Uncle Jack is sending you toAustralia.ALGERNON.Australia! I’d sooner die.CECILY.Well, he said at dinner on Wednesday night, that you would have to choosebetween this world, the next world, and Australia.ALGERNON.Oh, well! The accounts I have received of Australia and the next world, are notparticularly encouraging. This world is good enough for me, cousin Cecily.CECILY.Yes, but are you good enough for it?ALGERNON.I’m afraid I’m not that. That is why I want you to reform me. Youmight make that your mission, if you don’t mind, cousin Cecily.CECILY.I’m afraid I’ve no time, this afternoon.ALGERNON.Well, would you mind my reforming myself this afternoon?CECILY.It is rather Quixotic of you. But I think you should try.ALGERNON.I will. I feel better already.CECILY.You are looking a little worse.ALGERNON.That is because I am hungry.CECILY.How thoughtless of me. I should have remembered that when one is going to leadan entirely new life, one requires regular and wholesome meals. Won’t youcome in?ALGERNON.Thank you. Might I have a buttonhole first? I never have any appetite unless Ihave a buttonhole first.CECILY.A Marechal Niel? [Picks up scissors.]ALGERNON.No, I’d sooner have a pink rose.CECILY.Why? [Cuts a flower.]ALGERNON.Because you are like a pink rose, Cousin Cecily.CECILY.I don’t think it can be right for you to talk to me like that. Miss Prismnever says such things to me.ALGERNON.Then Miss Prism is a short-sighted old lady. [Cecily puts the rose inhis buttonhole.] You are the prettiest girl I ever saw.CECILY.Miss Prism says that all good looks are a snare.ALGERNON.They are a snare that every sensible man would like to be caught in.CECILY.Oh, I don’t think I would care to catch a sensible man. I shouldn’tknow what to talk to him about.[They pass into the house. Miss Prism and Dr. Chasublereturn.]MISS PRISM.You are too much alone, dear Dr. Chasuble. You should get married. Amisanthrope I can understand—a womanthrope, never!CHASUBLE.[With a scholar’s shudder.] Believe me, I do not deserve so neologistic aphrase. The precept as well as the practice of the Primitive Church wasdistinctly against matrimony.MISS PRISM.[Sententiously.] That is obviously the reason why the Primitive Church has notlasted up to the present day. And you do not seem to realise, dear Doctor, thatby persistently remaining single, a man converts himself into a permanentpublic temptation. Men should be more careful; this very celibacy leads weakervessels astray.CHASUBLE.But is a man not equally attractive when married?MISS PRISM.No married man is ever attractive except to his wife.CHASUBLE.And often, I’ve been told, not even to her.MISS PRISM.That depends on the intellectual sympathies of the woman. Maturity can alwaysbe depended on. Ripeness can be trusted. Young women are green. [Dr.Chasuble starts.] I spoke horticulturally. My metaphor was drawn fromfruits. But where is Cecily?CHASUBLE.Perhaps she followed us to the schools.[Enter Jack slowly from the back of the garden. He is dressed in thedeepest mourning, with crape hatband and black gloves.]MISS PRISM.Mr. Worthing!CHASUBLE.Mr. Worthing?MISS PRISM.This is indeed a surprise. We did not look for you till Monday afternoon.JACK.[Shakes Miss Prism’s hand in a tragic manner.] I have returnedsooner than I expected. Dr. Chasuble, I hope you are well?CHASUBLE.Dear Mr. Worthing, I trust this garb of woe does not betoken some terriblecalamity?JACK.My brother.MISS PRISM.More shameful debts and extravagance?CHASUBLE.Still leading his life of pleasure?JACK.[Shaking his head.] Dead!CHASUBLE.Your brother Ernest dead?JACK.Quite dead.MISS PRISM.What a lesson for him! I trust he will profit by it.CHASUBLE.Mr. Worthing, I offer you my sincere condolence. You have at least theconsolation of knowing that you were always the most generous and forgiving ofbrothers.JACK.Poor Ernest! He had many faults, but it is a sad, sad blow.CHASUBLE.Very sad indeed. Were you with him at the end?JACK.No. He died abroad; in Paris, in fact. I had a telegram last night from themanager of the Grand Hotel.CHASUBLE.Was the cause of death mentioned?JACK.A severe chill, it seems.MISS PRISM.As a man sows, so shall he reap.CHASUBLE.[Raising his hand.] Charity, dear Miss Prism, charity! None of us are perfect.I myself am peculiarly susceptible to draughts. Will the interment take placehere?JACK.No. He seems to have expressed a desire to be buried in Paris.CHASUBLE.In Paris! [Shakes his head.] I fear that hardly points to any very seriousstate of mind at the last. You would no doubt wish me to make some slightallusion to this tragic domestic affliction next Sunday. [Jack presseshis hand convulsively.] My sermon on the meaning of the manna in the wildernesscan be adapted to almost any occasion, joyful, or, as in the present case,distressing. [All sigh.] I have preached it at harvest celebrations,christenings, confirmations, on days of humiliation and festal days. The lasttime I delivered it was in the Cathedral, as a charity sermon on behalf of theSociety for the Prevention of Discontent among the Upper Orders. The Bishop,who was present, was much struck by some of the analogies I drew.JACK.Ah! that reminds me, you mentioned christenings I think, Dr. Chasuble? Isuppose you know how to christen all right? [Dr. Chasuble looksastounded.] I mean, of course, you are continually christening, aren’tyou?MISS PRISM.It is, I regret to say, one of the Rector’s most constant duties in thisparish. I have often spoken to the poorer classes on the subject. But theydon’t seem to know what thrift is.CHASUBLE.But is there any particular infant in whom you are interested, Mr. Worthing?Your brother was, I believe, unmarried, was he not?JACK.Oh yes.MISS PRISM.[Bitterly.] People who live entirely for pleasure usually are.JACK.But it is not for any child, dear Doctor. I am very fond of children. No! thefact is, I would like to be christened myself, this afternoon, if you havenothing better to do.CHASUBLE.But surely, Mr. Worthing, you have been christened already?JACK.I don’t remember anything about it.CHASUBLE.But have you any grave doubts on the subject?JACK.I certainly intend to have. Of course I don’t know if the thing wouldbother you in any way, or if you think I am a little too old now.CHASUBLE.Not at all. The sprinkling, and, indeed, the immersion of adults is a perfectlycanonical practice.JACK.Immersion!CHASUBLE.You need have no apprehensions. Sprinkling is all that is necessary, or indeedI think advisable. Our weather is so changeable. At what hour would you wishthe ceremony performed?JACK.Oh, I might trot round about five if that would suit you.CHASUBLE.Perfectly, perfectly! In fact I have two similar ceremonies to perform at thattime. A case of twins that occurred recently in one of the outlying cottages onyour own estate. Poor Jenkins the carter, a most hard-working man.JACK.Oh! I don’t see much fun in being christened along with other babies. Itwould be childish. Would half-past five do?CHASUBLE.Admirably! Admirably! [Takes out watch.] And now, dear Mr. Worthing, I will notintrude any longer into a house of sorrow. I would merely beg you not to be toomuch bowed down by grief. What seem to us bitter trials are often blessings indisguise.MISS PRISM.This seems to me a blessing of an extremely obvious kind.[Enter Cecily from the house.]CECILY.Uncle Jack! Oh, I am pleased to see you back. But what horrid clothes you havegot on! Do go and change them.MISS PRISM.Cecily!CHASUBLE.My child! my child! [Cecily goes towards Jack; he kisses her browin a melancholy manner.]CECILY.What is the matter, Uncle Jack? Do look happy! You look as if you hadtoothache, and I have got such a surprise for you. Who do you think is in thedining-room? Your brother!JACK.Who?CECILY.Your brother Ernest. He arrived about half an hour ago.JACK.What nonsense! I haven’t got a brother.CECILY.Oh, don’t say that. However badly he may have behaved to you in the pasthe is still your brother. You couldn’t be so heartless as to disown him.I’ll tell him to come out. And you will shake hands with him, won’tyou, Uncle Jack? [Runs back into the house.]CHASUBLE.These are very joyful tidings.MISS PRISM.After we had all been resigned to his loss, his sudden return seems to mepeculiarly distressing.JACK.My brother is in the dining-room? I don’t know what it all means. I thinkit is perfectly absurd.[Enter Algernon and Cecily hand in hand. They come slowly upto Jack.]JACK.Good heavens! [Motions Algernon away.]ALGERNON.Brother John, I have come down from town to tell you that I am very sorry forall the trouble I have given you, and that I intend to lead a better life inthe future. [Jack glares at him and does not take his hand.]CECILY.Uncle Jack, you are not going to refuse your own brother’s hand?JACK.Nothing will induce me to take his hand. I think his coming down heredisgraceful. He knows perfectly well why.CECILY.Uncle Jack, do be nice. There is some good in every one. Ernest has just beentelling me about his poor invalid friend Mr. Bunbury whom he goes to visit sooften. And surely there must be much good in one who is kind to an invalid, andleaves the pleasures of London to sit by a bed of pain.JACK.Oh! he has been talking about Bunbury, has he?CECILY.Yes, he has told me all about poor Mr. Bunbury, and his terrible state ofhealth.JACK.Bunbury! Well, I won’t have him talk to you about Bunbury or aboutanything else. It is enough to drive one perfectly frantic.ALGERNON.Of course I admit that the faults were all on my side. But I must say that Ithink that Brother John’s coldness to me is peculiarly painful. Iexpected a more enthusiastic welcome, especially considering it is the firsttime I have come here.CECILY.Uncle Jack, if you don’t shake hands with Ernest I will never forgiveyou.JACK.Never forgive me?CECILY.Never, never, never!JACK.Well, this is the last time I shall ever do it. [Shakes with Algernonand glares.]CHASUBLE.It’s pleasant, is it not, to see so perfect a reconciliation? I think wemight leave the two brothers together.MISS PRISM.Cecily, you will come with us.CECILY.Certainly, Miss Prism. My little task of reconciliation is over.CHASUBLE.You have done a beautiful action to-day, dear child.MISS PRISM.We must not be premature in our judgments.CECILY.I feel very happy. [They all go off except Jack and Algernon.]JACK.You young scoundrel, Algy, you must get out of this place as soon as possible.I don’t allow any Bunburying here.[Enter Merriman.]MERRIMAN.I have put Mr. Ernest’s things in the room next to yours, sir. I supposethat is all right?JACK.What?MERRIMAN.Mr. Ernest’s luggage, sir. I have unpacked it and put it in the room nextto your own.JACK.His luggage?MERRIMAN.Yes, sir. Three portmanteaus, a dressing-case, two hat-boxes, and a largeluncheon-basket.ALGERNON.I am afraid I can’t stay more than a week this time.JACK.Merriman, order the dog-cart at once. Mr. Ernest has been suddenly called backto town.MERRIMAN.Yes, sir. [Goes back into the house.]ALGERNON.What a fearful liar you are, Jack. I have not been called back to town at all.JACK.Yes, you have.ALGERNON.I haven’t heard any one call me.JACK.Your duty as a gentleman calls you back.ALGERNON.My duty as a gentleman has never interfered with my pleasures in the smallestdegree.JACK.I can quite understand that.ALGERNON.Well, Cecily is a darling.JACK.You are not to talk of Miss Cardew like that. I don’t like it.ALGERNON.Well, I don’t like your clothes. You look perfectly ridiculous in them.Why on earth don’t you go up and change? It is perfectly childish to bein deep mourning for a man who is actually staying for a whole week with you inyour house as a guest. I call it grotesque.JACK.You are certainly not staying with me for a whole week as a guest or anythingelse. You have got to leave . . . by the four-five train.ALGERNON.I certainly won’t leave you so long as you are in mourning. It would bemost unfriendly. If I were in mourning you would stay with me, I suppose. Ishould think it very unkind if you didn’t.JACK.Well, will you go if I change my clothes?ALGERNON.Yes, if you are not too long. I never saw anybody take so long to dress, andwith such little result.JACK.Well, at any rate, that is better than being always over-dressed as you are.ALGERNON.If I am occasionally a little over-dressed, I make up for it by being alwaysimmensely over-educated.JACK.Your vanity is ridiculous, your conduct an outrage, and your presence in mygarden utterly absurd. However, you have got to catch the four-five, and I hopeyou will have a pleasant journey back to town. This Bunburying, as you call it,has not been a great success for you.[Goes into the house.]ALGERNON.I think it has been a great success. I’m in love with Cecily, and that iseverything.[Enter Cecily at the back of the garden. She picks up the can andbegins to water the flowers.] But I must see her before I go, and makearrangements for another Bunbury. Ah, there she is.CECILY.Oh, I merely came back to water the roses. I thought you were with Uncle Jack.ALGERNON.He’s gone to order the dog-cart for me.CECILY.Oh, is he going to take you for a nice drive?ALGERNON.He’s going to send me away.CECILY.Then have we got to part?ALGERNON.I am afraid so. It’s a very painful parting.CECILY.It is always painful to part from people whom one has known for a very briefspace of time. The absence of old friends one can endure with equanimity. Buteven a momentary separation from anyone to whom one has just been introduced isalmost unbearable.ALGERNON.Thank you.[Enter Merriman.]MERRIMAN.The dog-cart is at the door, sir. [Algernon looks appealingly atCecily.]CECILY.It can wait, Merriman for . . . five minutes.MERRIMAN.Yes, Miss. [Exit Merriman.]ALGERNON.I hope, Cecily, I shall not offend you if I state quite frankly and openly thatyou seem to me to be in every way the visible personification of absoluteperfection.CECILY.I think your frankness does you great credit, Ernest. If you will allow me, Iwill copy your remarks into my diary. [Goes over to table and begins writing indiary.]ALGERNON.Do you really keep a diary? I’d give anything to look at it. May I?CECILY.Oh no. [Puts her hand over it.] You see, it is simply a very young girl’srecord of her own thoughts and impressions, and consequently meant forpublication. When it appears in volume form I hope you will order a copy. Butpray, Ernest, don’t stop. I delight in taking down from dictation. I havereached ‘absolute perfection’. You can go on. I am quite ready formore.ALGERNON.[Somewhat taken aback.] Ahem! Ahem!CECILY.Oh, don’t cough, Ernest. When one is dictating one should speak fluentlyand not cough. Besides, I don’t know how to spell a cough. [Writes asAlgernon speaks.]ALGERNON.[Speaking very rapidly.] Cecily, ever since I first looked upon your wonderfuland incomparable beauty, I have dared to love you wildly, passionately,devotedly, hopelessly.CECILY.I don’t think that you should tell me that you love me wildly,passionately, devotedly, hopelessly. Hopelessly doesn’t seem to make muchsense, does it?ALGERNON.Cecily![Enter Merriman.]MERRIMAN.The dog-cart is waiting, sir.ALGERNON.Tell it to come round next week, at the same hour.MERRIMAN.[Looks at Cecily, who makes no sign.] Yes, sir.[Merriman retires.]CECILY.Uncle Jack would be very much annoyed if he knew you were staying on till nextweek, at the same hour.ALGERNON.Oh, I don’t care about Jack. I don’t care for anybody in the wholeworld but you. I love you, Cecily. You will marry me, won’t you?CECILY.You silly boy! Of course. Why, we have been engaged for the last three months.ALGERNON.For the last three months?CECILY.Yes, it will be exactly three months on Thursday.ALGERNON.But how did we become engaged?CECILY.Well, ever since dear Uncle Jack first confessed to us that he had a youngerbrother who was very wicked and bad, you of course have formed the chief topicof conversation between myself and Miss Prism. And of course a man who is muchtalked about is always very attractive. One feels there must be something inhim, after all. I daresay it was foolish of me, but I fell in love with you,Ernest.ALGERNON.Darling! And when was the engagement actually settled?CECILY.On the 14th of February last. Worn out by your entire ignorance of myexistence, I determined to end the matter one way or the other, and after along struggle with myself I accepted you under this dear old tree here. Thenext day I bought this little ring in your name, and this is the little banglewith the true lover’s knot I promised you always to wear.ALGERNON.Did I give you this? It’s very pretty, isn’t it?CECILY.Yes, you’ve wonderfully good taste, Ernest. It’s the excuseI’ve always given for your leading such a bad life. And this is the boxin which I keep all your dear letters. [Kneels at table, opens box, andproduces letters tied up with blue ribbon.]ALGERNON.My letters! But, my own sweet Cecily, I have never written you any letters.CECILY.You need hardly remind me of that, Ernest. I remember only too well that I wasforced to write your letters for you. I wrote always three times a week, andsometimes oftener.ALGERNON.Oh, do let me read them, Cecily?CECILY.Oh, I couldn’t possibly. They would make you far too conceited. [Replacesbox.] The three you wrote me after I had broken off the engagement are sobeautiful, and so badly spelled, that even now I can hardly read them withoutcrying a little.ALGERNON.But was our engagement ever broken off?CECILY.Of course it was. On the 22nd of last March. You can see the entry if you like.[Shows diary.] ‘To-day I broke off my engagement with Ernest. I feel itis better to do so. The weather still continues charming.’ALGERNON.But why on earth did you break it off? What had I done? I had done nothing atall. Cecily, I am very much hurt indeed to hear you broke it off. Particularlywhen the weather was so charming.CECILY.It would hardly have been a really serious engagement if it hadn’t beenbroken off at least once. But I forgave you before the week was out.ALGERNON.[Crossing to her, and kneeling.] What a perfect angel you are, Cecily.CECILY.You dear romantic boy. [He kisses her, she puts her fingers through his hair.]I hope your hair curls naturally, does it?ALGERNON.Yes, darling, with a little help from others.CECILY.I am so glad.ALGERNON.You’ll never break off our engagement again, Cecily?CECILY.I don’t think I could break it off now that I have actually met you.Besides, of course, there is the question of your name.ALGERNON.Yes, of course. [Nervously.]CECILY.You must not laugh at me, darling, but it had always been a girlish dream ofmine to love some one whose name was Ernest. [Algernon rises,Cecily also.] There is something in that name that seems to inspireabsolute confidence. I pity any poor married woman whose husband is not calledErnest.ALGERNON.But, my dear child, do you mean to say you could not love me if I had someother name?CECILY.But what name?ALGERNON.Oh, any name you like—Algernon—for instance . . .CECILY.But I don’t like the name of Algernon.ALGERNON.Well, my own dear, sweet, loving little darling, I really can’t see whyyou should object to the name of Algernon. It is not at all a bad name. Infact, it is rather an aristocratic name. Half of the chaps who get into theBankruptcy Court are called Algernon. But seriously, Cecily . . . [Moving toher] . . . if my name was Algy, couldn’t you love me?CECILY.[Rising.] I might respect you, Ernest, I might admire your character, but Ifear that I should not be able to give you my undivided attention.ALGERNON.Ahem! Cecily! [Picking up hat.] Your Rector here is, I suppose, thoroughlyexperienced in the practice of all the rites and ceremonials of the Church?CECILY.Oh, yes. Dr. Chasuble is a most learned man. He has never written a singlebook, so you can imagine how much he knows.ALGERNON.I must see him at once on a most important christening—I mean on mostimportant business.CECILY.Oh!ALGERNON.I shan’t be away more than half an hour.CECILY.Considering that we have been engaged since February the 14th, and that I onlymet you to-day for the first time, I think it is rather hard that you shouldleave me for so long a period as half an hour. Couldn’t you make ittwenty minutes?ALGERNON.I’ll be back in no time.[Kisses her and rushes down the garden.]CECILY.What an impetuous boy he is! I like his hair so much. I must enter his proposalin my diary.[Enter Merriman.]MERRIMAN.A Miss Fairfax has just called to see Mr. Worthing. On very important business,Miss Fairfax states.CECILY.Isn’t Mr. Worthing in his library?MERRIMAN.Mr. Worthing went over in the direction of the Rectory some time ago.CECILY.Pray ask the lady to come out here; Mr. Worthing is sure to be back soon. Andyou can bring tea.MERRIMAN.Yes, Miss. [Goes out.]CECILY.Miss Fairfax! I suppose one of the many good elderly women who are associatedwith Uncle Jack in some of his philanthropic work in London. I don’tquite like women who are interested in philanthropic work. I think it is soforward of them.[Enter Merriman.]MERRIMAN.Miss Fairfax.[Enter Gwendolen.][Exit Merriman.]CECILY.[Advancing to meet her.] Pray let me introduce myself to you. My name is CecilyCardew.GWENDOLEN.Cecily Cardew? [Moving to her and shaking hands.] What a very sweet name!Something tells me that we are going to be great friends. I like you alreadymore than I can say. My first impressions of people are never wrong.CECILY.How nice of you to like me so much after we have known each other such acomparatively short time. Pray sit down.GWENDOLEN.[Still standing up.] I may call you Cecily, may I not?CECILY.With pleasure!GWENDOLEN.And you will always call me Gwendolen, won’t you?CECILY.If you wish.GWENDOLEN.Then that is all quite settled, is it not?CECILY.I hope so. [A pause. They both sit down together.]GWENDOLEN.Perhaps this might be a favourable opportunity for my mentioning who I am. Myfather is Lord Bracknell. You have never heard of papa, I suppose?CECILY.I don’t think so.GWENDOLEN.Outside the family circle, papa, I am glad to say, is entirely unknown. I thinkthat is quite as it should be. The home seems to me to be the proper sphere forthe man. And certainly once a man begins to neglect his domestic duties hebecomes painfully effeminate, does he not? And I don’t like that. Itmakes men so very attractive. Cecily, mamma, whose views on education areremarkably strict, has brought me up to be extremely short-sighted; it is partof her system; so do you mind my looking at you through my glasses?CECILY.Oh! not at all, Gwendolen. I am very fond of being looked at.GWENDOLEN.[After examining Cecily carefully through a lorgnette.] You are here ona short visit, I suppose.CECILY.Oh no! I live here.GWENDOLEN.[Severely.] Really? Your mother, no doubt, or some female relative of advancedyears, resides here also?CECILY.Oh no! I have no mother, nor, in fact, any relations.GWENDOLEN.Indeed?CECILY.My dear guardian, with the assistance of Miss Prism, has the arduous task oflooking after me.GWENDOLEN.Your guardian?CECILY.Yes, I am Mr. Worthing’s ward.GWENDOLEN.Oh! It is strange he never mentioned to me that he had a ward. How secretive ofhim! He grows more interesting hourly. I am not sure, however, that the newsinspires me with feelings of unmixed delight. [Rising and going to her.] I amvery fond of you, Cecily; I have liked you ever since I met you! But I am boundto state that now that I know that you are Mr. Worthing’s ward, I cannothelp expressing a wish you were—well, just a little older than you seemto be—and not quite so very alluring in appearance. In fact, if I mayspeak candidly—CECILY.Pray do! I think that whenever one has anything unpleasant to say, one shouldalways be quite candid.GWENDOLEN.Well, to speak with perfect candour, Cecily, I wish that you were fullyforty-two, and more than usually plain for your age. Ernest has a strongupright nature. He is the very soul of truth and honour. Disloyalty would be asimpossible to him as deception. But even men of the noblest possible moralcharacter are extremely susceptible to the influence of the physical charms ofothers. Modern, no less than Ancient History, supplies us with many mostpainful examples of what I refer to. If it were not so, indeed, History wouldbe quite unreadable.CECILY.I beg your pardon, Gwendolen, did you say Ernest?GWENDOLEN.Yes.CECILY.Oh, but it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is my guardian. It is hisbrother—his elder brother.GWENDOLEN.[Sitting down again.] Ernest never mentioned to me that he had a brother.CECILY.I am sorry to say they have not been on good terms for a long time.GWENDOLEN.Ah! that accounts for it. And now that I think of it I have never heard any manmention his brother. The subject seems distasteful to most men. Cecily, youhave lifted a load from my mind. I was growing almost anxious. It would havebeen terrible if any cloud had come across a friendship like ours, would itnot? Of course you are quite, quite sure that it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing whois your guardian?CECILY.Quite sure. [A pause.] In fact, I am going to be his.GWENDOLEN.[Inquiringly.] I beg your pardon?CECILY.[Rather shy and confidingly.] Dearest Gwendolen, there is no reason why Ishould make a secret of it to you. Our little county newspaper is sure tochronicle the fact next week. Mr. Ernest Worthing and I are engaged to bemarried.GWENDOLEN.[Quite politely, rising.] My darling Cecily, I think there must be some slighterror. Mr. Ernest Worthing is engaged to me. The announcement will appear inthe Morning Post on Saturday at the latest.CECILY.[Very politely, rising.] I am afraid you must be under some misconception.Ernest proposed to me exactly ten minutes ago. [Shows diary.]GWENDOLEN.[Examines diary through her lorgnettte carefully.] It is certainly verycurious, for he asked me to be his wife yesterday afternoon at 5.30. If youwould care to verify the incident, pray do so. [Produces diary of her own.] Inever travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational toread in the train. I am so sorry, dear Cecily, if it is any disappointment toyou, but I am afraid I have the prior claim.CECILY.It would distress me more than I can tell you, dear Gwendolen, if it caused youany mental or physical anguish, but I feel bound to point out that since Ernestproposed to you he clearly has changed his mind.GWENDOLEN.[Meditatively.] If the poor fellow has been entrapped into any foolish promiseI shall consider it my duty to rescue him at once, and with a firm hand.CECILY.[Thoughtfully and sadly.] Whatever unfortunate entanglement my dear boy mayhave got into, I will never reproach him with it after we are married.GWENDOLEN.Do you allude to me, Miss Cardew, as an entanglement? You are presumptuous. Onan occasion of this kind it becomes more than a moral duty to speak one’smind. It becomes a pleasure.CECILY.Do you suggest, Miss Fairfax, that I entrapped Ernest into an engagement? Howdare you? This is no time for wearing the shallow mask of manners. When I see aspade I call it a spade.GWENDOLEN.[Satirically.] I am glad to say that I have never seen a spade. It is obviousthat our social spheres have been widely different.[Enter Merriman, followed by the footman. He carries a salver, tablecloth, and plate stand. Cecily is about to retort. The presence of theservants exercises a restraining influence, under which both girls chafe.]MERRIMAN.Shall I lay tea here as usual, Miss?CECILY.[Sternly, in a calm voice.] Yes, as usual. [Merriman begins to cleartable and lay cloth. A long pause. Cecily and Gwendolen glare ateach other.]GWENDOLEN.Are there many interesting walks in the vicinity, Miss Cardew?CECILY.Oh! yes! a great many. From the top of one of the hills quite close one can seefive counties.GWENDOLEN.Five counties! I don’t think I should like that; I hate crowds.CECILY.[Sweetly.] I suppose that is why you live in town? [Gwendolen bites herlip, and beats her foot nervously with her parasol.]GWENDOLEN.[Looking round.] Quite a well-kept garden this is, Miss Cardew.CECILY.So glad you like it, Miss Fairfax.GWENDOLEN.I had no idea there were any flowers in the country.CECILY.Oh, flowers are as common here, Miss Fairfax, as people are in London.GWENDOLEN.Personally I cannot understand how anybody manages to exist in the country, ifanybody who is anybody does. The country always bores me to death.CECILY.Ah! This is what the newspapers call agricultural depression, is it not? Ibelieve the aristocracy are suffering very much from it just at present. It isalmost an epidemic amongst them, I have been told. May I offer you some tea,Miss Fairfax?GWENDOLEN.[With elaborate politeness.] Thank you. [Aside.] Detestable girl! But I requiretea!CECILY.[Sweetly.] Sugar?GWENDOLEN.[Superciliously.] No, thank you. Sugar is not fashionable any more.[Cecily looks angrily at her, takes up the tongs and puts four lumps ofsugar into the cup.]CECILY.[Severely.] Cake or bread and butter?GWENDOLEN.[In a bored manner.] Bread and butter, please. Cake is rarely seen at the besthouses nowadays.CECILY.[Cuts a very large slice of cake, and puts it on the tray.] Hand that to MissFairfax.[Merriman does so, and goes out with footman. Gwendolen drinksthe tea and makes a grimace. Puts down cup at once, reaches out her hand to thebread and butter, looks at it, and finds it is cake. Rises in indignation.]GWENDOLEN.You have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though I asked most distinctlyfor bread and butter, you have given me cake. I am known for the gentleness ofmy disposition, and the extraordinary sweetness of my nature, but I warn you,Miss Cardew, you may go too far.CECILY.[Rising.] To save my poor, innocent, trusting boy from the machinations of anyother girl there are no lengths to which I would not go.GWENDOLEN.From the moment I saw you I distrusted you. I felt that you were false anddeceitful. I am never deceived in such matters. My first impressions of peopleare invariably right.CECILY.It seems to me, Miss Fairfax, that I am trespassing on your valuable time. Nodoubt you have many other calls of a similar character to make in theneighbourhood.[Enter Jack.]GWENDOLEN.[Catching sight of him.] Ernest! My own Ernest!JACK.Gwendolen! Darling! [Offers to kiss her.]GWENDOLEN.[Draws back.] A moment! May I ask if you are engaged to be married to thisyoung lady? [Points to Cecily.]JACK.[Laughing.] To dear little Cecily! Of course not! What could have put such anidea into your pretty little head?GWENDOLEN.Thank you. You may! [Offers her cheek.]CECILY.[Very sweetly.] I knew there must be some misunderstanding, Miss Fairfax. Thegentleman whose arm is at present round your waist is my guardian, Mr. JohnWorthing.GWENDOLEN.I beg your pardon?CECILY.This is Uncle Jack.GWENDOLEN.[Receding.] Jack! Oh![Enter Algernon.]CECILY.Here is Ernest.ALGERNON.[Goes straight over to Cecily without noticing any one else.] My ownlove! [Offers to kiss her.]CECILY.[Drawing back.] A moment, Ernest! May I ask you—are you engaged to bemarried to this young lady?ALGERNON.[Looking round.] To what young lady? Good heavens! Gwendolen!CECILY.Yes! to good heavens, Gwendolen, I mean to Gwendolen.ALGERNON.[Laughing.] Of course not! What could have put such an idea into your prettylittle head?CECILY.Thank you. [Presenting her cheek to be kissed.] You may. [Algernonkisses her.]GWENDOLEN.I felt there was some slight error, Miss Cardew. The gentleman who is nowembracing you is my cousin, Mr. Algernon Moncrieff.CECILY.[Breaking away from Algernon.] Algernon Moncrieff! Oh! [The two girlsmove towards each other and put their arms round each other’s waists asif for protection.]CECILY.Are you called Algernon?ALGERNON.I cannot deny it.CECILY.Oh!GWENDOLEN.Is your name really John?JACK.[Standing rather proudly.] I could deny it if I liked. I could deny anything ifI liked. But my name certainly is John. It has been John for years.CECILY.[To Gwendolen.] A gross deception has been practised on both of us.GWENDOLEN.My poor wounded Cecily!CECILY.My sweet wronged Gwendolen!GWENDOLEN.[Slowly and seriously.] You will call me sister, will you not? [They embrace.Jack and Algernon groan and walk up and down.]CECILY.[Rather brightly.] There is just one question I would like to be allowed to askmy guardian.GWENDOLEN.An admirable idea! Mr. Worthing, there is just one question I would like to bepermitted to put to you. Where is your brother Ernest? We are both engaged tobe married to your brother Ernest, so it is a matter of some importance to usto know where your brother Ernest is at present.JACK.[Slowly and hesitatingly.] Gwendolen—Cecily—it is very painful forme to be forced to speak the truth. It is the first time in my life that I haveever been reduced to such a painful position, and I am really quiteinexperienced in doing anything of the kind. However, I will tell you quitefrankly that I have no brother Ernest. I have no brother at all. I never had abrother in my life, and I certainly have not the smallest intention of everhaving one in the future.CECILY.[Surprised.] No brother at all?JACK.[Cheerily.] None!GWENDOLEN.[Severely.] Had you never a brother of any kind?JACK.[Pleasantly.] Never. Not even of any kind.GWENDOLEN.I am afraid it is quite clear, Cecily, that neither of us is engaged to bemarried to any one.CECILY.It is not a very pleasant position for a young girl suddenly to find herselfin. Is it?GWENDOLEN.Let us go into the house. They will hardly venture to come after us there.CECILY.No, men are so cowardly, aren’t they?[They retire into the house with scornful looks.]JACK.This ghastly state of things is what you call Bunburying, I suppose?ALGERNON.Yes, and a perfectly wonderful Bunbury it is. The most wonderful Bunbury I haveever had in my life.JACK.Well, you’ve no right whatsoever to Bunbury here.ALGERNON.That is absurd. One has a right to Bunbury anywhere one chooses. Every seriousBunburyist knows that.JACK.Serious Bunburyist! Good heavens!ALGERNON.Well, one must be serious about something, if one wants to have any amusementin life. I happen to be serious about Bunburying. What on earth you are seriousabout I haven’t got the remotest idea. About everything, I should fancy.You have such an absolutely trivial nature.JACK.Well, the only small satisfaction I have in the whole of this wretched businessis that your friend Bunbury is quite exploded. You won’t be able to rundown to the country quite so often as you used to do, dear Algy. And a verygood thing too.ALGERNON.Your brother is a little off colour, isn’t he, dear Jack? You won’tbe able to disappear to London quite so frequently as your wicked custom was.And not a bad thing either.JACK.As for your conduct towards Miss Cardew, I must say that your taking in asweet, simple, innocent girl like that is quite inexcusable. To say nothing ofthe fact that she is my ward.ALGERNON.I can see no possible defence at all for your deceiving a brilliant, clever,thoroughly experienced young lady like Miss Fairfax. To say nothing of the factthat she is my cousin.JACK.I wanted to be engaged to Gwendolen, that is all. I love her.ALGERNON.Well, I simply wanted to be engaged to Cecily. I adore her.JACK.There is certainly no chance of your marrying Miss Cardew.ALGERNON.I don’t think there is much likelihood, Jack, of you and Miss Fairfaxbeing united.JACK.Well, that is no business of yours.ALGERNON.If it was my business, I wouldn’t talk about it. [Begins to eat muffins.]It is very vulgar to talk about one’s business. Only people likestock-brokers do that, and then merely at dinner parties.JACK.How can you sit there, calmly eating muffins when we are in this horribletrouble, I can’t make out. You seem to me to be perfectly heartless.ALGERNON.Well, I can’t eat muffins in an agitated manner. The butter wouldprobably get on my cuffs. One should always eat muffins quite calmly. It is theonly way to eat them.JACK.I say it’s perfectly heartless your eating muffins at all, under thecircumstances.ALGERNON.When I am in trouble, eating is the only thing that consoles me. Indeed, when Iam in really great trouble, as any one who knows me intimately will tell you, Irefuse everything except food and drink. At the present moment I am eatingmuffins because I am unhappy. Besides, I am particularly fond of muffins.[Rising.]JACK.[Rising.] Well, that is no reason why you should eat them all in that greedyway. [Takes muffins from Algernon.]ALGERNON.[Offering tea-cake.] I wish you would have tea-cake instead. I don’t liketea-cake.JACK.Good heavens! I suppose a man may eat his own muffins in his own garden.ALGERNON.But you have just said it was perfectly heartless to eat muffins.JACK.I said it was perfectly heartless of you, under the circumstances. That is avery different thing.ALGERNON.That may be. But the muffins are the same. [He seizes the muffin-dish fromJack.]JACK.Algy, I wish to goodness you would go.ALGERNON.You can’t possibly ask me to go without having some dinner. It’sabsurd. I never go without my dinner. No one ever does, except vegetarians andpeople like that. Besides I have just made arrangements with Dr. Chasuble to bechristened at a quarter to six under the name of Ernest.JACK.My dear fellow, the sooner you give up that nonsense the better. I madearrangements this morning with Dr. Chasuble to be christened myself at 5.30,and I naturally will take the name of Ernest. Gwendolen would wish it. Wecan’t both be christened Ernest. It’s absurd. Besides, I have aperfect right to be christened if I like. There is no evidence at all that Ihave ever been christened by anybody. I should think it extremely probable Inever was, and so does Dr. Chasuble. It is entirely different in your case. Youhave been christened already.ALGERNON.Yes, but I have not been christened for years.JACK.Yes, but you have been christened. That is the important thing.ALGERNON.Quite so. So I know my constitution can stand it. If you are not quite sureabout your ever having been christened, I must say I think it rather dangerousyour venturing on it now. It might make you very unwell. You can hardly haveforgotten that some one very closely connected with you was very nearly carriedoff this week in Paris by a severe chill.JACK.Yes, but you said yourself that a severe chill was not hereditary.ALGERNON.It usen’t to be, I know—but I daresay it is now. Science is alwaysmaking wonderful improvements in things.JACK.[Picking up the muffin-dish.] Oh, that is nonsense; you are always talkingnonsense.ALGERNON.Jack, you are at the muffins again! I wish you wouldn’t. There are onlytwo left. [Takes them.] I told you I was particularly fond of muffins.JACK.But I hate tea-cake.ALGERNON.Why on earth then do you allow tea-cake to be served up for your guests? Whatideas you have of hospitality!JACK.Algernon! I have already told you to go. I don’t want you here. Whydon’t you go!ALGERNON.I haven’t quite finished my tea yet! and there is still one muffin left.[Jack groans, and sinks into a chair. Algernon still continueseating.]ACT DROP
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THIRD ACT
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Morning-room at the Manor House.[Gwendolen and Cecily are at the window, looking out into thegarden.]GWENDOLEN.The fact that they did not follow us at once into the house, as any one elsewould have done, seems to me to show that they have some sense of shame left.CECILY.They have been eating muffins. That looks like repentance.GWENDOLEN.[After a pause.] They don’t seem to notice us at all. Couldn’t youcough?CECILY.But I haven’t got a cough.GWENDOLEN.They’re looking at us. What effrontery!CECILY.They’re approaching. That’s very forward of them.GWENDOLEN.Let us preserve a dignified silence.CECILY.Certainly. It’s the only thing to do now. [Enter Jack followed byAlgernon. They whistle some dreadful popular air from a British Opera.]GWENDOLEN.This dignified silence seems to produce an unpleasant effect.CECILY.A most distasteful one.GWENDOLEN.But we will not be the first to speak.CECILY.Certainly not.GWENDOLEN.Mr. Worthing, I have something very particular to ask you. Much depends on yourreply.CECILY.Gwendolen, your common sense is invaluable. Mr. Moncrieff, kindly answer me thefollowing question. Why did you pretend to be my guardian’s brother?ALGERNON.In order that I might have an opportunity of meeting you.CECILY.[To Gwendolen.] That certainly seems a satisfactory explanation, does itnot?GWENDOLEN.Yes, dear, if you can believe him.CECILY.I don’t. But that does not affect the wonderful beauty of his answer.GWENDOLEN.True. In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity is the vital thing.Mr. Worthing, what explanation can you offer to me for pretending to have abrother? Was it in order that you might have an opportunity of coming up totown to see me as often as possible?JACK.Can you doubt it, Miss Fairfax?GWENDOLEN.I have the gravest doubts upon the subject. But I intend to crush them. This isnot the moment for German scepticism. [Moving to Cecily.] Theirexplanations appear to be quite satisfactory, especially Mr. Worthing’s.That seems to me to have the stamp of truth upon it.CECILY.I am more than content with what Mr. Moncrieff said. His voice alone inspiresone with absolute credulity.GWENDOLEN.Then you think we should forgive them?CECILY.Yes. I mean no.GWENDOLEN.True! I had forgotten. There are principles at stake that one cannot surrender.Which of us should tell them? The task is not a pleasant one.CECILY.Could we not both speak at the same time?GWENDOLEN.An excellent idea! I nearly always speak at the same time as other people. Willyou take the time from me?CECILY.Certainly. [Gwendolen beats time with uplifted finger.]GWENDOLEN and CECILY [Speaking together.] Your Christian names are still aninsuperable barrier. That is all!JACK and ALGERNON [Speaking together.] Our Christian names! Is that all? Butwe are going to be christened this afternoon.GWENDOLEN.[To Jack.] For my sake you are prepared to do this terrible thing?JACK.I am.CECILY.[To Algernon.] To please me you are ready to face this fearful ordeal?ALGERNON.I am!GWENDOLEN.How absurd to talk of the equality of the sexes! Where questions ofself-sacrifice are concerned, men are infinitely beyond us.JACK.We are. [Clasps hands with Algernon.]CECILY.They have moments of physical courage of which we women know absolutelynothing.GWENDOLEN.[To Jack.] Darling!ALGERNON.[To Cecily.] Darling! [They fall into each other’s arms.][Enter Merriman. When he enters he coughs loudly, seeing thesituation.]MERRIMAN.Ahem! Ahem! Lady Bracknell!JACK.Good heavens![Enter Lady Bracknell. The couples separate in alarm. ExitMerriman.]LADY BRACKNELL.Gwendolen! What does this mean?GWENDOLEN.Merely that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Worthing, mamma.LADY BRACKNELL.Come here. Sit down. Sit down immediately. Hesitation of any kind is a sign ofmental decay in the young, of physical weakness in the old. [Turns toJack.] Apprised, sir, of my daughter’s sudden flight by her trustymaid, whose confidence I purchased by means of a small coin, I followed her atonce by a luggage train. Her unhappy father is, I am glad to say, under theimpression that she is attending a more than usually lengthy lecture by theUniversity Extension Scheme on the Influence of a permanent income on Thought.I do not propose to undeceive him. Indeed I have never undeceived him on anyquestion. I would consider it wrong. But of course, you will clearly understandthat all communication between yourself and my daughter must cease immediatelyfrom this moment. On this point, as indeed on all points, I am firm.JACK.I am engaged to be married to Gwendolen, Lady Bracknell!LADY BRACKNELL.You are nothing of the kind, sir. And now, as regards Algernon! . . . Algernon!ALGERNON.Yes, Aunt Augusta.LADY BRACKNELL.May I ask if it is in this house that your invalid friend Mr. Bunbury resides?ALGERNON.[Stammering.] Oh! No! Bunbury doesn’t live here. Bunbury is somewhereelse at present. In fact, Bunbury is dead.LADY BRACKNELL.Dead! When did Mr. Bunbury die? His death must have been extremely sudden.ALGERNON.[Airily.] Oh! I killed Bunbury this afternoon. I mean poor Bunbury died thisafternoon.LADY BRACKNELL.What did he die of?ALGERNON.Bunbury? Oh, he was quite exploded.LADY BRACKNELL.Exploded! Was he the victim of a revolutionary outrage? I was not aware thatMr. Bunbury was interested in social legislation. If so, he is well punishedfor his morbidity.ALGERNON.My dear Aunt Augusta, I mean he was found out! The doctors found out thatBunbury could not live, that is what I mean—so Bunbury died.LADY BRACKNELL.He seems to have had great confidence in the opinion of his physicians. I amglad, however, that he made up his mind at the last to some definite course ofaction, and acted under proper medical advice. And now that we have finally gotrid of this Mr. Bunbury, may I ask, Mr. Worthing, who is that young personwhose hand my nephew Algernon is now holding in what seems to me a peculiarlyunnecessary manner?JACK.That lady is Miss Cecily Cardew, my ward. [Lady Bracknell bows coldly toCecily.]ALGERNON.I am engaged to be married to Cecily, Aunt Augusta.LADY BRACKNELL.I beg your pardon?CECILY.Mr. Moncrieff and I are engaged to be married, Lady Bracknell.LADY BRACKNELL.[With a shiver, crossing to the sofa and sitting down.] I do not know whetherthere is anything peculiarly exciting in the air of this particular part ofHertfordshire, but the number of engagements that go on seems to meconsiderably above the proper average that statistics have laid down for ourguidance. I think some preliminary inquiry on my part would not be out ofplace. Mr. Worthing, is Miss Cardew at all connected with any of the largerrailway stations in London? I merely desire information. Until yesterday I hadno idea that there were any families or persons whose origin was a Terminus.[Jack looks perfectly furious, but restrains himself.]JACK.[In a clear, cold voice.] Miss Cardew is the grand-daughter of the late Mr.Thomas Cardew of 149 Belgrave Square, S.W.; Gervase Park, Dorking, Surrey; andthe Sporran, Fifeshire, N.B.LADY BRACKNELL.That sounds not unsatisfactory. Three addresses always inspire confidence, evenin tradesmen. But what proof have I of their authenticity?JACK.I have carefully preserved the Court Guides of the period. They are open toyour inspection, Lady Bracknell.LADY BRACKNELL.[Grimly.] I have known strange errors in that publication.JACK.Miss Cardew’s family solicitors are Messrs. Markby, Markby, and Markby.LADY BRACKNELL.Markby, Markby, and Markby? A firm of the very highest position in theirprofession. Indeed I am told that one of the Mr. Markby’s is occasionallyto be seen at dinner parties. So far I am satisfied.JACK.[Very irritably.] How extremely kind of you, Lady Bracknell! I have also in mypossession, you will be pleased to hear, certificates of Miss Cardew’sbirth, baptism, whooping cough, registration, vaccination, confirmation, andthe measles; both the German and the English variety.LADY BRACKNELL.Ah! A life crowded with incident, I see; though perhaps somewhat too excitingfor a young girl. I am not myself in favour of premature experiences. [Rises,looks at her watch.] Gwendolen! the time approaches for our departure. We havenot a moment to lose. As a matter of form, Mr. Worthing, I had better ask youif Miss Cardew has any little fortune?JACK.Oh! about a hundred and thirty thousand pounds in the Funds. That is all.Goodbye, Lady Bracknell. So pleased to have seen you.LADY BRACKNELL.[Sitting down again.] A moment, Mr. Worthing. A hundred and thirty thousandpounds! And in the Funds! Miss Cardew seems to me a most attractive young lady,now that I look at her. Few girls of the present day have any really solidqualities, any of the qualities that last, and improve with time. We live, Iregret to say, in an age of surfaces. [To Cecily.] Come over here, dear.[Cecily goes across.] Pretty child! your dress is sadly simple, and yourhair seems almost as Nature might have left it. But we can soon alter all that.A thoroughly experienced French maid produces a really marvellous result in avery brief space of time. I remember recommending one to young Lady Lancing,and after three months her own husband did not know her.JACK.And after six months nobody knew her.LADY BRACKNELL.[Glares at Jack for a few moments. Then bends, with a practised smile,to Cecily.] Kindly turn round, sweet child. [Cecily turnscompletely round.] No, the side view is what I want. [Cecily presentsher profile.] Yes, quite as I expected. There are distinct social possibilitiesin your profile. The two weak points in our age are its want of principle andits want of profile. The chin a little higher, dear. Style largely depends onthe way the chin is worn. They are worn very high, just at present. Algernon!ALGERNON.Yes, Aunt Augusta!LADY BRACKNELL.There are distinct social possibilities in Miss Cardew’s profile.ALGERNON.Cecily is the sweetest, dearest, prettiest girl in the whole world. And Idon’t care twopence about social possibilities.LADY BRACKNELL.Never speak disrespectfully of Society, Algernon. Only people who can’tget into it do that. [To Cecily.] Dear child, of course you know thatAlgernon has nothing but his debts to depend upon. But I do not approve ofmercenary marriages. When I married Lord Bracknell I had no fortune of anykind. But I never dreamed for a moment of allowing that to stand in my way.Well, I suppose I must give my consent.ALGERNON.Thank you, Aunt Augusta.LADY BRACKNELL.Cecily, you may kiss me!CECILY.[Kisses her.] Thank you, Lady Bracknell.LADY BRACKNELL.You may also address me as Aunt Augusta for the future.CECILY.Thank you, Aunt Augusta.LADY BRACKNELL.The marriage, I think, had better take place quite soon.ALGERNON.Thank you, Aunt Augusta.CECILY.Thank you, Aunt Augusta.LADY BRACKNELL.To speak frankly, I am not in favour of long engagements. They give people theopportunity of finding out each other’s character before marriage, whichI think is never advisable.JACK.I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Lady Bracknell, but this engagement isquite out of the question. I am Miss Cardew’s guardian, and she cannotmarry without my consent until she comes of age. That consent I absolutelydecline to give.LADY BRACKNELL.Upon what grounds may I ask? Algernon is an extremely, I may almost say anostentatiously, eligible young man. He has nothing, but he looks everything.What more can one desire?JACK.It pains me very much to have to speak frankly to you, Lady Bracknell, aboutyour nephew, but the fact is that I do not approve at all of his moralcharacter. I suspect him of being untruthful. [Algernon andCecily look at him in indignant amazement.]LADY BRACKNELL.Untruthful! My nephew Algernon? Impossible! He is an Oxonian.JACK.I fear there can be no possible doubt about the matter. This afternoon duringmy temporary absence in London on an important question of romance, he obtainedadmission to my house by means of the false pretence of being my brother. Underan assumed name he drank, I’ve just been informed by my butler, an entirepint bottle of my Perrier-Jouet, Brut, ’89; wine I was speciallyreserving for myself. Continuing his disgraceful deception, he succeeded in thecourse of the afternoon in alienating the affections of my only ward. Hesubsequently stayed to tea, and devoured every single muffin. And what makeshis conduct all the more heartless is, that he was perfectly well aware fromthe first that I have no brother, that I never had a brother, and that Idon’t intend to have a brother, not even of any kind. I distinctly toldhim so myself yesterday afternoon.LADY BRACKNELL.Ahem! Mr. Worthing, after careful consideration I have decided entirely tooverlook my nephew’s conduct to you.JACK.That is very generous of you, Lady Bracknell. My own decision, however, isunalterable. I decline to give my consent.LADY BRACKNELL.[To Cecily.] Come here, sweet child. [Cecily goes over.] How oldare you, dear?CECILY.Well, I am really only eighteen, but I always admit to twenty when I go toevening parties.LADY BRACKNELL.You are perfectly right in making some slight alteration. Indeed, no womanshould ever be quite accurate about her age. It looks so calculating . . . [Ina meditative manner.] Eighteen, but admitting to twenty at evening parties.Well, it will not be very long before you are of age and free from therestraints of tutelage. So I don’t think your guardian’s consentis, after all, a matter of any importance.JACK.Pray excuse me, Lady Bracknell, for interrupting you again, but it is only fairto tell you that according to the terms of her grandfather’s will MissCardew does not come legally of age till she is thirty-five.LADY BRACKNELL.That does not seem to me to be a grave objection. Thirty-five is a veryattractive age. London society is full of women of the very highest birth whohave, of their own free choice, remained thirty-five for years. Lady Dumbletonis an instance in point. To my own knowledge she has been thirty-five eversince she arrived at the age of forty, which was many years ago now. I see noreason why our dear Cecily should not be even still more attractive at the ageyou mention than she is at present. There will be a large accumulation ofproperty.CECILY.Algy, could you wait for me till I was thirty-five?ALGERNON.Of course I could, Cecily. You know I could.CECILY.Yes, I felt it instinctively, but I couldn’t wait all that time. I hatewaiting even five minutes for anybody. It always makes me rather cross. I amnot punctual myself, I know, but I do like punctuality in others, and waiting,even to be married, is quite out of the question.ALGERNON.Then what is to be done, Cecily?CECILY.I don’t know, Mr. Moncrieff.LADY BRACKNELL.My dear Mr. Worthing, as Miss Cardew states positively that she cannot waittill she is thirty-five—a remark which I am bound to say seems to me toshow a somewhat impatient nature—I would beg of you to reconsider yourdecision.JACK.But my dear Lady Bracknell, the matter is entirely in your own hands. Themoment you consent to my marriage with Gwendolen, I will most gladly allow yournephew to form an alliance with my ward.LADY BRACKNELL.[Rising and drawing herself up.] You must be quite aware that what you proposeis out of the question.JACK.Then a passionate celibacy is all that any of us can look forward to.LADY BRACKNELL.That is not the destiny I propose for Gwendolen. Algernon, of course, canchoose for himself. [Pulls out her watch.] Come, dear, [Gwendolen rises]we have already missed five, if not six, trains. To miss any more might exposeus to comment on the platform.[Enter Dr. Chasuble.]CHASUBLE.Everything is quite ready for the christenings.LADY BRACKNELL.The christenings, sir! Is not that somewhat premature?CHASUBLE.[Looking rather puzzled, and pointing to Jack and Algernon.] Boththese gentlemen have expressed a desire for immediate baptism.LADY BRACKNELL.At their age? The idea is grotesque and irreligious! Algernon, I forbid you tobe baptized. I will not hear of such excesses. Lord Bracknell would be highlydispleased if he learned that that was the way in which you wasted your timeand money.CHASUBLE.Am I to understand then that there are to be no christenings at all thisafternoon?JACK.I don’t think that, as things are now, it would be of much practicalvalue to either of us, Dr. Chasuble.CHASUBLE.I am grieved to hear such sentiments from you, Mr. Worthing. They savour of theheretical views of the Anabaptists, views that I have completely refuted infour of my unpublished sermons. However, as your present mood seems to be onepeculiarly secular, I will return to the church at once. Indeed, I have justbeen informed by the pew-opener that for the last hour and a half Miss Prismhas been waiting for me in the vestry.LADY BRACKNELL.[Starting.] Miss Prism! Did I hear you mention a Miss Prism?CHASUBLE.Yes, Lady Bracknell. I am on my way to join her.LADY BRACKNELL.Pray allow me to detain you for a moment. This matter may prove to be one ofvital importance to Lord Bracknell and myself. Is this Miss Prism a female ofrepellent aspect, remotely connected with education?CHASUBLE.[Somewhat indignantly.] She is the most cultivated of ladies, and the verypicture of respectability.LADY BRACKNELL.It is obviously the same person. May I ask what position she holds in yourhousehold?CHASUBLE.[Severely.] I am a celibate, madam.JACK.[Interposing.] Miss Prism, Lady Bracknell, has been for the last three yearsMiss Cardew’s esteemed governess and valued companion.LADY BRACKNELL.In spite of what I hear of her, I must see her at once. Let her be sent for.CHASUBLE.[Looking off.] She approaches; she is nigh.[Enter Miss Prism hurriedly.]MISS PRISM.I was told you expected me in the vestry, dear Canon. I have been waiting foryou there for an hour and three-quarters. [Catches sight of LadyBracknell, who has fixed her with a stony glare. Miss Prism growspale and quails. She looks anxiously round as if desirous to escape.]LADY BRACKNELL.[In a severe, judicial voice.] Prism! [Miss Prism bows her head inshame.] Come here, Prism! [Miss Prism approaches in a humble manner.]Prism! Where is that baby? [General consternation. The Canon starts backin horror. Algernon and Jack pretend to be anxious to shieldCecily and Gwendolen from hearing the details of a terriblepublic scandal.] Twenty-eight years ago, Prism, you left Lord Bracknell’shouse, Number 104, Upper Grosvenor Street, in charge of a perambulator thatcontained a baby of the male sex. You never returned. A few weeks later,through the elaborate investigations of the Metropolitan police, theperambulator was discovered at midnight, standing by itself in a remote cornerof Bayswater. It contained the manuscript of a three-volume novel of more thanusually revolting sentimentality. [Miss Prism starts in involuntaryindignation.] But the baby was not there! [Every one looks at MissPrism.] Prism! Where is that baby? [A pause.]MISS PRISM.Lady Bracknell, I admit with shame that I do not know. I only wish I did. Theplain facts of the case are these. On the morning of the day you mention, a daythat is for ever branded on my memory, I prepared as usual to take the baby outin its perambulator. I had also with me a somewhat old, but capacious hand-bagin which I had intended to place the manuscript of a work of fiction that I hadwritten during my few unoccupied hours. In a moment of mental abstraction, forwhich I never can forgive myself, I deposited the manuscript in the basinette,and placed the baby in the hand-bag.JACK.[Who has been listening attentively.] But where did you deposit the hand-bag?MISS PRISM.Do not ask me, Mr. Worthing.JACK.Miss Prism, this is a matter of no small importance to me. I insist on knowingwhere you deposited the hand-bag that contained that infant.MISS PRISM.I left it in the cloak-room of one of the larger railway stations in London.JACK.What railway station?MISS PRISM.[Quite crushed.] Victoria. The Brighton line. [Sinks into a chair.]JACK.I must retire to my room for a moment. Gwendolen, wait here for me.GWENDOLEN.If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life. [ExitJack in great excitement.]CHASUBLE.What do you think this means, Lady Bracknell?LADY BRACKNELL.I dare not even suspect, Dr. Chasuble. I need hardly tell you that in familiesof high position strange coincidences are not supposed to occur. They arehardly considered the thing.[Noises heard overhead as if some one was throwing trunks about. Every onelooks up.]CECILY.Uncle Jack seems strangely agitated.CHASUBLE.Your guardian has a very emotional nature.LADY BRACKNELL.This noise is extremely unpleasant. It sounds as if he was having an argument.I dislike arguments of any kind. They are always vulgar, and often convincing.CHASUBLE.[Looking up.] It has stopped now. [The noise is redoubled.]LADY BRACKNELL.I wish he would arrive at some conclusion.GWENDOLEN.This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last. [Enter Jack with ahand-bag of black leather in his hand.]JACK.[Rushing over to Miss Prism.] Is this the hand-bag, Miss Prism? Examineit carefully before you speak. The happiness of more than one life depends onyour answer.MISS PRISM.[Calmly.] It seems to be mine. Yes, here is the injury it received through theupsetting of a Gower Street omnibus in younger and happier days. Here is thestain on the lining caused by the explosion of a temperance beverage, anincident that occurred at Leamington. And here, on the lock, are my initials. Ihad forgotten that in an extravagant mood I had had them placed there. The bagis undoubtedly mine. I am delighted to have it so unexpectedly restored to me.It has been a great inconvenience being without it all these years.JACK.[In a pathetic voice.] Miss Prism, more is restored to you than this hand-bag.I was the baby you placed in it.MISS PRISM.[Amazed.] You?JACK.[Embracing her.] Yes . . . mother!MISS PRISM.[Recoiling in indignant astonishment.] Mr. Worthing! I am unmarried!JACK.Unmarried! I do not deny that is a serious blow. But after all, who has theright to cast a stone against one who has suffered? Cannot repentance wipe outan act of folly? Why should there be one law for men, and another for women?Mother, I forgive you. [Tries to embrace her again.]MISS PRISM.[Still more indignant.] Mr. Worthing, there is some error. [Pointing to LadyBracknell.] There is the lady who can tell you who you really are.JACK.[After a pause.] Lady Bracknell, I hate to seem inquisitive, but would youkindly inform me who I am?LADY BRACKNELL.I am afraid that the news I have to give you will not altogether please you.You are the son of my poor sister, Mrs. Moncrieff, and consequentlyAlgernon’s elder brother.JACK.Algy’s elder brother! Then I have a brother after all. I knew I had abrother! I always said I had a brother! Cecily,—how could you have everdoubted that I had a brother? [Seizes hold of Algernon.] Dr. Chasuble,my unfortunate brother. Miss Prism, my unfortunate brother. Gwendolen, myunfortunate brother. Algy, you young scoundrel, you will have to treat me withmore respect in the future. You have never behaved to me like a brother in allyour life.ALGERNON.Well, not till to-day, old boy, I admit. I did my best, however, though I wasout of practice.[Shakes hands.]GWENDOLEN.[To Jack.] My own! But what own are you? What is your Christian name,now that you have become some one else?JACK.Good heavens! . . . I had quite forgotten that point. Your decision on thesubject of my name is irrevocable, I suppose?GWENDOLEN.I never change, except in my affections.CECILY.What a noble nature you have, Gwendolen!JACK.Then the question had better be cleared up at once. Aunt Augusta, a moment. Atthe time when Miss Prism left me in the hand-bag, had I been christenedalready?LADY BRACKNELL.Every luxury that money could buy, including christening, had been lavished onyou by your fond and doting parents.JACK.Then I was christened! That is settled. Now, what name was I given? Let me knowthe worst.LADY BRACKNELL.Being the eldest son you were naturally christened after your father.JACK.[Irritably.] Yes, but what was my father’s Christian name?LADY BRACKNELL.[Meditatively.] I cannot at the present moment recall what the General’sChristian name was. But I have no doubt he had one. He was eccentric, I admit.But only in later years. And that was the result of the Indian climate, andmarriage, and indigestion, and other things of that kind.JACK.Algy! Can’t you recollect what our father’s Christian name was?ALGERNON.My dear boy, we were never even on speaking terms. He died before I was a yearold.JACK.His name would appear in the Army Lists of the period, I suppose, Aunt Augusta?LADY BRACKNELL.The General was essentially a man of peace, except in his domestic life. But Ihave no doubt his name would appear in any military directory.JACK.The Army Lists of the last forty years are here. These delightful recordsshould have been my constant study. [Rushes to bookcase and tears the booksout.] M. Generals . . . Mallam, Maxbohm, Magley, what ghastly names theyhave—Markby, Migsby, Mobbs, Moncrieff! Lieutenant 1840, Captain,Lieutenant-Colonel, Colonel, General 1869, Christian names, Ernest John. [Putsbook very quietly down and speaks quite calmly.] I always told you, Gwendolen,my name was Ernest, didn’t I? Well, it is Ernest after all. I mean itnaturally is Ernest.LADY BRACKNELL.Yes, I remember now that the General was called Ernest, I knew I had someparticular reason for disliking the name.GWENDOLEN.Ernest! My own Ernest! I felt from the first that you could have no other name!JACK.Gwendolen, it is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all hislife he has been speaking nothing but the truth. Can you forgive me?GWENDOLEN.I can. For I feel that you are sure to change.JACK.My own one!CHASUBLE.[To Miss Prism.] Lætitia! [Embraces her]MISS PRISM.[Enthusiastically.] Frederick! At last!ALGERNON.Cecily! [Embraces her.] At last!JACK.Gwendolen! [Embraces her.] At last!LADY BRACKNELL.My nephew, you seem to be displaying signs of triviality.JACK.On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, I’ve now realised for the first time in mylife the vital Importance of Being Earnest.
TABLEAU
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ACT I
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[SCENE.—A room furnished comfortably and tastefully, but notextravagantly. At the back, a door to the right leads to the entrance-hall,another to the left leads to Helmer’s study. Between the doors stands apiano. In the middle of the left-hand wall is a door, and beyond it a window.Near the window are a round table, arm-chairs and a small sofa. In theright-hand wall, at the farther end, another door; and on the same side, nearerthe footlights, a stove, two easy chairs and a rocking-chair; between the stoveand the door, a small table. Engravings on the walls; a cabinet with china andother small objects; a small book-case with well-bound books. The floors arecarpeted, and a fire burns in the stove. It is winter.
A bell rings in the hall; shortly afterwards the door is heard to open.Enter NORA, humming a tune and in high spirits. She is in outdoor dress andcarries a number of parcels; these she lays on the table to the right. Sheleaves the outer door open after her, and through it is seen a PORTER who iscarrying a Christmas Tree and a basket, which he gives to the MAID who hasopened the door.]NORA.Hide the Christmas Tree carefully, Helen. Be sure the children do not see ituntil this evening, when it is dressed. [To the PORTER, taking out herpurse.] How much?PORTER.Sixpence.NORA.There is a shilling. No, keep the change. [The PORTER thanks her, and goesout. NORA shuts the door. She is laughing to herself, as she takes off her hatand coat. She takes a packet of macaroons from her pocket and eats one or two;then goes cautiously to her husband’s door and listens.] Yes, he isin. [Still humming, she goes to the table on the right.]HELMER.[calls out from his room]. Is that my little lark twittering out there?NORA.[busy opening some of the parcels]. Yes, it is!HELMER.Is it my little squirrel bustling about?NORA.Yes!HELMER.When did my squirrel come home?NORA.Just now. [Puts the bag of macaroons into her pocket and wipes hermouth.] Come in here, Torvald, and see what I have bought.HELMER.Don’t disturb me. [A little later, he opens the door and looks intothe room, pen in hand.] Bought, did you say? All these things? Has mylittle spendthrift been wasting money again?NORA.Yes but, Torvald, this year we really can let ourselves go a little. This isthe first Christmas that we have not needed to economise.HELMER.Still, you know, we can’t spend money recklessly.NORA.Yes, Torvald, we may be a wee bit more reckless now, mayn’t we? Just atiny wee bit! You are going to have a big salary and earn lots and lots ofmoney.HELMER.Yes, after the New Year; but then it will be a whole quarter before the salaryis due.NORA.Pooh! we can borrow until then.HELMER.Nora! [Goes up to her and takes her playfully by the ear.] The samelittle featherhead! Suppose, now, that I borrowed fifty pounds today, and youspent it all in the Christmas week, and then on New Year’s Eve a slatefell on my head and killed me, and—NORA.[putting her hands over his mouth]. Oh! don’t say such horridthings.HELMER.Still, suppose that happened,—what then?NORA.If that were to happen, I don’t suppose I should care whether I owedmoney or not.HELMER.Yes, but what about the people who had lent it?NORA.They? Who would bother about them? I should not know who they were.HELMER.That is like a woman! But seriously, Nora, you know what I think about that. Nodebt, no borrowing. There can be no freedom or beauty about a home life thatdepends on borrowing and debt. We two have kept bravely on the straight road sofar, and we will go on the same way for the short time longer that there needbe any struggle.NORA.[moving towards the stove]. As you please, Torvald.HELMER.[following her]. Come, come, my little skylark must not droop her wings.What is this! Is my little squirrel out of temper? [Taking out hispurse.] Nora, what do you think I have got here?NORA.[turning round quickly]. Money!HELMER.There you are. [Gives her some money.] Do you think I don’t knowwhat a lot is wanted for housekeeping at Christmas-time?NORA.[counting]. Ten shillings—a pound—two pounds! Thank you,thank you, Torvald; that will keep me going for a long time.HELMER.Indeed it must.NORA.Yes, yes, it will. But come here and let me show you what I have bought. Andall so cheap! Look, here is a new suit for Ivar, and a sword; and a horse and atrumpet for Bob; and a doll and dolly’s bedstead for Emmy,—they arevery plain, but anyway she will soon break them in pieces. And here aredress-lengths and handkerchiefs for the maids; old Anne ought really to havesomething better.HELMER.And what is in this parcel?NORA.[crying out]. No, no! you mustn’t see that until this evening.HELMER.Very well. But now tell me, you extravagant little person, what would you likefor yourself?NORA.For myself? Oh, I am sure I don’t want anything.HELMER.Yes, but you must. Tell me something reasonable that you would particularlylike to have.NORA.No, I really can’t think of anything—unless, Torvald—HELMER.Well?NORA.[playing with his coat buttons, and without raising her eyes to his]. Ifyou really want to give me something, you might—you might—HELMER.Well, out with it!NORA.[speaking quickly]. You might give me money, Torvald. Only just as muchas you can afford; and then one of these days I will buy something with it.HELMER.But, Nora—NORA.Oh, do! dear Torvald; please, please do! Then I will wrap it up in beautifulgilt paper and hang it on the Christmas Tree. Wouldn’t that be fun?HELMER.What are little people called that are always wasting money?NORA.Spendthrifts—I know. Let us do as you suggest, Torvald, and then I shallhave time to think what I am most in want of. That is a very sensible plan,isn’t it?HELMER.[smiling]. Indeed it is—that is to say, if you were really to saveout of the money I give you, and then really buy something for yourself. But ifyou spend it all on the housekeeping and any number of unnecessary things, thenI merely have to pay up again.NORA.Oh but, Torvald—HELMER.You can’t deny it, my dear little Nora. [Puts his arm round herwaist.] It’s a sweet little spendthrift, but she uses up a deal ofmoney. One would hardly believe how expensive such little persons are!NORA.It’s a shame to say that. I do really save all I can.HELMER.[laughing]. That’s very true,—all you can. But youcan’t save anything!NORA.[smiling quietly and happily]. You haven’t any idea how manyexpenses we skylarks and squirrels have, Torvald.HELMER.You are an odd little soul. Very like your father. You always find some new wayof wheedling money out of me, and, as soon as you have got it, it seems to meltin your hands. You never know where it has gone. Still, one must take you asyou are. It is in the blood; for indeed it is true that you can inherit thesethings, Nora.NORA.Ah, I wish I had inherited many of papa’s qualities.HELMER.And I would not wish you to be anything but just what you are, my sweet littleskylark. But, do you know, it strikes me that you are looking rather—whatshall I say—rather uneasy today?NORA.Do I?HELMER.You do, really. Look straight at me.NORA.[looks at him]. Well?HELMER.[wagging his finger at her]. Hasn’t Miss Sweet Tooth been breakingrules in town today?NORA.No; what makes you think that?HELMER.Hasn’t she paid a visit to the confectioner’s?NORA.No, I assure you, Torvald—HELMER.Not been nibbling sweets?NORA.No, certainly not.HELMER.Not even taken a bite at a macaroon or two?NORA.No, Torvald, I assure you really—HELMER.There, there, of course I was only joking.NORA.[going to the table on the right]. I should not think of going againstyour wishes.HELMER.No, I am sure of that; besides, you gave me your word— [Going up toher.] Keep your little Christmas secrets to yourself, my darling. They willall be revealed tonight when the Christmas Tree is lit, no doubt.NORA.Did you remember to invite Doctor Rank?HELMER.No. But there is no need; as a matter of course he will come to dinner with us.However, I will ask him when he comes in this morning. I have ordered some goodwine. Nora, you can’t think how I am looking forward to this evening.NORA.So am I! And how the children will enjoy themselves, Torvald!HELMER.It is splendid to feel that one has a perfectly safe appointment, and a bigenough income. It’s delightful to think of, isn’t it?NORA.It’s wonderful!HELMER.Do you remember last Christmas? For a full three weeks beforehand you shutyourself up every evening until long after midnight, making ornaments for theChristmas Tree, and all the other fine things that were to be a surprise to us.It was the dullest three weeks I ever spent!NORA.I didn’t find it dull.HELMER.[smiling]. But there was precious little result, Nora.NORA.Oh, you shouldn’t tease me about that again. How could I help thecat’s going in and tearing everything to pieces?HELMER.Of course you couldn’t, poor little girl. You had the best of intentionsto please us all, and that’s the main thing. But it is a good thing thatour hard times are over.NORA.Yes, it is really wonderful.HELMER.This time I needn’t sit here and be dull all alone, and you needn’truin your dear eyes and your pretty little hands—NORA.[clapping her hands]. No, Torvald, I needn’t any longer, need I!It’s wonderfully lovely to hear you say so! [Taking his arm.] NowI will tell you how I have been thinking we ought to arrange things, Torvald.As soon as Christmas is over—[A bell rings in the hall.]There’s the bell. [She tidies the room a little.] There’ssome one at the door. What a nuisance!HELMER.If it is a caller, remember I am not at home.MAID.[in the doorway]. A lady to see you, ma’am,—a stranger.NORA.Ask her to come in.MAID.[to HELMER]. The doctor came at the same time, sir.HELMER.Did he go straight into my room?MAID.Yes, sir.
[HELMER goes into his room. The MAID ushers in Mrs Linde, who is intravelling dress, and shuts the door.]MRS LINDE.[in a dejected and timid voice]. How do you do, Nora?NORA.[doubtfully]. How do you do—MRS LINDE.You don’t recognise me, I suppose.NORA.No, I don’t know—yes, to be sure, I seemto—[Suddenly.] Yes! Christine! Is it really you?MRS LINDE.Yes, it is I.NORA.Christine! To think of my not recognising you! And yet how could I—[Ina gentle voice.] How you have altered, Christine!MRS LINDE.Yes, I have indeed. In nine, ten long years—NORA.Is it so long since we met? I suppose it is. The last eight years have been ahappy time for me, I can tell you. And so now you have come into the town, andhave taken this long journey in winter—that was plucky of you.MRS LINDE.I arrived by steamer this morning.NORA.To have some fun at Christmas-time, of course. How delightful! We will havesuch fun together! But take off your things. You are not cold, I hope.[Helps her.] Now we will sit down by the stove, and be cosy. No, takethis armchair; I will sit here in the rocking-chair. [Takes her hands.]Now you look like your old self again; it was only the first moment—Youare a little paler, Christine, and perhaps a little thinner.MRS LINDE.And much, much older, Nora.NORA.Perhaps a little older; very, very little; certainly not much. [Stopssuddenly and speaks seriously.] What a thoughtless creature I am,chattering away like this. My poor, dear Christine, do forgive me.MRS LINDE.What do you mean, Nora?NORA.[gently]. Poor Christine, you are a widow.MRS LINDE.Yes; it is three years ago now.NORA.Yes, I knew; I saw it in the papers. I assure you, Christine, I meant ever sooften to write to you at the time, but I always put it off and something alwaysprevented me.MRS LINDE.I quite understand, dear.NORA.It was very bad of me, Christine. Poor thing, how you must have suffered. Andhe left you nothing?MRS LINDE.No.NORA.And no children?MRS LINDE.No.NORA.Nothing at all, then.MRS LINDE.Not even any sorrow or grief to live upon.NORA.[looking incredulously at her]. But, Christine, is that possible?MRS LINDE.[smiles sadly and strokes her hair]. It sometimes happens, Nora.NORA.So you are quite alone. How dreadfully sad that must be. I have three lovelychildren. You can’t see them just now, for they are out with their nurse.But now you must tell me all about it.MRS LINDE.No, no; I want to hear about you.NORA.No, you must begin. I mustn’t be selfish today; today I must only thinkof your affairs. But there is one thing I must tell you. Do you know we havejust had a great piece of good luck?MRS LINDE.No, what is it?NORA.Just fancy, my husband has been made manager of the Bank!MRS LINDE.Your husband? What good luck!NORA.Yes, tremendous! A barrister’s profession is such an uncertain thing,especially if he won’t undertake unsavoury cases; and naturally Torvaldhas never been willing to do that, and I quite agree with him. You may imaginehow pleased we are! He is to take up his work in the Bank at the New Year, andthen he will have a big salary and lots of commissions. For the future we canlive quite differently—we can do just as we like. I feel so relieved andso happy, Christine! It will be splendid to have heaps of money and not need tohave any anxiety, won’t it?MRS LINDE.Yes, anyhow I think it would be delightful to have what one needs.NORA.No, not only what one needs, but heaps and heaps of money.MRS LINDE.[smiling]. Nora, Nora, haven’t you learned sense yet? In ourschooldays you were a great spendthrift.NORA.[laughing]. Yes, that is what Torvald says now. [Wags her finger ather.] But “Nora, Nora” is not so silly as you think. We havenot been in a position for me to waste money. We have both had to work.MRS LINDE.You too?NORA.Yes; odds and ends, needlework, crotchet-work, embroidery, and that kind ofthing. [Dropping her voice.] And other things as well. You know Torvaldleft his office when we were married? There was no prospect of promotion there,and he had to try and earn more than before. But during the first year heover-worked himself dreadfully. You see, he had to make money every way hecould, and he worked early and late; but he couldn’t stand it, and felldreadfully ill, and the doctors said it was necessary for him to go south.MRS LINDE.You spent a whole year in Italy, didn’t you?NORA.Yes. It was no easy matter to get away, I can tell you. It was just after Ivarwas born; but naturally we had to go. It was a wonderfully beautiful journey,and it saved Torvald’s life. But it cost a tremendous lot of money,Christine.MRS LINDE.So I should think.NORA.It cost about two hundred and fifty pounds. That’s a lot, isn’t it?MRS LINDE.Yes, and in emergencies like that it is lucky to have the money.NORA.I ought to tell you that we had it from papa.MRS LINDE.Oh, I see. It was just about that time that he died, wasn’t it?NORA.Yes; and, just think of it, I couldn’t go and nurse him. I was expectinglittle Ivar’s birth every day and I had my poor sick Torvald to lookafter. My dear, kind father—I never saw him again, Christine. That wasthe saddest time I have known since our marriage.MRS LINDE.I know how fond you were of him. And then you went off to Italy?NORA.Yes; you see we had money then, and the doctors insisted on our going, so westarted a month later.MRS LINDE.And your husband came back quite well?NORA.As sound as a bell!MRS LINDE.But—the doctor?NORA.What doctor?MRS LINDE.I thought your maid said the gentleman who arrived here just as I did, was thedoctor?NORA.Yes, that was Doctor Rank, but he doesn’t come here professionally. He isour greatest friend, and comes in at least once every day. No, Torvald has nothad an hour’s illness since then, and our children are strong and healthyand so am I. [Jumps up and claps her hands.] Christine! Christine!it’s good to be alive and happy!—But how horrid of me; I am talkingof nothing but my own affairs. [Sits on a stool near her, and rests her armson her knees.] You mustn’t be angry with me. Tell me, is it reallytrue that you did not love your husband? Why did you marry him?MRS LINDE.My mother was alive then, and was bedridden and helpless, and I had to providefor my two younger brothers; so I did not think I was justified in refusing hisoffer.NORA.No, perhaps you were quite right. He was rich at that time, then?MRS LINDE.I believe he was quite well off. But his business was a precarious one; and,when he died, it all went to pieces and there was nothing left.NORA.And then?—MRS LINDE.Well, I had to turn my hand to anything I could find—first a small shop,then a small school, and so on. The last three years have seemed like one longworking-day, with no rest. Now it is at an end, Nora. My poor mother needs meno more, for she is gone; and the boys do not need me either; they have gotsituations and can shift for themselves.NORA.What a relief you must feel if—MRS LINDE.No, indeed; I only feel my life unspeakably empty. No one to live for anymore.[Gets up restlessly.] That was why I could not stand the life in mylittle backwater any longer. I hope it may be easier here to find somethingwhich will busy me and occupy my thoughts. If only I could have the good luckto get some regular work—office work of some kind—NORA.But, Christine, that is so frightfully tiring, and you look tired out now. Youhad far better go away to some watering-place.MRS LINDE.[walking to the window]. I have no father to give me money for ajourney, Nora.NORA.[rising]. Oh, don’t be angry with me!MRS LINDE.[going up to her]. It is you that must not be angry with me, dear. Theworst of a position like mine is that it makes one so bitter. No one to workfor, and yet obliged to be always on the lookout for chances. One must live,and so one becomes selfish. When you told me of the happy turn your fortuneshave taken—you will hardly believe it—I was delighted not so muchon your account as on my own.NORA.How do you mean?—Oh, I understand. You mean that perhaps Torvald couldget you something to do.MRS LINDE.Yes, that was what I was thinking of.NORA.He must, Christine. Just leave it to me; I will broach the subject verycleverly—I will think of something that will please him very much. Itwill make me so happy to be of some use to you.MRS LINDE.How kind you are, Nora, to be so anxious to help me! It is doubly kind in you,for you know so little of the burdens and troubles of life.NORA.I—? I know so little of them?MRS LINDE.[smiling]. My dear! Small household cares and that sort ofthing!—You are a child, Nora.NORA.[tosses her head and crosses the stage]. You ought not to be sosuperior.MRS LINDE.No?NORA.You are just like the others. They all think that I am incapable of anythingreally serious—MRS LINDE.Come, come—NORA.—that I have gone through nothing in this world of cares.MRS LINDE.But, my dear Nora, you have just told me all your troubles.NORA.Pooh!—those were trifles. [Lowering her voice.] I have not toldyou the important thing.MRS LINDE.The important thing? What do you mean?NORA.You look down upon me altogether, Christine—but you ought not to. You areproud, aren’t you, of having worked so hard and so long for your mother?MRS LINDE.Indeed, I don’t look down on anyone. But it is true that I am both proudand glad to think that I was privileged to make the end of my mother’slife almost free from care.NORA.And you are proud to think of what you have done for your brothers?MRS LINDE.I think I have the right to be.NORA.I think so, too. But now, listen to this; I too have something to be proud andglad of.MRS LINDE.I have no doubt you have. But what do you refer to?NORA.Speak low. Suppose Torvald were to hear! He mustn’t on anyaccount—no one in the world must know, Christine, except you.MRS LINDE.But what is it?NORA.Come here. [Pulls her down on the sofa beside her.] Now I will show youthat I too have something to be proud and glad of. It was I who savedTorvald’s life.MRS LINDE.“Saved”? How?NORA.I told you about our trip to Italy. Torvald would never have recovered if hehad not gone there—MRS LINDE.Yes, but your father gave you the necessary funds.NORA.[smiling]. Yes, that is what Torvald and all the others think,but—MRS LINDE.But—NORA.Papa didn’t give us a shilling. It was I who procured the money.MRS LINDE.You? All that large sum?NORA.Two hundred and fifty pounds. What do you think of that?MRS LINDE.But, Nora, how could you possibly do it? Did you win a prize in the Lottery?NORA.[contemptuously]. In the Lottery? There would have been no credit inthat.MRS LINDE.But where did you get it from, then? Nora [humming and smiling with an airof mystery]. Hm, hm! Aha!MRS LINDE.Because you couldn’t have borrowed it.NORA.Couldn’t I? Why not?MRS LINDE.No, a wife cannot borrow without her husband’s consent.NORA.[tossing her head]. Oh, if it is a wife who has any head forbusiness—a wife who has the wit to be a little bit clever—MRS LINDE.I don’t understand it at all, Nora.NORA.There is no need you should. I never said I had borrowed the money. I may havegot it some other way. [Lies back on the sofa.] Perhaps I got it fromsome other admirer. When anyone is as attractive as I am—MRS LINDE.You are a mad creature.NORA.Now, you know you’re full of curiosity, Christine.MRS LINDE.Listen to me, Nora dear. Haven’t you been a little bit imprudent?NORA.[sits up straight]. Is it imprudent to save your husband’s life?MRS LINDE.It seems to me imprudent, without his knowledge, to—NORA.But it was absolutely necessary that he should not know! My goodness,can’t you understand that? It was necessary he should have no idea what adangerous condition he was in. It was to me that the doctors came and said thathis life was in danger, and that the only thing to save him was to live in thesouth. Do you suppose I didn’t try, first of all, to get what I wanted asif it were for myself? I told him how much I should love to travel abroad likeother young wives; I tried tears and entreaties with him; I told him that heought to remember the condition I was in, and that he ought to be kind andindulgent to me; I even hinted that he might raise a loan. That nearly made himangry, Christine. He said I was thoughtless, and that it was his duty as myhusband not to indulge me in my whims and caprices—as I believe he calledthem. Very well, I thought, you must be saved—and that was how I came todevise a way out of the difficulty—MRS LINDE.And did your husband never get to know from your father that the money had notcome from him?NORA.No, never. Papa died just at that time. I had meant to let him into the secretand beg him never to reveal it. But he was so ill then—alas, there neverwas any need to tell him.MRS LINDE.And since then have you never told your secret to your husband?NORA.Good Heavens, no! How could you think so? A man who has such strong opinionsabout these things! And besides, how painful and humiliating it would be forTorvald, with his manly independence, to know that he owed me anything! Itwould upset our mutual relations altogether; our beautiful happy home would nolonger be what it is now.MRS LINDE.Do you mean never to tell him about it?NORA.[meditatively, and with a half smile]. Yes—someday, perhaps, aftermany years, when I am no longer as nice-looking as I am now. Don’t laughat me! I mean, of course, when Torvald is no longer as devoted to me as he isnow; when my dancing and dressing-up and reciting have palled on him; then itmay be a good thing to have something in reserve—[Breaking off.]What nonsense! That time will never come. Now, what do you think of my greatsecret, Christine? Do you still think I am of no use? I can tell you, too, thatthis affair has caused me a lot of worry. It has been by no means easy for meto meet my engagements punctually. I may tell you that there is something thatis called, in business, quarterly interest, and another thing called payment ininstallments, and it is always so dreadfully difficult to manage them. I havehad to save a little here and there, where I could, you understand. I have notbeen able to put aside much from my housekeeping money, for Torvald must have agood table. I couldn’t let my children be shabbily dressed; I have feltobliged to use up all he gave me for them, the sweet little darlings!MRS LINDE.So it has all had to come out of your own necessaries of life, poor Nora?NORA.Of course. Besides, I was the one responsible for it. Whenever Torvald hasgiven me money for new dresses and such things, I have never spent more thanhalf of it; I have always bought the simplest and cheapest things. ThankHeaven, any clothes look well on me, and so Torvald has never noticed it. Butit was often very hard on me, Christine—because it is delightful to bereally well dressed, isn’t it?MRS LINDE.Quite so.NORA.Well, then I have found other ways of earning money. Last winter I was luckyenough to get a lot of copying to do; so I locked myself up and sat writingevery evening until quite late at night. Many a time I was desperately tired;but all the same it was a tremendous pleasure to sit there working and earningmoney. It was like being a man.MRS LINDE.How much have you been able to pay off in that way?NORA.I can’t tell you exactly. You see, it is very difficult to keep anaccount of a business matter of that kind. I only know that I have paid everypenny that I could scrape together. Many a time I was at my wits’ end.[Smiles.] Then I used to sit here and imagine that a rich old gentlemanhad fallen in love with me—MRS LINDE.What! Who was it?NORA.Be quiet!—that he had died; and that when his will was opened itcontained, written in big letters, the instruction: “The lovely Mrs NoraHelmer is to have all I possess paid over to her at once in cash.”MRS LINDE.But, my dear Nora—who could the man be?NORA.Good gracious, can’t you understand? There was no old gentleman at all;it was only something that I used to sit here and imagine, when Icouldn’t think of any way of procuring money. But it’s all the samenow; the tiresome old person can stay where he is, as far as I am concerned; Idon’t care about him or his will either, for I am free from care now.[Jumps up.] My goodness, it’s delightful to think of, Christine!Free from care! To be able to be free from care, quite free from care; to beable to play and romp with the children; to be able to keep the housebeautifully and have everything just as Torvald likes it! And, think of it,soon the spring will come and the big blue sky! Perhaps we shall be able totake a little trip—perhaps I shall see the sea again! Oh, it’s awonderful thing to be alive and be happy. [A bell is heard in the hall.]MRS LINDE.[rising]. There is the bell; perhaps I had better go.NORA.No, don’t go; no one will come in here; it is sure to be for Torvald.SERVANT.[at the hall door]. Excuse me, ma’am—there is a gentleman tosee the master, and as the doctor is with him—NORA.Who is it?KROGSTAD.[at the door]. It is I, Mrs Helmer. [Mrs LINDE starts, trembles, andturns to the window.]NORA.[takes a step towards him, and speaks in a strained, low voice]. You?What is it? What do you want to see my husband about?KROGSTAD.Bank business—in a way. I have a small post in the Bank, and I hear yourhusband is to be our chief now—NORA.Then it is—KROGSTAD.Nothing but dry business matters, Mrs Helmer; absolutely nothing else.NORA.Be so good as to go into the study, then. [She bows indifferently to him andshuts the door into the hall; then comes back and makes up the fire in thestove.]MRS LINDE.Nora—who was that man?NORA.A lawyer, of the name of Krogstad.MRS LINDE.Then it really was he.NORA.Do you know the man?MRS LINDE.I used to—many years ago. At one time he was a solicitor’s clerk inour town.NORA.Yes, he was.MRS LINDE.He is greatly altered.NORA.He made a very unhappy marriage.MRS LINDE.He is a widower now, isn’t he?NORA.With several children. There now, it is burning up. [Shuts the door of thestove and moves the rocking-chair aside.]MRS LINDE.They say he carries on various kinds of business.NORA.Really! Perhaps he does; I don’t know anything about it. But don’tlet us think of business; it is so tiresome.DOCTOR RANK.[comes out of HELMER’S study. Before he shuts the door he calls tohim]. No, my dear fellow, I won’t disturb you; I would rather go into your wife for a little while. [Shuts the door and sees Mrs LINDE.] Ibeg your pardon; I am afraid I am disturbing you too.NORA.No, not at all. [Introducing him]. Doctor Rank, Mrs Linde.RANK.I have often heard Mrs Linde’s name mentioned here. I think I passed youon the stairs when I arrived, Mrs Linde?MRS LINDE.Yes, I go up very slowly; I can’t manage stairs well.RANK.Ah! some slight internal weakness?MRS LINDE.No, the fact is I have been overworking myself.RANK.Nothing more than that? Then I suppose you have come to town to amuse yourselfwith our entertainments?MRS LINDE.I have come to look for work.RANK.Is that a good cure for overwork?MRS LINDE.One must live, Doctor Rank.RANK.Yes, the general opinion seems to be that it is necessary.NORA.Look here, Doctor Rank—you know you want to live.RANK.Certainly. However wretched I may feel, I want to prolong the agony as long aspossible. All my patients are like that. And so are those who are morallydiseased; one of them, and a bad case too, is at this very moment withHelmer—MRS LINDE.[sadly]. Ah!NORA.Whom do you mean?RANK.A lawyer of the name of Krogstad, a fellow you don’t know at all. Hesuffers from a diseased moral character, Mrs Helmer; but even he began talkingof its being highly important that he should live.NORA.Did he? What did he want to speak to Torvald about?RANK.I have no idea; I only heard that it was something about the Bank.NORA.I didn’t know this—what’s his name—Krogstad hadanything to do with the Bank.RANK.Yes, he has some sort of appointment there. [To Mrs Linde.] Idon’t know whether you find also in your part of the world that there arecertain people who go zealously snuffing about to smell out moral corruption,and, as soon as they have found some, put the person concerned into somelucrative position where they can keep their eye on him. Healthy natures areleft out in the cold.MRS LINDE.Still I think the sick are those who most need taking care of.RANK.[shrugging his shoulders]. Yes, there you are. That is the sentimentthat is turning Society into a sick-house.
[NORA, who has been absorbed in her thoughts, breaks out into smotheredlaughter and claps her hands.]RANK.Why do you laugh at that? Have you any notion what Society really is?NORA.What do I care about tiresome Society? I am laughing at something quitedifferent, something extremely amusing. Tell me, Doctor Rank, are all thepeople who are employed in the Bank dependent on Torvald now?RANK.Is that what you find so extremely amusing?NORA.[smiling and humming]. That’s my affair! [Walking about theroom.] It’s perfectly glorious to think that we have—thatTorvald has so much power over so many people. [Takes the packet from herpocket.] Doctor Rank, what do you say to a macaroon?RANK.What, macaroons? I thought they were forbidden here.NORA.Yes, but these are some Christine gave me.MRS LINDE.What! I?—NORA.Oh, well, don’t be alarmed! You couldn’t know that Torvald hadforbidden them. I must tell you that he is afraid they will spoil my teeth.But, bah!—once in a way—That’s so, isn’t it, DoctorRank? By your leave! [Puts a macaroon into his mouth.] You must have onetoo, Christine. And I shall have one, just a little one—or at most two.[Walking about.] I am tremendously happy. There is just one thing in theworld now that I should dearly love to do.RANK.Well, what is that?NORA.It’s something I should dearly love to say, if Torvald could hear me.RANK.Well, why can’t you say it?NORA.No, I daren’t; it’s so shocking.MRS LINDE.Shocking?RANK.Well, I should not advise you to say it. Still, with us you might. What is ityou would so much like to say if Torvald could hear you?NORA.I should just love to say—Well, I’m damned!RANK.Are you mad?MRS LINDE.Nora, dear—!RANK.Say it, here he is!NORA.[hiding the packet]. Hush! Hush! Hush! [HELMER comes out of his room,with his coat over his arm and his hat in his hand.]NORA.Well, Torvald dear, have you got rid of him?HELMER.Yes, he has just gone.NORA.Let me introduce you—this is Christine, who has come to town.HELMER.Christine—? Excuse me, but I don’t know—NORA.Mrs Linde, dear; Christine Linde.HELMER.Of course. A school friend of my wife’s, I presume?MRS LINDE.Yes, we have known each other since then.NORA.And just think, she has taken a long journey in order to see you.HELMER.What do you mean?MRS LINDE.No, really, I—NORA.Christine is tremendously clever at book-keeping, and she is frightfullyanxious to work under some clever man, so as to perfect herself—HELMER.Very sensible, Mrs Linde.NORA.And when she heard you had been appointed manager of the Bank—the newswas telegraphed, you know—she travelled here as quick as she could.Torvald, I am sure you will be able to do something for Christine, for my sake,won’t you?HELMER.Well, it is not altogether impossible. I presume you are a widow, Mrs Linde?MRS LINDE.Yes.HELMER.And have had some experience of book-keeping?MRS LINDE.Yes, a fair amount.HELMER.Ah! well, it’s very likely I may be able to find something for you—NORA.[clapping her hands]. What did I tell you? What did I tell you?HELMER.You have just come at a fortunate moment, Mrs Linde.MRS LINDE.How am I to thank you?HELMER.There is no need. [Puts on his coat.] But today you must excuseme—RANK.Wait a minute; I will come with you. [Brings his fur coat from the hall andwarms it at the fire.]NORA.Don’t be long away, Torvald dear.HELMER.About an hour, not more.NORA.Are you going too, Christine?MRS LINDE.[putting on her cloak]. Yes, I must go and look for a room.HELMER.Oh, well then, we can walk down the street together.NORA.[helping her]. What a pity it is we are so short of space here; I amafraid it is impossible for us—MRS LINDE.Please don’t think of it! Goodbye, Nora dear, and many thanks.NORA.Goodbye for the present. Of course you will come back this evening. And youtoo, Dr. Rank. What do you say? If you are well enough? Oh, you must be! Wrapyourself up well. [They go to the door all talking together.Children’s voices are heard on the staircase.]NORA.There they are! There they are! [She runs to open the door. The NURSE comesin with the children.] Come in! Come in! [Stoops and kisses them.]Oh, you sweet blessings! Look at them, Christine! Aren’t they darlings?RANK.Don’t let us stand here in the draught.HELMER.Come along, Mrs Linde; the place will only be bearable for a mother now!
[RANK, HELMER, and Mrs Linde go downstairs. The NURSE comes forward with thechildren; NORA shuts the hall door.]NORA.How fresh and well you look! Such red cheeks like apples and roses. [Thechildren all talk at once while she speaks to them.] Have you had greatfun? That’s splendid! What, you pulled both Emmy and Bob along on thesledge? —both at once?—that was good. You are a clever boy, Ivar.Let me take her for a little, Anne. My sweet little baby doll! [Takes thebaby from the MAID and dances it up and down.] Yes, yes, mother will dancewith Bob too. What! Have you been snowballing? I wish I had been there too! No,no, I will take their things off, Anne; please let me do it, it is such fun. Goin now, you look half frozen. There is some hot coffee for you on the stove.
[The NURSE goes into the room on the left. NORA takes off thechildren’s things and throws them about, while they all talk to her atonce.]NORA.Really! Did a big dog run after you? But it didn’t bite you? No, dogsdon’t bite nice little dolly children. You mustn’t look at theparcels, Ivar. What are they? Ah, I daresay you would like to know. No,no—it’s something nasty! Come, let us have a game! What shall weplay at? Hide and Seek? Yes, we’ll play Hide and Seek. Bob shall hidefirst. Must I hide? Very well, I’ll hide first. [She and the childrenlaugh and shout, and romp in and out of the room; at last NORA hides under thetable, the children rush in and out for her, but do not see her; they hear hersmothered laughter, run to the table, lift up the cloth and find her. Shouts oflaughter. She crawls forward and pretends to frighten them. Fresh laughter.Meanwhile there has been a knock at the hall door, but none of them has noticedit. The door is half opened, and KROGSTAD appears, he waits a little; the gamegoes on.]KROGSTAD.Excuse me, Mrs Helmer.NORA.[with a stifled cry, turns round and gets up on to her knees]. Ah! whatdo you want?KROGSTAD.Excuse me, the outer door was ajar; I suppose someone forgot to shut it.NORA.[rising]. My husband is out, Mr. Krogstad.KROGSTAD.I know that.NORA.What do you want here, then?KROGSTAD.A word with you.NORA.With me?—[To the children, gently.] Go in to nurse. What? No, thestrange man won’t do mother any harm. When he has gone we will haveanother game. [She takes the children into the room on the left, and shutsthe door after them.] You want to speak to me?KROGSTAD.Yes, I do.NORA.Today? It is not the first of the month yet.KROGSTAD.No, it is Christmas Eve, and it will depend on yourself what sort of aChristmas you will spend.NORA.What do you mean? Today it is absolutely impossible for me—KROGSTAD.We won’t talk about that until later on. This is something different. Ipresume you can give me a moment?NORA.Yes—yes, I can—although—KROGSTAD.Good. I was in Olsen’s Restaurant and saw your husband going down thestreet—NORA.Yes?KROGSTAD.With a lady.NORA.What then?KROGSTAD.May I make so bold as to ask if it was a Mrs Linde?NORA.It was.KROGSTAD.Just arrived in town?NORA.Yes, today.KROGSTAD.She is a great friend of yours, isn’t she?NORA.She is. But I don’t see—KROGSTAD.I knew her too, once upon a time.NORA.I am aware of that.KROGSTAD.Are you? So you know all about it; I thought as much. Then I can ask you,without beating about the bush—is Mrs Linde to have an appointment in theBank?NORA.What right have you to question me, Mr. Krogstad?—You, one of myhusband’s subordinates! But since you ask, you shall know. Yes, Mrs Lindeis to have an appointment. And it was I who pleaded her cause, Mr. Krogstad,let me tell you that.KROGSTAD.I was right in what I thought, then.NORA.[walking up and down the stage]. Sometimes one has a tiny little bit ofinfluence, I should hope. Because one is a woman, it does not necessarilyfollow that—. When anyone is in a subordinate position, Mr. Krogstad,they should really be careful to avoid offending anyone who—who—KROGSTAD.Who has influence?NORA.Exactly.KROGSTAD.[changing his tone]. Mrs Helmer, you will be so good as to use yourinfluence on my behalf.NORA.What? What do you mean?KROGSTAD.You will be so kind as to see that I am allowed to keep my subordinate positionin the Bank.NORA.What do you mean by that? Who proposes to take your post away from you?KROGSTAD.Oh, there is no necessity to keep up the pretence of ignorance. I can quiteunderstand that your friend is not very anxious to expose herself to the chanceof rubbing shoulders with me; and I quite understand, too, whom I have to thankfor being turned off.NORA.But I assure you—KROGSTAD.Very likely; but, to come to the point, the time has come when I should adviseyou to use your influence to prevent that.NORA.But, Mr. Krogstad, I have no influence.KROGSTAD.Haven’t you? I thought you said yourself just now—NORA.Naturally I did not mean you to put that construction on it. I! What shouldmake you think I have any influence of that kind with my husband?KROGSTAD.Oh, I have known your husband from our student days. I don’t suppose heis any more unassailable than other husbands.NORA.If you speak slightingly of my husband, I shall turn you out of the house.KROGSTAD.You are bold, Mrs Helmer.NORA.I am not afraid of you any longer. As soon as the New Year comes, I shall in avery short time be free of the whole thing.KROGSTAD.[controlling himself]. Listen to me, Mrs Helmer. If necessary, I amprepared to fight for my small post in the Bank as if I were fighting for mylife.NORA.So it seems.KROGSTAD.It is not only for the sake of the money; indeed, that weighs least with me inthe matter. There is another reason—well, I may as well tell you. Myposition is this. I daresay you know, like everybody else, that once, manyyears ago, I was guilty of an indiscretion.NORA.I think I have heard something of the kind.KROGSTAD.The matter never came into court; but every way seemed to be closed to me afterthat. So I took to the business that you know of. I had to do something; and,honestly, I don’t think I’ve been one of the worst. But now I mustcut myself free from all that. My sons are growing up; for their sake I musttry and win back as much respect as I can in the town. This post in the Bankwas like the first step up for me—and now your husband is going to kickme downstairs again into the mud.NORA.But you must believe me, Mr. Krogstad; it is not in my power to help you atall.KROGSTAD.Then it is because you haven’t the will; but I have means to compel you.NORA.You don’t mean that you will tell my husband that I owe you money?KROGSTAD.Hm!—suppose I were to tell him?NORA.It would be perfectly infamous of you. [Sobbing.] To think of hislearning my secret, which has been my joy and pride, in such an ugly, clumsyway—that he should learn it from you! And it would put me in a horriblydisagreeable position—KROGSTAD.Only disagreeable?NORA.[impetuously]. Well, do it, then!—and it will be the worse foryou. My husband will see for himself what a blackguard you are, and youcertainly won’t keep your post then.KROGSTAD.I asked you if it was only a disagreeable scene at home that you were afraidof?NORA.If my husband does get to know of it, of course he will at once pay you what isstill owing, and we shall have nothing more to do with you.KROGSTAD.[coming a step nearer]. Listen to me, Mrs Helmer. Either you have a verybad memory or you know very little of business. I shall be obliged to remindyou of a few details.NORA.What do you mean?KROGSTAD.When your husband was ill, you came to me to borrow two hundred and fiftypounds.NORA.I didn’t know anyone else to go to.KROGSTAD.I promised to get you that amount—NORA.Yes, and you did so.KROGSTAD.I promised to get you that amount, on certain conditions. Your mind was sotaken up with your husband’s illness, and you were so anxious to get themoney for your journey, that you seem to have paid no attention to theconditions of our bargain. Therefore it will not be amiss if I remind you ofthem. Now, I promised to get the money on the security of a bond which I drewup.NORA.Yes, and which I signed.KROGSTAD.Good. But below your signature there were a few lines constituting your fathera surety for the money; those lines your father should have signed.NORA.Should? He did sign them.KROGSTAD.I had left the date blank; that is to say, your father should himself haveinserted the date on which he signed the paper. Do you remember that?NORA.Yes, I think I remember—KROGSTAD.Then I gave you the bond to send by post to your father. Is that not so?NORA.Yes.KROGSTAD.And you naturally did so at once, because five or six days afterwards youbrought me the bond with your father’s signature. And then I gave you themoney.NORA.Well, haven’t I been paying it off regularly?KROGSTAD.Fairly so, yes. But—to come back to the matter in hand—that musthave been a very trying time for you, Mrs Helmer?NORA.It was, indeed.KROGSTAD.Your father was very ill, wasn’t he?NORA.He was very near his end.KROGSTAD.And died soon afterwards?NORA.Yes.KROGSTAD.Tell me, Mrs Helmer, can you by any chance remember what day your fatherdied?—on what day of the month, I mean.NORA.Papa died on the 29th of September.KROGSTAD.That is correct; I have ascertained it for myself. And, as that is so, there isa discrepancy [taking a paper from his pocket] which I cannot accountfor.NORA.What discrepancy? I don’t know—KROGSTAD.The discrepancy consists, Mrs Helmer, in the fact that your father signed thisbond three days after his death.NORA.What do you mean? I don’t understand—KROGSTAD.Your father died on the 29th of September. But, look here; your father hasdated his signature the 2nd of October. It is a discrepancy, isn’t it?[NORA is silent.] Can you explain it to me? [NORA is stillsilent.] It is a remarkable thing, too, that the words “2nd ofOctober,” as well as the year, are not written in your father’shandwriting but in one that I think I know. Well, of course it can beexplained; your father may have forgotten to date his signature, and someoneelse may have dated it haphazard before they knew of his death. There is noharm in that. It all depends on the signature of the name; and that is genuine,I suppose, Mrs Helmer? It was your father himself who signed his name here?NORA.[after a short pause, throws her head up and looks defiantly at him].No, it was not. It was I that wrote papa’s name.KROGSTAD.Are you aware that is a dangerous confession?NORA.In what way? You shall have your money soon.KROGSTAD.Let me ask you a question; why did you not send the paper to your father?NORA.It was impossible; papa was so ill. If I had asked him for his signature, Ishould have had to tell him what the money was to be used for; and when he wasso ill himself I couldn’t tell him that my husband’s life was indanger—it was impossible.KROGSTAD.It would have been better for you if you had given up your trip abroad.NORA.No, that was impossible. That trip was to save my husband’s life; Icouldn’t give that up.KROGSTAD.But did it never occur to you that you were committing a fraud on me?NORA.I couldn’t take that into account; I didn’t trouble myself aboutyou at all. I couldn’t bear you, because you put so many heartlessdifficulties in my way, although you knew what a dangerous condition my husbandwas in.KROGSTAD.Mrs Helmer, you evidently do not realise clearly what it is that you have beenguilty of. But I can assure you that my one false step, which lost me all myreputation, was nothing more or nothing worse than what you have done.NORA.You? Do you ask me to believe that you were brave enough to run a risk to saveyour wife’s life?KROGSTAD.The law cares nothing about motives.NORA.Then it must be a very foolish law.KROGSTAD.Foolish or not, it is the law by which you will be judged, if I produce thispaper in court.NORA.I don’t believe it. Is a daughter not to be allowed to spare her dyingfather anxiety and care? Is a wife not to be allowed to save herhusband’s life? I don’t know much about law; but I am certain thatthere must be laws permitting such things as that. Have you no knowledge ofsuch laws—you who are a lawyer? You must be a very poor lawyer, Mr.Krogstad.KROGSTAD.Maybe. But matters of business—such business as you and I have hadtogether—do you think I don’t understand that? Very well. Do as youplease. But let me tell you this—if I lose my position a second time, youshall lose yours with me. [He bows, and goes out through the hall.]NORA.[appears buried in thought for a short time, then tosses her head].Nonsense! Trying to frighten me like that!—I am not so silly as hethinks. [Begins to busy herself putting the children’s things inorder.] And yet—? No, it’s impossible! I did it forlove’s sake.THE CHILDREN.[in the doorway on the left]. Mother, the stranger man has gone outthrough the gate.NORA.Yes, dears, I know. But, don’t tell anyone about the stranger man. Do youhear? Not even papa.CHILDREN.No, mother; but will you come and play again?NORA.No, no,—not now.CHILDREN.But, mother, you promised us.NORA.Yes, but I can’t now. Run away in; I have such a lot to do. Run away in,my sweet little darlings. [She gets them into the room by degrees and shutsthe door on them; then sits down on the sofa, takes up a piece of needleworkand sews a few stitches, but soon stops.] No! [Throws down the work,gets up, goes to the hall door and calls out.] Helen! bring the Tree in.[Goes to the table on the left, opens a drawer, and stops again.] No,no! it is quite impossible!MAID.[coming in with the Tree]. Where shall I put it, ma’am?NORA.Here, in the middle of the floor.MAID.Shall I get you anything else?NORA.No, thank you. I have all I want. [Exit MAID.]NORA.[begins dressing the tree]. A candle here-and flowers here—Thehorrible man! It’s all nonsense—there’s nothing wrong. Thetree shall be splendid! I will do everything I can think of to please you,Torvald!—I will sing for you, dance for you—[HELMER comes inwith some papers under his arm.] Oh! are you back already?HELMER.Yes. Has anyone been here?NORA.Here? No.HELMER.That is strange. I saw Krogstad going out of the gate.NORA.Did you? Oh yes, I forgot, Krogstad was here for a moment.HELMER.Nora, I can see from your manner that he has been here begging you to say agood word for him.NORA.Yes.HELMER.And you were to appear to do it of your own accord; you were to conceal from methe fact of his having been here; didn’t he beg that of you too?NORA.Yes, Torvald, but—HELMER.Nora, Nora, and you would be a party to that sort of thing? To have any talkwith a man like that, and give him any sort of promise? And to tell me a lieinto the bargain?NORA.A lie—?HELMER.Didn’t you tell me no one had been here? [Shakes his finger ather.] My little songbird must never do that again. A songbird must have aclean beak to chirp with—no false notes! [Puts his arm round herwaist.] That is so, isn’t it? Yes, I am sure it is. [Lets hergo.] We will say no more about it. [Sits down by the stove.] Howwarm and snug it is here! [Turns over his papers.]NORA.[after a short pause, during which she busies herself with the ChristmasTree.] Torvald!HELMER.Yes.NORA.I am looking forward tremendously to the fancy-dress ball at theStenborgs’ the day after tomorrow.HELMER.And I am tremendously curious to see what you are going to surprise me with.NORA.It was very silly of me to want to do that.HELMER.What do you mean?NORA.I can’t hit upon anything that will do; everything I think of seems sosilly and insignificant.HELMER.Does my little Nora acknowledge that at last?NORA.[standing behind his chair with her arms on the back of it]. Are youvery busy, Torvald?HELMER.Well—NORA.What are all those papers?HELMER.Bank business.NORA.Already?HELMER.I have got authority from the retiring manager to undertake the necessarychanges in the staff and in the rearrangement of the work; and I must make useof the Christmas week for that, so as to have everything in order for the newyear.NORA.Then that was why this poor Krogstad—HELMER.Hm!NORA.[leans against the back of his chair and strokes his hair]. If youhadn’t been so busy I should have asked you a tremendously big favour,Torvald.HELMER.What is that? Tell me.NORA.There is no one has such good taste as you. And I do so want to look nice atthe fancy-dress ball. Torvald, couldn’t you take me in hand and decidewhat I shall go as, and what sort of a dress I shall wear?HELMER.Aha! so my obstinate little woman is obliged to get someone to come to herrescue?NORA.Yes, Torvald, I can’t get along a bit without your help.HELMER.Very well, I will think it over, we shall manage to hit upon something.NORA.That is nice of you. [Goes to the Christmas Tree. A short pause.] Howpretty the red flowers look—. But, tell me, was it really something verybad that this Krogstad was guilty of?HELMER.He forged someone’s name. Have you any idea what that means?NORA.Isn’t it possible that he was driven to do it by necessity?HELMER.Yes; or, as in so many cases, by imprudence. I am not so heartless as tocondemn a man altogether because of a single false step of that kind.NORA.No, you wouldn’t, would you, Torvald?HELMER.Many a man has been able to retrieve his character, if he has openly confessedhis fault and taken his punishment.NORA.Punishment—?HELMER.But Krogstad did nothing of that sort; he got himself out of it by a cunningtrick, and that is why he has gone under altogether.NORA.But do you think it would—?HELMER.Just think how a guilty man like that has to lie and play the hypocrite withevery one, how he has to wear a mask in the presence of those near and dear tohim, even before his own wife and children. And about the children—thatis the most terrible part of it all, Nora.NORA.How?HELMER.Because such an atmosphere of lies infects and poisons the whole life of ahome. Each breath the children take in such a house is full of the germs ofevil.NORA.[coming nearer him]. Are you sure of that?HELMER.My dear, I have often seen it in the course of my life as a lawyer. Almosteveryone who has gone to the bad early in life has had a deceitful mother.NORA.Why do you only say—mother?HELMER.It seems most commonly to be the mother’s influence, though naturally abad father’s would have the same result. Every lawyer is familiar withthe fact. This Krogstad, now, has been persistently poisoning his own childrenwith lies and dissimulation; that is why I say he has lost all moral character.[Holds out his hands to her.] That is why my sweet little Nora mustpromise me not to plead his cause. Give me your hand on it. Come, come, what isthis? Give me your hand. There now, that’s settled. I assure you it wouldbe quite impossible for me to work with him; I literally feel physically illwhen I am in the company of such people.NORA.[takes her hand out of his and goes to the opposite side of the ChristmasTree]. How hot it is in here; and I have such a lot to do.HELMER.[getting up and putting his papers in order]. Yes, and I must try andread through some of these before dinner; and I must think about your costume,too. And it is just possible I may have something ready in gold paper to hangup on the Tree. [Puts his hand on her head.] My precious littlesinging-bird! [He goes into his room and shuts the door after him.]NORA.[after a pause, whispers]. No, no—it isn’t true. It’simpossible; it must be impossible.
[The NURSE opens the door on the left.]NURSE.The little ones are begging so hard to be allowed to come in to mamma.NORA.No, no, no! Don’t let them come in to me! You stay with them, Anne.NURSE.Very well, ma’am. [Shuts the door.]NORA.[pale with terror]. Deprave my little children? Poison my home? [Ashort pause. Then she tosses her head.] It’s not true. It can’tpossibly be true.
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ACT II
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[THE SAME SCENE.—THE Christmas Tree is in the corner by the piano,stripped of its ornaments and with burnt-down candle-ends on its dishevelledbranches. NORA’S cloak and hat are lying on the sofa. She is alone in theroom, walking about uneasily. She stops by the sofa and takes up hercloak.]NORA.[drops her cloak]. Someone is coming now! [Goes to the door andlistens.] No—it is no one. Of course, no one will come today,Christmas Day—nor tomorrow either. But, perhaps—[opens the doorand looks out]. No, nothing in the letterbox; it is quite empty. [Comesforward.] What rubbish! of course he can’t be in earnest about it.Such a thing couldn’t happen; it is impossible—I have three littlechildren.
[Enter the NURSE from the room on the left, carrying a big cardboardbox.]NURSE.At last I have found the box with the fancy dress.NORA.Thanks; put it on the table.NURSE.[doing so]. But it is very much in want of mending.NORA.I should like to tear it into a hundred thousand pieces.NURSE.What an idea! It can easily be put in order—just a little patience.NORA.Yes, I will go and get Mrs Linde to come and help me with it.NURSE.What, out again? In this horrible weather? You will catch cold, ma’am,and make yourself ill.NORA.Well, worse than that might happen. How are the children?NURSE.The poor little souls are playing with their Christmas presents, but—NORA.Do they ask much for me?NURSE.You see, they are so accustomed to have their mamma with them.NORA.Yes, but, nurse, I shall not be able to be so much with them now as I wasbefore.NURSE.Oh well, young children easily get accustomed to anything.NORA.Do you think so? Do you think they would forget their mother if she went awayaltogether?NURSE.Good heavens!—went away altogether?NORA.Nurse, I want you to tell me something I have often wondered about—howcould you have the heart to put your own child out among strangers?NURSE.I was obliged to, if I wanted to be little Nora’s nurse.NORA.Yes, but how could you be willing to do it?NURSE.What, when I was going to get such a good place by it? A poor girl who has gotinto trouble should be glad to. Besides, that wicked man didn’t do asingle thing for me.NORA.But I suppose your daughter has quite forgotten you.NURSE.No, indeed she hasn’t. She wrote to me when she was confirmed, and whenshe was married.NORA.[putting her arms round her neck]. Dear old Anne, you were a good motherto me when I was little.NURSE.Little Nora, poor dear, had no other mother but me.NORA.And if my little ones had no other mother, I am sure you would—Whatnonsense I am talking! [Opens the box.] Go in to them. Now Imust—. You will see tomorrow how charming I shall look.NURSE.I am sure there will be no one at the ball so charming as you, ma’am.[Goes into the room on the left.]NORA.[begins to unpack the box, but soon pushes it away from her]. If only Idared go out. If only no one would come. If only I could be sure nothing wouldhappen here in the meantime. Stuff and nonsense! No one will come. Only Imustn’t think about it. I will brush my muff. What lovely, lovely gloves!Out of my thoughts, out of my thoughts! One, two, three, four, five, six—[Screams.] Ah! there is someone coming—. [Makes a movementtowards the door, but stands irresolute.]
[Enter Mrs Linde from the hall, where she has taken off her cloak andhat.]NORA.Oh, it’s you, Christine. There is no one else out there, is there? Howgood of you to come!MRS LINDE.I heard you were up asking for me.NORA.Yes, I was passing by. As a matter of fact, it is something you could help mewith. Let us sit down here on the sofa. Look here. Tomorrow evening there is tobe a fancy-dress ball at the Stenborgs’, who live above us; and Torvaldwants me to go as a Neapolitan fisher-girl, and dance the Tarantella that Ilearned at Capri.MRS LINDE.I see; you are going to keep up the character.NORA.Yes, Torvald wants me to. Look, here is the dress; Torvald had it made for methere, but now it is all so torn, and I haven’t any idea—MRS LINDE.We will easily put that right. It is only some of the trimming come unsewn hereand there. Needle and thread? Now then, that’s all we want.NORA.It is nice of you.MRS LINDE.[sewing]. So you are going to be dressed up tomorrow Nora. I will tellyou what—I shall come in for a moment and see you in your fine feathers.But I have completely forgotten to thank you for a delightful eveningyesterday.NORA.[gets up, and crosses the stage]. Well, I don’t think yesterdaywas as pleasant as usual. You ought to have come to town a little earlier,Christine. Certainly Torvald does understand how to make a house dainty andattractive.MRS LINDE.And so do you, it seems to me; you are not your father’s daughter fornothing. But tell me, is Doctor Rank always as depressed as he was yesterday?NORA.No; yesterday it was very noticeable. I must tell you that he suffers from avery dangerous disease. He has consumption of the spine, poor creature. Hisfather was a horrible man who committed all sorts of excesses; and that is whyhis son was sickly from childhood, do you understand?MRS LINDE.[dropping her sewing]. But, my dearest Nora, how do you know anythingabout such things?NORA.[walking about]. Pooh! When you have three children, you get visits nowand then from—from married women, who know something of medical matters,and they talk about one thing and another.MRS LINDE.[goes on sewing. A short silence]. Does Doctor Rank come here everyday?NORA.Everyday regularly. He is Torvald’s most intimate friend, and a greatfriend of mine too. He is just like one of the family.MRS LINDE.But tell me this—is he perfectly sincere? I mean, isn’t he the kindof man that is very anxious to make himself agreeable?NORA.Not in the least. What makes you think that?MRS LINDE.When you introduced him to me yesterday, he declared he had often heard my namementioned in this house; but afterwards I noticed that your husbandhadn’t the slightest idea who I was. So how could Doctor Rank—?NORA.That is quite right, Christine. Torvald is so absurdly fond of me that he wantsme absolutely to himself, as he says. At first he used to seem almost jealousif I mentioned any of the dear folk at home, so naturally I gave up doing so.But I often talk about such things with Doctor Rank, because he likes hearingabout them.MRS LINDE.Listen to me, Nora. You are still very like a child in many things, and I amolder than you in many ways and have a little more experience. Let me tell youthis—you ought to make an end of it with Doctor Rank.NORA.What ought I to make an end of?MRS LINDE.Of two things, I think. Yesterday you talked some nonsense about a rich admirerwho was to leave you money—NORA.An admirer who doesn’t exist, unfortunately! But what then?MRS LINDE.Is Doctor Rank a man of means?NORA.Yes, he is.MRS LINDE.And has no one to provide for?NORA.No, no one; but—MRS LINDE.And comes here everyday?NORA.Yes, I told you so.MRS LINDE.But how can this well-bred man be so tactless?NORA.I don’t understand you at all.MRS LINDE.Don’t prevaricate, Nora. Do you suppose I don’t guess who lent youthe two hundred and fifty pounds?NORA.Are you out of your senses? How can you think of such a thing! A friend ofours, who comes here everyday! Do you realise what a horribly painful positionthat would be?MRS LINDE.Then it really isn’t he?NORA.No, certainly not. It would never have entered into my head for a moment.Besides, he had no money to lend then; he came into his money afterwards.MRS LINDE.Well, I think that was lucky for you, my dear Nora.NORA.No, it would never have come into my head to ask Doctor Rank. Although I amquite sure that if I had asked him—MRS LINDE.But of course you won’t.NORA.Of course not. I have no reason to think it could possibly be necessary. But Iam quite sure that if I told Doctor Rank—MRS LINDE.Behind your husband’s back?NORA.I must make an end of it with the other one, and that will be behind his backtoo. I must make an end of it with him.MRS LINDE.Yes, that is what I told you yesterday, but—NORA.[walking up and down]. A man can put a thing like that straight mucheasier than a woman—MRS LINDE.One’s husband, yes.NORA.Nonsense! [Standing still.] When you pay off a debt you get your bondback, don’t you?MRS LINDE.Yes, as a matter of course.NORA.And can tear it into a hundred thousand pieces, and burn it up—the nastydirty paper!MRS LINDE.[looks hard at her, lays down her sewing and gets up slowly]. Nora, youare concealing something from me.NORA.Do I look as if I were?MRS LINDE.Something has happened to you since yesterday morning. Nora, what is it?NORA.[going nearer to her]. Christine! [Listens.] Hush! there’sTorvald come home. Do you mind going in to the children for the present?Torvald can’t bear to see dressmaking going on. Let Anne help you.MRS LINDE.[gathering some of the things together]. Certainly—but I am notgoing away from here until we have had it out with one another. [She goesinto the room on the left, as HELMER comes in from the hall.]NORA.[going up to HELMER]. I have wanted you so much, Torvald dear.HELMER.Was that the dressmaker?NORA.No, it was Christine; she is helping me to put my dress in order. You will seeI shall look quite smart.HELMER.Wasn’t that a happy thought of mine, now?NORA.Splendid! But don’t you think it is nice of me, too, to do as you wish?HELMER.Nice?—because you do as your husband wishes? Well, well, you littlerogue, I am sure you did not mean it in that way. But I am not going to disturbyou; you will want to be trying on your dress, I expect.NORA.I suppose you are going to work.HELMER.Yes. [Shows her a bundle of papers.] Look at that. I have just been intothe bank. [Turns to go into his room.]NORA.Torvald.HELMER.Yes.NORA.If your little squirrel were to ask you for something very, veryprettily—?HELMER.What then?NORA.Would you do it?HELMER.I should like to hear what it is, first.NORA.Your squirrel would run about and do all her tricks if you would be nice, anddo what she wants.HELMER.Speak plainly.NORA.Your skylark would chirp about in every room, with her song rising andfalling—HELMER.Well, my skylark does that anyhow.NORA.I would play the fairy and dance for you in the moonlight, Torvald.HELMER.Nora—you surely don’t mean that request you made to me thismorning?NORA.[going near him]. Yes, Torvald, I beg you so earnestly—HELMER.Have you really the courage to open up that question again?NORA.Yes, dear, you must do as I ask; you must let Krogstad keep his post in thebank.HELMER.My dear Nora, it is his post that I have arranged Mrs Linde shall have.NORA.Yes, you have been awfully kind about that; but you could just as well dismisssome other clerk instead of Krogstad.HELMER.This is simply incredible obstinacy! Because you chose to give him athoughtless promise that you would speak for him, I am expected to—NORA.That isn’t the reason, Torvald. It is for your own sake. This fellowwrites in the most scurrilous newspapers; you have told me so yourself. He cando you an unspeakable amount of harm. I am frightened to death of him—HELMER.Ah, I understand; it is recollections of the past that scare you.NORA.What do you mean?HELMER.Naturally you are thinking of your father.NORA.Yes—yes, of course. Just recall to your mind what these maliciouscreatures wrote in the papers about papa, and how horribly they slandered him.I believe they would have procured his dismissal if the Department had not sentyou over to inquire into it, and if you had not been so kindly disposed andhelpful to him.HELMER.My little Nora, there is an important difference between your father and me.Your father’s reputation as a public official was not above suspicion.Mine is, and I hope it will continue to be so, as long as I hold my office.NORA.You never can tell what mischief these men may contrive. We ought to be so welloff, so snug and happy here in our peaceful home, and have no cares—youand I and the children, Torvald! That is why I beg you so earnestly—HELMER.And it is just by interceding for him that you make it impossible for me tokeep him. It is already known at the Bank that I mean to dismiss Krogstad. Isit to get about now that the new manager has changed his mind at hiswife’s bidding—NORA.And what if it did?HELMER.Of course!—if only this obstinate little person can get her way! Do yousuppose I am going to make myself ridiculous before my whole staff, to letpeople think that I am a man to be swayed by all sorts of outside influence? Ishould very soon feel the consequences of it, I can tell you! And besides,there is one thing that makes it quite impossible for me to have Krogstad inthe Bank as long as I am manager.NORA.Whatever is that?HELMER.His moral failings I might perhaps have overlooked, if necessary—NORA.Yes, you could—couldn’t you?HELMER.And I hear he is a good worker, too. But I knew him when we were boys. It wasone of those rash friendships that so often prove an incubus in afterlife. Imay as well tell you plainly, we were once on very intimate terms with oneanother. But this tactless fellow lays no restraint on himself when otherpeople are present. On the contrary, he thinks it gives him the right to adopta familiar tone with me, and every minute it is “I say, Helmer, oldfellow!” and that sort of thing. I assure you it is extremely painful forme. He would make my position in the Bank intolerable.NORA.Torvald, I don’t believe you mean that.HELMER.Don’t you? Why not?NORA.Because it is such a narrow-minded way of looking at things.HELMER.What are you saying? Narrow-minded? Do you think I am narrow-minded?NORA.No, just the opposite, dear—and it is exactly for that reason.HELMER.It’s the same thing. You say my point of view is narrow-minded, so I mustbe so too. Narrow-minded! Very well—I must put an end to this. [Goesto the hall door and calls.] Helen!NORA.What are you going to do?HELMER.[looking among his papers]. Settle it. [Enter MAID.] Look here;take this letter and go downstairs with it at once. Find a messenger and tellhim to deliver it, and be quick. The address is on it, and here is the money.MAID.Very well, sir. [Exit with the letter.]HELMER.[putting his papers together]. Now then, little Miss Obstinate.NORA.[breathlessly]. Torvald—what was that letter?HELMER.Krogstad’s dismissal.NORA.Call her back, Torvald! There is still time. Oh Torvald, call her back! Do itfor my sake—for your own sake—for the children’s sake! Do youhear me, Torvald? Call her back! You don’t know what that letter canbring upon us.HELMER.It’s too late.NORA.Yes, it’s too late.HELMER.My dear Nora, I can forgive the anxiety you are in, although really it is aninsult to me. It is, indeed. Isn’t it an insult to think that I should beafraid of a starving quill-driver’s vengeance? But I forgive younevertheless, because it is such eloquent witness to your great love for me.[Takes her in his arms.] And that is as it should be, my own darlingNora. Come what will, you may be sure I shall have both courage and strength ifthey be needed. You will see I am man enough to take everything upon myself.NORA.[in a horror-stricken voice]. What do you mean by that?HELMER.Everything, I say—NORA.[recovering herself]. You will never have to do that.HELMER.That’s right. Well, we will share it, Nora, as man and wife should. Thatis how it shall be. [Caressing her.] Are you content now? There!There!—not these frightened dove’s eyes! The whole thing is onlythe wildest fancy!—Now, you must go and play through the Tarantella andpractise with your tambourine. I shall go into the inner office and shut thedoor, and I shall hear nothing; you can make as much noise as you please.[Turns back at the door.] And when Rank comes, tell him where he willfind me. [Nods to her, takes his papers and goes into his room, and shutsthe door after him.]NORA.[bewildered with anxiety, stands as if rooted to the spot, andwhispers]. He was capable of doing it. He will do it. He will do it inspite of everything.—No, not that! Never, never! Anything rather thanthat! Oh, for some help, some way out of it! [The door-bell rings.]Doctor Rank! Anything rather than that—anything, whatever it is! [Sheputs her hands over her face, pulls herself together, goes to the door andopens it. RANK is standing without, hanging up his coat. During the followingdialogue it begins to grow dark.]NORA.Good day, Doctor Rank. I knew your ring. But you mustn’t go in to Torvaldnow; I think he is busy with something.RANK.And you?NORA.[brings him in and shuts the door after him]. Oh, you know very well Ialways have time for you.RANK.Thank you. I shall make use of as much of it as I can.NORA.What do you mean by that? As much of it as you can?RANK.Well, does that alarm you?NORA.It was such a strange way of putting it. Is anything likely to happen?RANK.Nothing but what I have long been prepared for. But I certainly didn’texpect it to happen so soon.NORA.[gripping him by the arm]. What have you found out? Doctor Rank, youmust tell me.RANK.[sitting down by the stove]. It is all up with me. And it can’t behelped.NORA.[with a sigh of relief]. Is it about yourself?RANK.Who else? It is no use lying to one’s self. I am the most wretched of allmy patients, Mrs Helmer. Lately I have been taking stock of my internaleconomy. Bankrupt! Probably within a month I shall lie rotting in thechurchyard.NORA.What an ugly thing to say!RANK.The thing itself is cursedly ugly, and the worst of it is that I shall have toface so much more that is ugly before that. I shall only make one moreexamination of myself; when I have done that, I shall know pretty certainlywhen it will be that the horrors of dissolution will begin. There is somethingI want to tell you. Helmer’s refined nature gives him an unconquerabledisgust at everything that is ugly; I won’t have him in my sick-room.NORA.Oh, but, Doctor Rank—RANK.I won’t have him there. Not on any account. I bar my door to him. As soonas I am quite certain that the worst has come, I shall send you my card with ablack cross on it, and then you will know that the loathsome end has begun.NORA.You are quite absurd today. And I wanted you so much to be in a really goodhumour.RANK.With death stalking beside me?—To have to pay this penalty for anotherman’s sin? Is there any justice in that? And in every single family, inone way or another, some such inexorable retribution is being exacted—NORA.[putting her hands over her ears]. Rubbish! Do talk of somethingcheerful.RANK.Oh, it’s a mere laughing matter, the whole thing. My poor innocent spinehas to suffer for my father’s youthful amusements.NORA.[sitting at the table on the left]. I suppose you mean that he was toopartial to asparagus and pate de foie gras, don’t you?RANK.Yes, and to truffles.NORA.Truffles, yes. And oysters too, I suppose?RANK.Oysters, of course, that goes without saying.NORA.And heaps of port and champagne. It is sad that all these nice things shouldtake their revenge on our bones.RANK.Especially that they should revenge themselves on the unlucky bones of thosewho have not had the satisfaction of enjoying them.NORA.Yes, that’s the saddest part of it all.RANK.[with a searching look at her]. Hm!—NORA.[after a short pause]. Why did you smile?RANK.No, it was you that laughed.NORA.No, it was you that smiled, Doctor Rank!RANK.[rising]. You are a greater rascal than I thought.NORA.I am in a silly mood today.RANK.So it seems.NORA.[putting her hands on his shoulders]. Dear, dear Doctor Rank, deathmustn’t take you away from Torvald and me.RANK.It is a loss you would easily recover from. Those who are gone are soonforgotten.NORA.[looking at him anxiously]. Do you believe that?RANK.People form new ties, and then—NORA.Who will form new ties?RANK.Both you and Helmer, when I am gone. You yourself are already on the high roadto it, I think. What did that Mrs Linde want here last night?NORA.Oho!—you don’t mean to say you are jealous of poor Christine?RANK.Yes, I am. She will be my successor in this house. When I am done for, thiswoman will—NORA.Hush! don’t speak so loud. She is in that room.RANK.Today again. There, you see.NORA.She has only come to sew my dress for me. Bless my soul, how unreasonable youare! [Sits down on the sofa.] Be nice now, Doctor Rank, and tomorrow youwill see how beautifully I shall dance, and you can imagine I am doing it allfor you—and for Torvald too, of course. [Takes various things out ofthe box.] Doctor Rank, come and sit down here, and I will show yousomething.RANK.[sitting down]. What is it?NORA.Just look at those!RANK.Silk stockings.NORA.Flesh-coloured. Aren’t they lovely? It is so dark here now, buttomorrow—. No, no, no! you must only look at the feet. Oh well, you mayhave leave to look at the legs too.RANK.Hm!—NORA.Why are you looking so critical? Don’t you think they will fit me?RANK.I have no means of forming an opinion about that.NORA.[looks at him for a moment]. For shame! [Hits him lightly on the earwith the stockings.] That’s to punish you. [Folds them upagain.]RANK.And what other nice things am I to be allowed to see?NORA.Not a single thing more, for being so naughty. [She looks among the things,humming to herself.]RANK.[after a short silence]. When I am sitting here, talking to you asintimately as this, I cannot imagine for a moment what would have become of meif I had never come into this house.NORA.[smiling]. I believe you do feel thoroughly at home with us.RANK.[in a lower voice, looking straight in front of him]. And to be obligedto leave it all—NORA.Nonsense, you are not going to leave it.RANK.[as before]. And not be able to leave behind one the slightest token ofone’s gratitude, scarcely even a fleeting regret—nothing but anempty place which the first comer can fill as well as any other.NORA.And if I asked you now for a—? No!RANK.For what?NORA.For a big proof of your friendship—RANK.Yes, yes!NORA.I mean a tremendously big favour—RANK.Would you really make me so happy for once?NORA.Ah, but you don’t know what it is yet.RANK.No—but tell me.NORA.I really can’t, Doctor Rank. It is something out of all reason; it meansadvice, and help, and a favour—RANK.The bigger a thing it is the better. I can’t conceive what it is youmean. Do tell me. Haven’t I your confidence?NORA.More than anyone else. I know you are my truest and best friend, and so I willtell you what it is. Well, Doctor Rank, it is something you must help me toprevent. You know how devotedly, how inexpressibly deeply Torvald loves me; hewould never for a moment hesitate to give his life for me.RANK.[leaning towards her]. Nora—do you think he is the onlyone—?NORA.[with a slight start]. The only one—?RANK.The only one who would gladly give his life for your sake.NORA.[sadly]. Is that it?RANK.I was determined you should know it before I went away, and there will never bea better opportunity than this. Now you know it, Nora. And now you know, too,that you can trust me as you would trust no one else.NORA.[rises, deliberately and quietly]. Let me pass.RANK.[makes room for her to pass him, but sits still]. Nora!NORA.[at the hall door]. Helen, bring in the lamp. [Goes over to thestove.] Dear Doctor Rank, that was really horrid of you.RANK.To have loved you as much as anyone else does? Was that horrid?NORA.No, but to go and tell me so. There was really no need—RANK.What do you mean? Did you know—? [MAID enters with lamp, puts it downon the table, and goes out.] Nora—Mrs Helmer—tell me, had youany idea of this?NORA.Oh, how do I know whether I had or whether I hadn’t? I really can’ttell you—To think you could be so clumsy, Doctor Rank! We were getting onso nicely.RANK.Well, at all events you know now that you can command me, body and soul. Sowon’t you speak out?NORA.[looking at him]. After what happened?RANK.I beg you to let me know what it is.NORA.I can’t tell you anything now.RANK.Yes, yes. You mustn’t punish me in that way. Let me have permission to dofor you whatever a man may do.NORA.You can do nothing for me now. Besides, I really don’t need any help atall. You will find that the whole thing is merely fancy on my part. It reallyis so—of course it is! [Sits down in the rocking-chair, and looks athim with a smile.] You are a nice sort of man, DoctorRank!—don’t you feel ashamed of yourself, now the lamp has come?RANK.Not a bit. But perhaps I had better go—for ever?NORA.No, indeed, you shall not. Of course you must come here just as before. Youknow very well Torvald can’t do without you.RANK.Yes, but you?NORA.Oh, I am always tremendously pleased when you come.RANK.It is just that, that put me on the wrong track. You are a riddle to me. I haveoften thought that you would almost as soon be in my company as inHelmer’s.NORA.Yes—you see there are some people one loves best, and others whom onewould almost always rather have as companions.RANK.Yes, there is something in that.NORA.When I was at home, of course I loved papa best. But I always thought ittremendous fun if I could steal down into the maids’ room, because theynever moralised at all, and talked to each other about such entertainingthings.RANK.I see—it is their place I have taken.NORA.[jumping up and going to him]. Oh, dear, nice Doctor Rank, I never meantthat at all. But surely you can understand that being with Torvald is a littlelike being with papa—[Enter MAID from the hall.]MAID.If you please, ma’am. [Whispers and hands her a card.]NORA.[glancing at the card]. Oh! [Puts it in her pocket.]RANK.Is there anything wrong?NORA.No, no, not in the least. It is only something—it is my new dress—RANK.What? Your dress is lying there.NORA.Oh, yes, that one; but this is another. I ordered it. Torvald mustn’tknow about it—RANK.Oho! Then that was the great secret.NORA.Of course. Just go in to him; he is sitting in the inner room. Keep him as longas—RANK.Make your mind easy; I won’t let him escape.
[Goes into HELMER’S room.]NORA.[to the MAID]. And he is standing waiting in the kitchen?MAID.Yes; he came up the back stairs.NORA.But didn’t you tell him no one was in?MAID.Yes, but it was no good.NORA.He won’t go away?MAID.No; he says he won’t until he has seen you, ma’am.NORA.Well, let him come in—but quietly. Helen, you mustn’t say anythingabout it to anyone. It is a surprise for my husband.MAID.Yes, ma’am, I quite understand. [Exit.]NORA.This dreadful thing is going to happen! It will happen in spite of me! No, no,no, it can’t happen—it shan’t happen! [She bolts the doorof HELMER’S room. The MAID opens the hall door for KROGSTAD and shuts itafter him. He is wearing a fur coat, high boots and a fur cap.]NORA.[advancing towards him]. Speak low—my husband is at home.KROGSTAD.No matter about that.NORA.What do you want of me?KROGSTAD.An explanation of something.NORA.Make haste then. What is it?KROGSTAD.You know, I suppose, that I have got my dismissal.NORA.I couldn’t prevent it, Mr. Krogstad. I fought as hard as I could on yourside, but it was no good.KROGSTAD.Does your husband love you so little, then? He knows what I can expose you to,and yet he ventures—NORA.How can you suppose that he has any knowledge of the sort?KROGSTAD.I didn’t suppose so at all. It would not be the least like our dearTorvald Helmer to show so much courage—NORA.Mr. Krogstad, a little respect for my husband, please.KROGSTAD.Certainly—all the respect he deserves. But since you have kept the matterso carefully to yourself, I make bold to suppose that you have a little cleareridea, than you had yesterday, of what it actually is that you have done?NORA.More than you could ever teach me.KROGSTAD.Yes, such a bad lawyer as I am.NORA.What is it you want of me?KROGSTAD.Only to see how you were, Mrs Helmer. I have been thinking about you all daylong. A mere cashier, a quill-driver, a—well, a man like me—even hehas a little of what is called feeling, you know.NORA.Show it, then; think of my little children.KROGSTAD.Have you and your husband thought of mine? But never mind about that. I onlywanted to tell you that you need not take this matter too seriously. In thefirst place there will be no accusation made on my part.NORA.No, of course not; I was sure of that.KROGSTAD.The whole thing can be arranged amicably; there is no reason why anyone shouldknow anything about it. It will remain a secret between us three.NORA.My husband must never get to know anything about it.KROGSTAD.How will you be able to prevent it? Am I to understand that you can pay thebalance that is owing?NORA.No, not just at present.KROGSTAD.Or perhaps that you have some expedient for raising the money soon?NORA.No expedient that I mean to make use of.KROGSTAD.Well, in any case, it would have been of no use to you now. If you stood therewith ever so much money in your hand, I would never part with your bond.NORA.Tell me what purpose you mean to put it to.KROGSTAD.I shall only preserve it—keep it in my possession. No one who is notconcerned in the matter shall have the slightest hint of it. So that if thethought of it has driven you to any desperate resolution—NORA.It has.KROGSTAD.If you had it in your mind to run away from your home—NORA.I had.KROGSTAD.Or even something worse—NORA.How could you know that?KROGSTAD.Give up the idea.NORA.How did you know I had thought of that?KROGSTAD.Most of us think of that at first. I did, too—but I hadn’t thecourage.NORA.[faintly]. No more had I.KROGSTAD.[in a tone of relief]. No, that’s it, isn’t it—youhadn’t the courage either?NORA.No, I haven’t—I haven’t.KROGSTAD.Besides, it would have been a great piece of folly. Once the first storm athome is over—. I have a letter for your husband in my pocket.NORA.Telling him everything?KROGSTAD.In as lenient a manner as I possibly could.NORA.[quickly]. He mustn’t get the letter. Tear it up. I will find somemeans of getting money.KROGSTAD.Excuse me, Mrs Helmer, but I think I told you just now—NORA.I am not speaking of what I owe you. Tell me what sum you are asking my husbandfor, and I will get the money.KROGSTAD.I am not asking your husband for a penny.NORA.What do you want, then?KROGSTAD.I will tell you. I want to rehabilitate myself, Mrs Helmer; I want to get on;and in that your husband must help me. For the last year and a half I have nothad a hand in anything dishonourable, amid all that time I have been strugglingin most restricted circumstances. I was content to work my way up step by step.Now I am turned out, and I am not going to be satisfied with merely being takeninto favour again. I want to get on, I tell you. I want to get into the Bankagain, in a higher position. Your husband must make a place for me—NORA.That he will never do!KROGSTAD.He will; I know him; he dare not protest. And as soon as I am in there againwith him, then you will see! Within a year I shall be the manager’s righthand. It will be Nils Krogstad and not Torvald Helmer who manages the Bank.NORA.That’s a thing you will never see!KROGSTAD.Do you mean that you will—?NORA.I have courage enough for it now.KROGSTAD.Oh, you can’t frighten me. A fine, spoilt lady like you—NORA.You will see, you will see.KROGSTAD.Under the ice, perhaps? Down into the cold, coal-black water? And then, in thespring, to float up to the surface, all horrible and unrecognisable, with yourhair fallen out—NORA.You can’t frighten me.KROGSTAD.Nor you me. People don’t do such things, Mrs Helmer. Besides, what usewould it be? I should have him completely in my power all the same.NORA.Afterwards? When I am no longer—KROGSTAD.Have you forgotten that it is I who have the keeping of your reputation?[NORA stands speechlessly looking at him.] Well, now, I have warned you.Do not do anything foolish. When Helmer has had my letter, I shall expect amessage from him. And be sure you remember that it is your husband himself whohas forced me into such ways as this again. I will never forgive him for that.Goodbye, Mrs Helmer. [Exit through the hall.]NORA.[goes to the hall door, opens it slightly and listens.] He is going. Heis not putting the letter in the box. Oh no, no! that’s impossible![Opens the door by degrees.] What is that? He is standing outside. He isnot going downstairs. Is he hesitating? Can he—? [A letter drops intothe box; then KROGSTAD’S footsteps are heard, until they die away as hegoes downstairs. NORA utters a stifled cry, and runs across the room to thetable by the sofa. A short pause.]NORA.In the letter-box. [Steals across to the hall door.] There itlies—Torvald, Torvald, there is no hope for us now!
[Mrs Linde comes in from the room on the left, carrying the dress.]MRS LINDE.There, I can’t see anything more to mend now. Would you like to try iton—?NORA.[in a hoarse whisper]. Christine, come here.MRS LINDE.[throwing the dress down on the sofa]. What is the matter with you? Youlook so agitated!NORA.Come here. Do you see that letter? There, look—you can see it through theglass in the letter-box.MRS LINDE.Yes, I see it.NORA.That letter is from Krogstad.MRS LINDE.Nora—it was Krogstad who lent you the money!NORA.Yes, and now Torvald will know all about it.MRS LINDE.Believe me, Nora, that’s the best thing for both of you.NORA.You don’t know all. I forged a name.MRS LINDE.Good heavens—!NORA.I only want to say this to you, Christine—you must be my witness.MRS LINDE.Your witness? What do you mean? What am I to—?NORA.If I should go out of my mind—and it might easily happen—MRS LINDE.Nora!NORA.Or if anything else should happen to me—anything, for instance, thatmight prevent my being here—MRS LINDE.Nora! Nora! you are quite out of your mind.NORA.And if it should happen that there were some one who wanted to take all theresponsibility, all the blame, you understand—MRS LINDE.Yes, yes—but how can you suppose—?NORA.Then you must be my witness, that it is not true, Christine. I am not out of mymind at all; I am in my right senses now, and I tell you no one else has knownanything about it; I, and I alone, did the whole thing. Remember that.MRS LINDE.I will, indeed. But I don’t understand all this.NORA.How should you understand it? A wonderful thing is going to happen!MRS LINDE.A wonderful thing?NORA.Yes, a wonderful thing!—But it is so terrible, Christine; itmustn’t happen, not for all the world.MRS LINDE.I will go at once and see Krogstad.NORA.Don’t go to him; he will do you some harm.MRS LINDE.There was a time when he would gladly do anything for my sake.NORA.He?MRS LINDE.Where does he live?NORA.How should I know—? Yes [feeling in her pocket], here is his card.But the letter, the letter—!HELMER.[calls from his room, knocking at the door]. Nora!NORA.[cries out anxiously]. Oh, what’s that? What do you want?HELMER.Don’t be so frightened. We are not coming in; you have locked the door.Are you trying on your dress?NORA.Yes, that’s it. I look so nice, Torvald.MRS LINDE.[who has read the card]. I see he lives at the corner here.NORA.Yes, but it’s no use. It is hopeless. The letter is lying there in thebox.MRS LINDE.And your husband keeps the key?NORA.Yes, always.MRS LINDE.Krogstad must ask for his letter back unread, he must find some pretence—NORA.But it is just at this time that Torvald generally—MRS LINDE.You must delay him. Go in to him in the meantime. I will come back as soon as Ican. [She goes out hurriedly through the hall door.]NORA.[goes to HELMER’S door, opens it and peeps in]. Torvald!HELMER.[from the inner room]. Well? May I venture at last to come into my ownroom again? Come along, Rank, now you will see— [Halting in thedoorway.] But what is this?NORA.What is what, dear?HELMER.Rank led me to expect a splendid transformation.RANK.[in the doorway]. I understood so, but evidently I was mistaken.NORA.Yes, nobody is to have the chance of admiring me in my dress until tomorrow.HELMER.But, my dear Nora, you look so worn out. Have you been practising too much?NORA.No, I have not practised at all.HELMER.But you will need to—NORA.Yes, indeed I shall, Torvald. But I can’t get on a bit without you tohelp me; I have absolutely forgotten the whole thing.HELMER.Oh, we will soon work it up again.NORA.Yes, help me, Torvald. Promise that you will! I am so nervous aboutit—all the people—. You must give yourself up to me entirely thisevening. Not the tiniest bit of business—you mustn’t even take apen in your hand. Will you promise, Torvald dear?HELMER.I promise. This evening I will be wholly and absolutely at your service, youhelpless little mortal. Ah, by the way, first of all I will just—[Goes towards the hall door.]NORA.What are you going to do there?HELMER.Only see if any letters have come.NORA.No, no! don’t do that, Torvald!HELMER.Why not?NORA.Torvald, please don’t. There is nothing there.HELMER.Well, let me look. [Turns to go to the letter-box. NORA, at the piano, playsthe first bars of the Tarantella. HELMER stops in the doorway.] Aha!NORA.I can’t dance tomorrow if I don’t practise with you.HELMER.[going up to her]. Are you really so afraid of it, dear?NORA.Yes, so dreadfully afraid of it. Let me practise at once; there is time now,before we go to dinner. Sit down and play for me, Torvald dear; criticise me,and correct me as you play.HELMER.With great pleasure, if you wish me to. [Sits down at the piano.]NORA.[takes out of the box a tambourine and a long variegated shawl. She hastilydrapes the shawl round her. Then she springs to the front of the stage andcalls out]. Now play for me! I am going to dance!
[HELMER plays and NORA dances. RANK stands by the piano behind HELMER, andlooks on.]HELMER.[as he plays]. Slower, slower!NORA.I can’t do it any other way.HELMER.Not so violently, Nora!NORA.This is the way.HELMER.[stops playing]. No, no—that is not a bit right.NORA.[laughing and swinging the tambourine]. Didn’t I tell you so?RANK.Let me play for her.HELMER.[getting up]. Yes, do. I can correct her better then.
[RANK sits down at the piano and plays. NORA dances more and more wildly.HELMER has taken up a position beside the stove, and during her dance gives herfrequent instructions. She does not seem to hear him; her hair comes down andfalls over her shoulders; she pays no attention to it, but goes on dancing.Enter Mrs Linde.]MRS LINDE.[standing as if spell-bound in the doorway]. Oh!—NORA.[as she dances]. Such fun, Christine!HELMER.My dear darling Nora, you are dancing as if your life depended on it.NORA.So it does.HELMER.Stop, Rank; this is sheer madness. Stop, I tell you! [RANK stops playing,and NORA suddenly stands still. HELMER goes up to her.] I could never havebelieved it. You have forgotten everything I taught you.NORA.[throwing away the tambourine]. There, you see.HELMER.You will want a lot of coaching.NORA.Yes, you see how much I need it. You must coach me up to the last minute.Promise me that, Torvald!HELMER.You can depend on me.NORA.You must not think of anything but me, either today or tomorrow; youmustn’t open a single letter—not even open the letter-box—HELMER.Ah, you are still afraid of that fellow—NORA.Yes, indeed I am.HELMER.Nora, I can tell from your looks that there is a letter from him lying there.NORA.I don’t know; I think there is; but you must not read anything of thatkind now. Nothing horrid must come between us until this is all over.RANK.[whispers to HELMER]. You mustn’t contradict her.HELMER.[taking her in his arms]. The child shall have her way. But tomorrownight, after you have danced—NORA.Then you will be free. [The MAID appears in the doorway to the right.]MAID.Dinner is served, ma’am.NORA.We will have champagne, Helen.MAID.Very good, ma’am. [Exit.]HELMER.Hullo!—are we going to have a banquet?NORA.Yes, a champagne banquet until the small hours. [Calls out.] And a fewmacaroons, Helen—lots, just for once!HELMER.Come, come, don’t be so wild and nervous. Be my own little skylark, asyou used.NORA.Yes, dear, I will. But go in now and you too, Doctor Rank. Christine, you musthelp me to do up my hair.RANK.[whispers to HELMER as they go out]. I suppose there isnothing—she is not expecting anything?HELMER.Far from it, my dear fellow; it is simply nothing more than this childishnervousness I was telling you of. [They go into the right-hand room.]NORA.Well!MRS LINDE.Gone out of town.NORA.I could tell from your face.MRS LINDE.He is coming home tomorrow evening. I wrote a note for him.NORA.You should have let it alone; you must prevent nothing. After all, it issplendid to be waiting for a wonderful thing to happen.MRS LINDE.What is it that you are waiting for?NORA.Oh, you wouldn’t understand. Go in to them, I will come in a moment.[Mrs Linde goes into the dining-room. NORA stands still for a little while,as if to compose herself. Then she looks at her watch.] Five o’clock.Seven hours until midnight; and then four-and-twenty hours until the nextmidnight. Then the Tarantella will be over. Twenty-four and seven? Thirty-onehours to live.HELMER.[from the doorway on the right]. Where’s my little skylark?NORA.[going to him with her arms outstretched]. Here she is!
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ACT III
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[THE SAME SCENE.—The table has been placed in the middle of the stage,with chairs around it. A lamp is burning on the table. The door into the hallstands open. Dance music is heard in the room above. Mrs Linde is sitting atthe table idly turning over the leaves of a book; she tries to read, but doesnot seem able to collect her thoughts. Every now and then she listens intentlyfor a sound at the outer door.]MRS LINDE.[looking at her watch]. Not yet—and the time is nearly up. If onlyhe does not—. [Listens again.] Ah, there he is. [Goes into thehall and opens the outer door carefully. Light footsteps are heard on thestairs. She whispers.] Come in. There is no one here.KROGSTAD.[in the doorway]. I found a note from you at home. What does this mean?MRS LINDE.It is absolutely necessary that I should have a talk with you.KROGSTAD.Really? And is it absolutely necessary that it should be here?MRS LINDE.It is impossible where I live; there is no private entrance to my rooms. Comein; we are quite alone. The maid is asleep, and the Helmers are at the danceupstairs.KROGSTAD.[coming into the room]. Are the Helmers really at a dance tonight?MRS LINDE.Yes, why not?KROGSTAD.Certainly—why not?MRS LINDE.Now, Nils, let us have a talk.KROGSTAD.Can we two have anything to talk about?MRS LINDE.We have a great deal to talk about.KROGSTAD.I shouldn’t have thought so.MRS LINDE.No, you have never properly understood me.KROGSTAD.Was there anything else to understand except what was obvious to all theworld—a heartless woman jilts a man when a more lucrative chance turnsup?MRS LINDE.Do you believe I am as absolutely heartless as all that? And do you believethat I did it with a light heart?KROGSTAD.Didn’t you?MRS LINDE.Nils, did you really think that?KROGSTAD.If it were as you say, why did you write to me as you did at the time?MRS LINDE.I could do nothing else. As I had to break with you, it was my duty also to putan end to all that you felt for me.KROGSTAD.[wringing his hands]. So that was it. And all this—only for thesake of money!MRS LINDE.You must not forget that I had a helpless mother and two little brothers. Wecouldn’t wait for you, Nils; your prospects seemed hopeless then.KROGSTAD.That may be so, but you had no right to throw me over for anyone else’ssake.MRS LINDE.Indeed I don’t know. Many a time did I ask myself if I had the right todo it.KROGSTAD.[more gently]. When I lost you, it was as if all the solid ground wentfrom under my feet. Look at me now—I am a shipwrecked man clinging to abit of wreckage.MRS LINDE.But help may be near.KROGSTAD.It was near; but then you came and stood in my way.MRS LINDE.Unintentionally, Nils. It was only today that I learned it was your place I wasgoing to take in the Bank.KROGSTAD.I believe you, if you say so. But now that you know it, are you not going togive it up to me?MRS LINDE.No, because that would not benefit you in the least.KROGSTAD.Oh, benefit, benefit—I would have done it whether or no.MRS LINDE.I have learned to act prudently. Life, and hard, bitter necessity have taughtme that.KROGSTAD.And life has taught me not to believe in fine speeches.MRS LINDE.Then life has taught you something very reasonable. But deeds you must believein?KROGSTAD.What do you mean by that?MRS LINDE.You said you were like a shipwrecked man clinging to some wreckage.KROGSTAD.I had good reason to say so.MRS LINDE.Well, I am like a shipwrecked woman clinging to some wreckage—no one tomourn for, no one to care for.KROGSTAD.It was your own choice.MRS LINDE.There was no other choice—then.KROGSTAD.Well, what now?MRS LINDE.Nils, how would it be if we two shipwrecked people could join forces?KROGSTAD.What are you saying?MRS LINDE.Two on the same piece of wreckage would stand a better chance than each ontheir own.KROGSTAD.Christine I...MRS LINDE.What do you suppose brought me to town?KROGSTAD.Do you mean that you gave me a thought?MRS LINDE.I could not endure life without work. All my life, as long as I can remember, Ihave worked, and it has been my greatest and only pleasure. But now I am quitealone in the world—my life is so dreadfully empty and I feel so forsaken.There is not the least pleasure in working for one’s self. Nils, give mesomeone and something to work for.KROGSTAD.I don’t trust that. It is nothing but a woman’s overstrained senseof generosity that prompts you to make such an offer of yourself.MRS LINDE.Have you ever noticed anything of the sort in me?KROGSTAD.Could you really do it? Tell me—do you know all about my past life?MRS LINDE.Yes.KROGSTAD.And do you know what they think of me here?MRS LINDE.You seemed to me to imply that with me you might have been quite another man.KROGSTAD.I am certain of it.MRS LINDE.Is it too late now?KROGSTAD.Christine, are you saying this deliberately? Yes, I am sure you are. I see itin your face. Have you really the courage, then—?MRS LINDE.I want to be a mother to someone, and your children need a mother. We two needeach other. Nils, I have faith in your real character—I can dare anythingtogether with you.KROGSTAD.[grasps her hands]. Thanks, thanks, Christine! Now I shall find a way toclear myself in the eyes of the world. Ah, but I forgot—MRS LINDE.[listening]. Hush! The Tarantella! Go, go!KROGSTAD.Why? What is it?MRS LINDE.Do you hear them up there? When that is over, we may expect them back.KROGSTAD.Yes, yes—I will go. But it is all no use. Of course you are not awarewhat steps I have taken in the matter of the Helmers.MRS LINDE.Yes, I know all about that.KROGSTAD.And in spite of that have you the courage to—?MRS LINDE.I understand very well to what lengths a man like you might be driven bydespair.KROGSTAD.If I could only undo what I have done!MRS LINDE.You cannot. Your letter is lying in the letter-box now.KROGSTAD.Are you sure of that?MRS LINDE.Quite sure, but—KROGSTAD.[with a searching look at her]. Is that what it all means?—thatyou want to save your friend at any cost? Tell me frankly. Is that it?MRS LINDE.Nils, a woman who has once sold herself for another’s sake, doesn’tdo it a second time.KROGSTAD.I will ask for my letter back.MRS LINDE.No, no.KROGSTAD.Yes, of course I will. I will wait here until Helmer comes; I will tell him hemust give me my letter back—that it only concerns my dismissal—thathe is not to read it—MRS LINDE.No, Nils, you must not recall your letter.KROGSTAD.But, tell me, wasn’t it for that very purpose that you asked me to meetyou here?MRS LINDE.In my first moment of fright, it was. But twenty-four hours have elapsed sincethen, and in that time I have witnessed incredible things in this house. Helmermust know all about it. This unhappy secret must be disclosed; they must have acomplete understanding between them, which is impossible with all thisconcealment and falsehood going on.KROGSTAD.Very well, if you will take the responsibility. But there is one thing I can doin any case, and I shall do it at once.MRS LINDE.[listening]. You must be quick and go! The dance is over; we are notsafe a moment longer.KROGSTAD.I will wait for you below.MRS LINDE.Yes, do. You must see me back to my door...KROGSTAD.I have never had such an amazing piece of good fortune in my life! [Goes outthrough the outer door. The door between the room and the hall remainsopen.]MRS LINDE.[tidying up the room and laying her hat and cloak ready]. What adifference! what a difference! Someone to work for and live for—a home tobring comfort into. That I will do, indeed. I wish they would be quick andcome—[Listens.] Ah, there they are now. I must put on my things.[Takes up her hat and cloak. HELMER’S and NORA’S voices areheard outside; a key is turned, and HELMER brings NORA almost by force into thehall. She is in an Italian costume with a large black shawl around her; he isin evening dress, and a black domino which is flying open.]NORA.[hanging back in the doorway, and struggling with him]. No, no,no!—don’t take me in. I want to go upstairs again; I don’twant to leave so early.HELMER.But, my dearest Nora—NORA.Please, Torvald dear—please, please—only an hour more.HELMER.Not a single minute, my sweet Nora. You know that was our agreement. Come alonginto the room; you are catching cold standing there. [He brings her gentlyinto the room, in spite of her resistance.]MRS LINDE.Good evening.NORA.Christine!HELMER.You here, so late, Mrs Linde?MRS LINDE.Yes, you must excuse me; I was so anxious to see Nora in her dress.NORA.Have you been sitting here waiting for me?MRS LINDE.Yes, unfortunately I came too late, you had already gone upstairs; and Ithought I couldn’t go away again without having seen you.HELMER.[taking off NORA’S shawl]. Yes, take a good look at her. I thinkshe is worth looking at. Isn’t she charming, Mrs Linde?MRS LINDE.Yes, indeed she is.HELMER.Doesn’t she look remarkably pretty? Everyone thought so at the dance. Butshe is terribly self-willed, this sweet little person. What are we to do withher? You will hardly believe that I had almost to bring her away by force.NORA.Torvald, you will repent not having let me stay, even if it were only for halfan hour.HELMER.Listen to her, Mrs Linde! She had danced her Tarantella, and it had been atremendous success, as it deserved—although possibly the performance wasa trifle too realistic—a little more so, I mean, than was strictlycompatible with the limitations of art. But never mind about that! The chiefthing is, she had made a success—she had made a tremendous success. Doyou think I was going to let her remain there after that, and spoil the effect?No, indeed! I took my charming little Capri maiden—my capricious littleCapri maiden, I should say—on my arm; took one quick turn round the room;a curtsey on either side, and, as they say in novels, the beautiful apparitiondisappeared. An exit ought always to be effective, Mrs Linde; but that is whatI cannot make Nora understand. Pooh! this room is hot. [Throws his domino ona chair, and opens the door of his room.] Hullo! it’s all dark inhere. Oh, of course—excuse me—. [He goes in, and lights somecandles.]NORA.[in a hurried and breathless whisper]. Well?MRS LINDE.[in a low voice]. I have had a talk with him.NORA.Yes, and—MRS LINDE.Nora, you must tell your husband all about it.NORA.[in an expressionless voice]. I knew it.MRS LINDE.You have nothing to be afraid of as far as Krogstad is concerned; but you musttell him.NORA.I won’t tell him.MRS LINDE.Then the letter will.NORA.Thank you, Christine. Now I know what I must do. Hush—!HELMER.[coming in again]. Well, Mrs Linde, have you admired her?MRS LINDE.Yes, and now I will say goodnight.HELMER.What, already? Is this yours, this knitting?MRS LINDE.[taking it]. Yes, thank you, I had very nearly forgotten it.HELMER.So you knit?MRS LINDE.Of course.HELMER.Do you know, you ought to embroider.MRS LINDE.Really? Why?HELMER.Yes, it’s far more becoming. Let me show you. You hold the embroiderythus in your left hand, and use the needle with the right—likethis—with a long, easy sweep. Do you see?MRS LINDE.Yes, perhaps—HELMER.But in the case of knitting—that can never be anything but ungraceful;look here—the arms close together, the knitting-needles going up anddown—it has a sort of Chinese effect—. That was really excellentchampagne they gave us.MRS LINDE.Well,—goodnight, Nora, and don’t be self-willed any more.HELMER.That’s right, Mrs Linde.MRS LINDE.Goodnight, Mr. Helmer.HELMER.[accompanying her to the door]. Goodnight, goodnight. I hope you willget home all right. I should be very happy to—but you haven’t anygreat distance to go. Goodnight, goodnight. [She goes out; he shuts the doorafter her, and comes in again.] Ah!—at last we have got rid of her.She is a frightful bore, that woman.NORA.Aren’t you very tired, Torvald?HELMER.No, not in the least.NORA.Nor sleepy?HELMER.Not a bit. On the contrary, I feel extraordinarily lively. And you?—youreally look both tired and sleepy.NORA.Yes, I am very tired. I want to go to sleep at once.HELMER.There, you see it was quite right of me not to let you stay there any longer.NORA.Everything you do is quite right, Torvald.HELMER.[kissing her on the forehead]. Now my little skylark is speakingreasonably. Did you notice what good spirits Rank was in this evening?NORA.Really? Was he? I didn’t speak to him at all.HELMER.And I very little, but I have not for a long time seen him in such good form.[Looks for a while at her and then goes nearer to her.] It is delightfulto be at home by ourselves again, to be all alone with you—youfascinating, charming little darling!NORA.Don’t look at me like that, Torvald.HELMER.Why shouldn’t I look at my dearest treasure?—at all the beauty thatis mine, all my very own?NORA.[going to the other side of the table]. You mustn’t say thingslike that to me tonight.HELMER.[following her]. You have still got the Tarantella in your blood, I see.And it makes you more captivating than ever. Listen—the guests arebeginning to go now. [In a lower voice.] Nora—soon the whole housewill be quiet.NORA.Yes, I hope so.HELMER.Yes, my own darling Nora. Do you know, when I am out at a party with you likethis, why I speak so little to you, keep away from you, and only send a stolenglance in your direction now and then?—do you know why I do that? It isbecause I make believe to myself that we are secretly in love, and you are mysecretly promised bride, and that no one suspects there is anything between us.NORA.Yes, yes—I know very well your thoughts are with me all the time.HELMER.And when we are leaving, and I am putting the shawl over your beautiful youngshoulders—on your lovely neck—then I imagine that you are my youngbride and that we have just come from the wedding, and I am bringing you forthe first time into our home—to be alone with you for the firsttime—quite alone with my shy little darling! All this evening I havelonged for nothing but you. When I watched the seductive figures of theTarantella, my blood was on fire; I could endure it no longer, and that was whyI brought you down so early—NORA.Go away, Torvald! You must let me go. I won’t—HELMER.What’s that? You’re joking, my little Nora! Youwon’t—you won’t? Am I not your husband—? [A knock isheard at the outer door.]NORA.[starting]. Did you hear—?HELMER.[going into the hall]. Who is it?RANK.[outside]. It is I. May I come in for a moment?HELMER.[in a fretful whisper]. Oh, what does he want now? [Aloud.] Waita minute! [Unlocks the door.] Come, that’s kind of you not to passby our door.RANK.I thought I heard your voice, and felt as if I should like to look in. [Witha swift glance round.] Ah, yes!—these dear familiar rooms. You arevery happy and cosy in here, you two.HELMER.It seems to me that you looked after yourself pretty well upstairs too.RANK.Excellently. Why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t one enjoy everything inthis world?—at any rate as much as one can, and as long as one can. Thewine was capital—HELMER.Especially the champagne.RANK.So you noticed that too? It is almost incredible how much I managed to putaway!NORA.Torvald drank a great deal of champagne tonight too.RANK.Did he?NORA.Yes, and he is always in such good spirits afterwards.RANK.Well, why should one not enjoy a merry evening after a well-spent day?HELMER.Well spent? I am afraid I can’t take credit for that.RANK.[clapping him on the back]. But I can, you know!NORA.Doctor Rank, you must have been occupied with some scientific investigationtoday.RANK.Exactly.HELMER.Just listen!—little Nora talking about scientific investigations!NORA.And may I congratulate you on the result?RANK.Indeed you may.NORA.Was it favourable, then?RANK.The best possible, for both doctor and patient—certainty.NORA.[quickly and searchingly]. Certainty?RANK.Absolute certainty. So wasn’t I entitled to make a merry evening of itafter that?NORA.Yes, you certainly were, Doctor Rank.HELMER.I think so too, so long as you don’t have to pay for it in the morning.RANK.Oh well, one can’t have anything in this life without paying for it.NORA.Doctor Rank—are you fond of fancy-dress balls?RANK.Yes, if there is a fine lot of pretty costumes.NORA.Tell me—what shall we two wear at the next?HELMER.Little featherbrain!—are you thinking of the next already?RANK.We two? Yes, I can tell you. You shall go as a good fairy—HELMER.Yes, but what do you suggest as an appropriate costume for that?RANK.Let your wife go dressed just as she is in everyday life.HELMER.That was really very prettily turned. But can’t you tell us what you willbe?RANK.Yes, my dear friend, I have quite made up my mind about that.HELMER.Well?RANK.At the next fancy-dress ball I shall be invisible.HELMER.That’s a good joke!RANK.There is a big black hat—have you never heard of hats that make youinvisible? If you put one on, no one can see you.HELMER.[suppressing a smile]. Yes, you are quite right.RANK.But I am clean forgetting what I came for. Helmer, give me a cigar—one ofthe dark Havanas.HELMER.With the greatest pleasure. [Offers him his case.]RANK.[takes a cigar and cuts off the end]. Thanks.NORA.[striking a match]. Let me give you a light.RANK.Thank you. [She holds the match for him to light his cigar.] And nowgoodbye!HELMER.Goodbye, goodbye, dear old man!NORA.Sleep well, Doctor Rank.RANK.Thank you for that wish.NORA.Wish me the same.RANK.You? Well, if you want me to sleep well! And thanks for the light. [He nodsto them both and goes out.]HELMER.[in a subdued voice]. He has drunk more than he ought.NORA.[absently]. Maybe. [HELMER takes a bunch of keys out of his pocketand goes into the hall.] Torvald! what are you going to do there?HELMER.Emptying the letter-box; it is quite full; there will be no room to put thenewspaper in tomorrow morning.NORA.Are you going to work tonight?HELMER.You know quite well I’m not. What is this? Someone has been at the lock.NORA.At the lock—?HELMER.Yes, someone has. What can it mean? I should never have thought themaid—. Here is a broken hairpin. Nora, it is one of yours.NORA.[quickly]. Then it must have been the children—HELMER.Then you must get them out of those ways. There, at last I have got it open.[Takes out the contents of the letter-box, and calls to the kitchen.]Helen!—Helen, put out the light over the front door. [Goes back intothe room and shuts the door into the hall. He holds out his hand full ofletters.] Look at that—look what a heap of them there are.[Turning them over.] What on earth is that?NORA.[at the window]. The letter—No! Torvald, no!HELMER.Two cards—of Rank’s.NORA.Of Doctor Rank’s?HELMER.[looking at them]. Doctor Rank. They were on the top. He must have putthem in when he went out.NORA.Is there anything written on them?HELMER.There is a black cross over the name. Look there—what an uncomfortableidea! It looks as if he were announcing his own death.NORA.It is just what he is doing.HELMER.What? Do you know anything about it? Has he said anything to you?NORA.Yes. He told me that when the cards came it would be his leave-taking from us.He means to shut himself up and die.HELMER.My poor old friend! Certainly I knew we should not have him very long with us.But so soon! And so he hides himself away like a wounded animal.NORA.If it has to happen, it is best it should be without a word—don’tyou think so, Torvald?HELMER.[walking up and down]. He had so grown into our lives. I can’tthink of him as having gone out of them. He, with his sufferings and hisloneliness, was like a cloudy background to our sunlit happiness. Well, perhapsit is best so. For him, anyway. [Standing still.] And perhaps for ustoo, Nora. We two are thrown quite upon each other now. [Puts his arms roundher.] My darling wife, I don’t feel as if I could hold you tightenough. Do you know, Nora, I have often wished that you might be threatened bysome great danger, so that I might risk my life’s blood, and everything,for your sake.NORA.[disengages herself, and says firmly and decidedly]. Now you must readyour letters, Torvald.HELMER.No, no; not tonight. I want to be with you, my darling wife.NORA.With the thought of your friend’s death—HELMER.You are right, it has affected us both. Something ugly has come betweenus—the thought of the horrors of death. We must try and rid our minds ofthat. Until then—we will each go to our own room.NORA.[hanging on his neck]. Goodnight, Torvald—Goodnight!HELMER.[kissing her on the forehead]. Goodnight, my little singing-bird. Sleepsound, Nora. Now I will read my letters through. [He takes his letters andgoes into his room, shutting the door after him.]NORA.[gropes distractedly about, seizes HELMER’S domino, throws it roundher, while she says in quick, hoarse, spasmodic whispers]. Never to see himagain. Never! Never! [Puts her shawl over her head.] Never to see mychildren again either—never again. Never! Never!—Ah! the icy, blackwater—the unfathomable depths—If only it were over! He has got itnow—now he is reading it. Goodbye, Torvald and my children! [She isabout to rush out through the hall, when HELMER opens his door hurriedly andstands with an open letter in his hand.]HELMER.Nora!NORA.Ah!—HELMER.What is this? Do you know what is in this letter?NORA.Yes, I know. Let me go! Let me get out!HELMER.[holding her back]. Where are you going?NORA.[trying to get free]. You shan’t save me, Torvald!HELMER.[reeling]. True? Is this true, that I read here? Horrible! No,no—it is impossible that it can be true.NORA.It is true. I have loved you above everything else in the world.HELMER.Oh, don’t let us have any silly excuses.NORA.[taking a step towards him]. Torvald—!HELMER.Miserable creature—what have you done?NORA.Let me go. You shall not suffer for my sake. You shall not take it uponyourself.HELMER.No tragic airs, please. [Locks the hall door.] Here you shall stay andgive me an explanation. Do you understand what you have done? Answer me! Do youunderstand what you have done?NORA.[looks steadily at him and says with a growing look of coldness in herface]. Yes, now I am beginning to understand thoroughly.HELMER.[walking about the room]. What a horrible awakening! All these eightyears—she who was my joy and pride—a hypocrite, a liar—worse,worse—a criminal! The unutterable ugliness of it all!—For shame!For shame! [NORA is silent and looks steadily at him. He stops in front ofher.] I ought to have suspected that something of the sort would happen. Iought to have foreseen it. All your father’s want of principle—besilent!—all your father’s want of principle has come out in you. Noreligion, no morality, no sense of duty—. How I am punished for havingwinked at what he did! I did it for your sake, and this is how you repay me.NORA.Yes, that’s just it.HELMER.Now you have destroyed all my happiness. You have ruined all my future. It ishorrible to think of! I am in the power of an unscrupulous man; he can do whathe likes with me, ask anything he likes of me, give me any orders hepleases—I dare not refuse. And I must sink to such miserable depthsbecause of a thoughtless woman!NORA.When I am out of the way, you will be free.HELMER.No fine speeches, please. Your father had always plenty of those ready, too.What good would it be to me if you were out of the way, as you say? Not theslightest. He can make the affair known everywhere; and if he does, I may befalsely suspected of having been a party to your criminal action. Very likelypeople will think I was behind it all—that it was I who prompted you! AndI have to thank you for all this—you whom I have cherished during thewhole of our married life. Do you understand now what it is you have done forme?NORA.[coldly and quietly]. Yes.HELMER.It is so incredible that I can’t take it in. But we must come to someunderstanding. Take off that shawl. Take it off, I tell you. I must try andappease him some way or another. The matter must be hushed up at any cost. Andas for you and me, it must appear as if everything between us were just asbefore—but naturally only in the eyes of the world. You will still remainin my house, that is a matter of course. But I shall not allow you to bring upthe children; I dare not trust them to you. To think that I should be obligedto say so to one whom I have loved so dearly, and whom I still—. No, thatis all over. From this moment happiness is not the question; all that concernsus is to save the remains, the fragments, the appearance—
[A ring is heard at the front-door bell.]HELMER.[with a start]. What is that? So late! Can the worst—? Canhe—? Hide yourself, Nora. Say you are ill.
[NORA stands motionless. HELMER goes and unlocks the hall door.]MAID.[half-dressed, comes to the door]. A letter for the mistress.HELMER.Give it to me. [Takes the letter, and shuts the door.] Yes, it is fromhim. You shall not have it; I will read it myself.NORA.Yes, read it.HELMER.[standing by the lamp]. I scarcely have the courage to do it. It maymean ruin for both of us. No, I must know. [Tears open the letter, runs hiseye over a few lines, looks at a paper enclosed, and gives a shout of joy.]Nora! [She looks at him questioningly.] Nora!—No, I must read itonce again—. Yes, it is true! I am saved! Nora, I am saved!NORA.And I?HELMER.You too, of course; we are both saved, both you and I. Look, he sends you yourbond back. He says he regrets and repents—that a happy change in hislife—never mind what he says! We are saved, Nora! No one can do anythingto you. Oh, Nora, Nora!—no, first I must destroy these hateful things.Let me see—. [Takes a look at the bond.] No, no, I won’tlook at it. The whole thing shall be nothing but a bad dream to me. [Tearsup the bond and both letters, throws them all into the stove, and watches themburn.] There—now it doesn’t exist any longer. He says thatsince Christmas Eve you—. These must have been three dreadful days foryou, Nora.NORA.I have fought a hard fight these three days.HELMER.And suffered agonies, and seen no way out but—. No, we won’t callany of the horrors to mind. We will only shout with joy, and keep saying,“It’s all over! It’s all over!” Listen to me, Nora. Youdon’t seem to realise that it is all over. What is this?—such acold, set face! My poor little Nora, I quite understand; you don’t feelas if you could believe that I have forgiven you. But it is true, Nora, I swearit; I have forgiven you everything. I know that what you did, you did out oflove for me.NORA.That is true.HELMER.You have loved me as a wife ought to love her husband. Only you had notsufficient knowledge to judge of the means you used. But do you suppose you areany the less dear to me, because you don’t understand how to act on yourown responsibility? No, no; only lean on me; I will advise you and direct you.I should not be a man if this womanly helplessness did not just give you adouble attractiveness in my eyes. You must not think anymore about the hardthings I said in my first moment of consternation, when I thought everythingwas going to overwhelm me. I have forgiven you, Nora; I swear to you I haveforgiven you.NORA.Thank you for your forgiveness. [She goes out through the door to theright.]HELMER.No, don’t go—. [Looks in.] What are you doing in there?NORA.[from within]. Taking off my fancy dress.HELMER.[standing at the open door]. Yes, do. Try and calm yourself, and makeyour mind easy again, my frightened little singing-bird. Be at rest, and feelsecure; I have broad wings to shelter you under. [Walks up and down by thedoor.] How warm and cosy our home is, Nora. Here is shelter for you; here Iwill protect you like a hunted dove that I have saved from a hawk’sclaws; I will bring peace to your poor beating heart. It will come, little bylittle, Nora, believe me. Tomorrow morning you will look upon it all quitedifferently; soon everything will be just as it was before. Very soon youwon’t need me to assure you that I have forgiven you; you will yourselffeel the certainty that I have done so. Can you suppose I should ever think ofsuch a thing as repudiating you, or even reproaching you? You have no idea whata true man’s heart is like, Nora. There is something so indescribablysweet and satisfying, to a man, in the knowledge that he has forgiven hiswife—forgiven her freely, and with all his heart. It seems as if that hadmade her, as it were, doubly his own; he has given her a new life, so to speak;and she has in a way become both wife and child to him. So you shall be for meafter this, my little scared, helpless darling. Have no anxiety about anything,Nora; only be frank and open with me, and I will serve as will and conscienceboth to you—. What is this? Not gone to bed? Have you changed yourthings?NORA.[in everyday dress]. Yes, Torvald, I have changed my things now.HELMER.But what for?—so late as this.NORA.I shall not sleep tonight.HELMER.But, my dear Nora—NORA.[looking at her watch]. It is not so very late. Sit down here, Torvald.You and I have much to say to one another. [She sits down at one side of thetable.]HELMER.Nora—what is this?—this cold, set face?NORA.Sit down. It will take some time; I have a lot to talk over with you.HELMER.[sits down at the opposite side of the table]. You alarm me,Nora!—and I don’t understand you.NORA.No, that is just it. You don’t understand me, and I have never understoodyou either—before tonight. No, you mustn’t interrupt me. You mustsimply listen to what I say. Torvald, this is a settling of accounts.HELMER.What do you mean by that?NORA.[after a short silence]. Isn’t there one thing that strikes you asstrange in our sitting here like this?HELMER.What is that?NORA.We have been married now eight years. Does it not occur to you that this is thefirst time we two, you and I, husband and wife, have had a seriousconversation?HELMER.What do you mean by serious?NORA.In all these eight years—longer than that—from the very beginningof our acquaintance, we have never exchanged a word on any serious subject.HELMER.Was it likely that I would be continually and forever telling you about worriesthat you could not help me to bear?NORA.I am not speaking about business matters. I say that we have never sat down inearnest together to try and get at the bottom of anything.HELMER.But, dearest Nora, would it have been any good to you?NORA.That is just it; you have never understood me. I have been greatly wronged,Torvald—first by papa and then by you.HELMER.What! By us two—by us two, who have loved you better than anyone else inthe world?NORA.[shaking her head]. You have never loved me. You have only thought itpleasant to be in love with me.HELMER.Nora, what do I hear you saying?NORA.It is perfectly true, Torvald. When I was at home with papa, he told me hisopinion about everything, and so I had the same opinions; and if I differedfrom him I concealed the fact, because he would not have liked it. He called mehis doll-child, and he played with me just as I used to play with my dolls. Andwhen I came to live with you—HELMER.What sort of an expression is that to use about our marriage?NORA.[undisturbed]. I mean that I was simply transferred from papa’shands into yours. You arranged everything according to your own taste, and so Igot the same tastes as you—or else I pretended to, I am really not quitesure which—I think sometimes the one and sometimes the other. When I lookback on it, it seems to me as if I had been living here like a poorwoman—just from hand to mouth. I have existed merely to perform tricksfor you, Torvald. But you would have it so. You and papa have committed a greatsin against me. It is your fault that I have made nothing of my life.HELMER.How unreasonable and how ungrateful you are, Nora! Have you not been happyhere?NORA.No, I have never been happy. I thought I was, but it has never really been so.HELMER.Not—not happy!NORA.No, only merry. And you have always been so kind to me. But our home has beennothing but a playroom. I have been your doll-wife, just as at home I waspapa’s doll-child; and here the children have been my dolls. I thought itgreat fun when you played with me, just as they thought it great fun when Iplayed with them. That is what our marriage has been, Torvald.HELMER.There is some truth in what you say—exaggerated and strained as your viewof it is. But for the future it shall be different. Playtime shall be over, andlesson-time shall begin.NORA.Whose lessons? Mine, or the children’s?HELMER.Both yours and the children’s, my darling Nora.NORA.Alas, Torvald, you are not the man to educate me into being a proper wife foryou.HELMER.And you can say that!NORA.And I—how am I fitted to bring up the children?HELMER.Nora!NORA.Didn’t you say so yourself a little while ago—that you dare nottrust me to bring them up?HELMER.In a moment of anger! Why do you pay any heed to that?NORA.Indeed, you were perfectly right. I am not fit for the task. There is anothertask I must undertake first. I must try and educate myself—you are notthe man to help me in that. I must do that for myself. And that is why I amgoing to leave you now.HELMER.[springing up]. What do you say?NORA.I must stand quite alone, if I am to understand myself and everything about me.It is for that reason that I cannot remain with you any longer.HELMER.Nora, Nora!NORA.I am going away from here now, at once. I am sure Christine will take me in forthe night—HELMER.You are out of your mind! I won’t allow it! I forbid you!NORA.It is no use forbidding me anything any longer. I will take with me whatbelongs to myself. I will take nothing from you, either now or later.HELMER.What sort of madness is this!NORA.Tomorrow I shall go home—I mean, to my old home. It will be easiest forme to find something to do there.HELMER.You blind, foolish woman!NORA.I must try and get some sense, Torvald.HELMER.To desert your home, your husband and your children! And you don’tconsider what people will say!NORA.I cannot consider that at all. I only know that it is necessary for me.HELMER.It’s shocking. This is how you would neglect your most sacred duties.NORA.What do you consider my most sacred duties?HELMER.Do I need to tell you that? Are they not your duties to your husband and yourchildren?NORA.I have other duties just as sacred.HELMER.That you have not. What duties could those be?NORA.Duties to myself.HELMER.Before all else, you are a wife and a mother.NORA.I don’t believe that any longer. I believe that before all else I am areasonable human being, just as you are—or, at all events, that I musttry and become one. I know quite well, Torvald, that most people would thinkyou right, and that views of that kind are to be found in books; but I can nolonger content myself with what most people say, or with what is found inbooks. I must think over things for myself and get to understand them.HELMER.Can you not understand your place in your own home? Have you not a reliableguide in such matters as that?—have you no religion?NORA.I am afraid, Torvald, I do not exactly know what religion is.HELMER.What are you saying?NORA.I know nothing but what the clergyman said, when I went to be confirmed. Hetold us that religion was this, and that, and the other. When I am away fromall this, and am alone, I will look into that matter too. I will see if whatthe clergyman said is true, or at all events if it is true for me.HELMER.This is unheard of in a girl of your age! But if religion cannot lead youaright, let me try and awaken your conscience. I suppose you have some moralsense? Or—answer me—am I to think you have none?NORA.I assure you, Torvald, that is not an easy question to answer. I reallydon’t know. The thing perplexes me altogether. I only know that you and Ilook at it in quite a different light. I am learning, too, that the law isquite another thing from what I supposed; but I find it impossible to convincemyself that the law is right. According to it a woman has no right to spare herold dying father, or to save her husband’s life. I can’t believethat.HELMER.You talk like a child. You don’t understand the conditions of the worldin which you live.NORA.No, I don’t. But now I am going to try. I am going to see if I can makeout who is right, the world or I.HELMER.You are ill, Nora; you are delirious; I almost think you are out of your mind.NORA.I have never felt my mind so clear and certain as tonight.HELMER.And is it with a clear and certain mind that you forsake your husband and yourchildren?NORA.Yes, it is.HELMER.Then there is only one possible explanation.NORA.What is that?HELMER.You do not love me anymore.NORA.No, that is just it.HELMER.Nora!—and you can say that?NORA.It gives me great pain, Torvald, for you have always been so kind to me, but Icannot help it. I do not love you any more.HELMER.[regaining his composure]. Is that a clear and certain conviction too?NORA.Yes, absolutely clear and certain. That is the reason why I will not stay hereany longer.HELMER.And can you tell me what I have done to forfeit your love?NORA.Yes, indeed I can. It was tonight, when the wonderful thing did not happen;then I saw you were not the man I had thought you were.HELMER.Explain yourself better. I don’t understand you.NORA.I have waited so patiently for eight years; for, goodness knows, I knew verywell that wonderful things don’t happen every day. Then this horriblemisfortune came upon me; and then I felt quite certain that the wonderful thingwas going to happen at last. When Krogstad’s letter was lying out there,never for a moment did I imagine that you would consent to accept thisman’s conditions. I was so absolutely certain that you would say to him:Publish the thing to the whole world. And when that was done—HELMER.Yes, what then?—when I had exposed my wife to shame and disgrace?NORA.When that was done, I was so absolutely certain, you would come forward andtake everything upon yourself, and say: I am the guilty one.HELMER.Nora—!NORA.You mean that I would never have accepted such a sacrifice on your part? No, ofcourse not. But what would my assurances have been worth against yours? Thatwas the wonderful thing which I hoped for and feared; and it was to preventthat, that I wanted to kill myself.HELMER.I would gladly work night and day for you, Nora—bear sorrow and want foryour sake. But no man would sacrifice his honour for the one he loves.NORA.It is a thing hundreds of thousands of women have done.HELMER.Oh, you think and talk like a heedless child.NORA.Maybe. But you neither think nor talk like the man I could bind myself to. Assoon as your fear was over—and it was not fear for what threatened me,but for what might happen to you—when the whole thing was past, as far asyou were concerned it was exactly as if nothing at all had happened. Exactly asbefore, I was your little skylark, your doll, which you would in future treatwith doubly gentle care, because it was so brittle and fragile. [Gettingup.] Torvald—it was then it dawned upon me that for eight years I hadbeen living here with a strange man, and had borne him three children—.Oh, I can’t bear to think of it! I could tear myself into little bits!HELMER.[sadly]. I see, I see. An abyss has opened between us—there is nodenying it. But, Nora, would it not be possible to fill it up?NORA.As I am now, I am no wife for you.HELMER.I have it in me to become a different man.NORA.Perhaps—if your doll is taken away from you.HELMER.But to part!—to part from you! No, no, Nora, I can’t understandthat idea.NORA.[going out to the right]. That makes it all the more certain that itmust be done. [She comes back with her cloak and hat and a small bag whichshe puts on a chair by the table.]HELMER.Nora, Nora, not now! Wait until tomorrow.NORA.[putting on her cloak]. I cannot spend the night in a strangeman’s room.HELMER.But can’t we live here like brother and sister—?NORA.[putting on her hat]. You know very well that would not last long.[Puts the shawl round her.] Goodbye, Torvald. I won’t see thelittle ones. I know they are in better hands than mine. As I am now, I can beof no use to them.HELMER.But some day, Nora—some day?NORA.How can I tell? I have no idea what is going to become of me.HELMER.But you are my wife, whatever becomes of you.NORA.Listen, Torvald. I have heard that when a wife deserts her husband’shouse, as I am doing now, he is legally freed from all obligations towards her.In any case, I set you free from all your obligations. You are not to feelyourself bound in the slightest way, any more than I shall. There must beperfect freedom on both sides. See, here is your ring back. Give me mine.HELMER.That too?NORA.That too.HELMER.Here it is.NORA.That’s right. Now it is all over. I have put the keys here. The maidsknow all about everything in the house—better than I do. Tomorrow, afterI have left her, Christine will come here and pack up my own things that Ibrought with me from home. I will have them sent after me.HELMER.All over! All over!—Nora, shall you never think of me again?NORA.I know I shall often think of you, the children, and this house.HELMER.May I write to you, Nora?NORA.No—never. You must not do that.HELMER.But at least let me send you—NORA.Nothing—nothing—HELMER.Let me help you if you are in want.NORA.No. I can receive nothing from a stranger.HELMER.Nora—can I never be anything more than a stranger to you?NORA.[taking her bag]. Ah, Torvald, the most wonderful thing of all wouldhave to happen.HELMER.Tell me what that would be!NORA.Both you and I would have to be so changed that—. Oh, Torvald, Idon’t believe any longer in wonderful things happening.HELMER.But I will believe in it. Tell me! So changed that—?NORA.That our life together would be a real wedlock. Goodbye. [She goes outthrough the hall.]HELMER.[sinks down on a chair at the door and buries his face in his hands].Nora! Nora! [Looks round, and rises.] Empty. She is gone. [A hopeflashes across his mind.] The most wonderful thing of all—?
[The sound of a door shutting is heard from below.]
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PREFACE
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The contents of these volumes have been written down directly from mydictation, over a period of several years, by my friend and wife, who wished meto tell her the story of my life. It was the desire of both of us that thesedetails of my life should be accessible to our family and to our sincere andtrusted friends; and we decided therefore, in order to provide against apossible destruction of the one manuscript, to have a small number of copiesprinted at our own expense. As the value of this autobiography consists in itsunadorned veracity, which, under the circumstances, is its only justification,therefore my statements had to be accompanied by precise names and dates; hencethere could be no question of their publication until some time after my death,should interest in them still survive in our descendants, and on that point Iintend leaving directions in my will.
If, on the other hand, we do not refuse certain intimate friends a sight ofthese papers now, it is that, relying on their genuine interest in thecontents, we are confident that they will not pass on their knowledge to anywho do not share their feelings in the matter.
Richard Wagner
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CONTENTS
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Richard Wagner in 1842,from the Portrait by E. Kietz.Richard Wagner about 1872 by Lenbach.
Original in the possession of Frau Cosima Wagner These frontispieces are usedby the courtesy of Mr. F. Bruckmann.
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PART I 1813-1842
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I was born at Leipzig on the 22nd of May 1813, in a room on the second floor ofthe ‘Red and White Lion,’ and two days later was baptized at St. Thomas’sChurch, and christened Wilhelm Richard.
My father, Friedrich Wagner, was at the time of my birth a clerk in the policeservice at Leipzig, and hoped to get the post of Chief Constable in that town,but he died in the October of that same year. His death was partly due to thegreat exertions imposed upon him by the stress of police work during the wartroubles and the battle of Leipzig, and partly to the fact that he fell avictim to the nervous fever which was raging at that time. As regards hisfather’s position in life, I learnt later that he had held a small civilappointment as toll collector at the Ranstädt Gate, but had distinguishedhimself from those in the same station by giving his two sons a superioreducation, my father, Friedrich, studying law, and the younger son, Adolph,theology.
My uncle subsequently exercised no small influence on my development; we shallmeet him again at a critical turning-point in the story of my youth.
My father, whom I had lost so early, was, as I discovered afterwards, a greatlover of poetry and literature in general, and possessed in particular analmost passionate affection for the drama, which was at that time much in vogueamong the educated classes. My mother told me, among other things, that he tookher to Lauchstadt for the first performance of the Braut von Messina,and that on the promenade he pointed out Schiller and Goethe to her, andreproved her warmly for never having heard of these great men. He is said tohave been not altogether free from a gallant interest in actresses. My motherused to complain jokingly that she often had to keep lunch waiting for himwhile he was paying court to a certain famous actress of the day.[1] When she scolded him, he vowed that he hadbeen delayed by papers that had to be attended to, and as a proof of hisassertion pointed to his fingers, which were supposed to be stained with ink,but on closer inspection were found to be quite clean. His great fondness forthe theatre was further shown by his choice of the actor, Ludwig Geyer, as oneof his intimate friends. Although his choice of this friend was no doubt mainlydue to his love for the theatre, he at the same time introduced into his familythe noblest of benefactors; for this modest artist, prompted by a warm interestin the lot of his friend’s large family, so unexpectedly left destitute,devoted the remainder of his life to making strenuous efforts to maintain andeducate the orphans. Even when the police official was spending his evenings atthe theatre, the worthy actor generally filled his place in the family circle,and it seems had frequently to appease my mother, who, rightly or wrongly,complained of the frivolity of her husband.
[1]Madame Hartwig.
How deeply the homeless artist, hard pressed by life and tossed to and fro,longed to feel himself at home in a sympathetic family circle, was proved bythe fact that a year after his friend’s death he married his widow, and fromthat time forward became a most loving father to the seven children that hadbeen left behind.
In this onerous undertaking he was favoured by an unexpected improvement in hisposition, for he obtained a remunerative, respectable, and permanentengagement, as a character actor, at the newly established Court Theatre inDresden. His talent for painting, which had already helped him to earn alivelihood when forced by extreme poverty to break off his university studies,again stood him in good stead in his position at Dresden. True, he complainedeven more than his critics that he had been kept from a regular and systematicstudy of this art, yet his extraordinary aptitude, for portrait painting inparticular, secured him such important commissions that he unfortunatelyexhausted his strength prematurely by his twofold exertions as painter andactor. Once, when he was invited to Munich to fulfil a temporary engagement atthe Court Theatre, he received, through the distinguished recommendation of theSaxon Court, such pressing commissions from the Bavarian Court for portraits ofthe royal family that he thought it wise to cancel his contract altogether. Healso had a turn for poetry. Besides fragments—often in very dainty verse—hewrote several comedies, one of which, Der Bethlehemitische Kindermord, inrhymed Alexandrines, was often performed; it was published and received thewarmest praise from Goethe.
This excellent man, under whose care our family moved to Dresden when I was twoyears old, and by whom my mother had another daughter, Cecilia, now also tookmy education in hand with the greatest care and affection. He wished to adoptme altogether, and accordingly, when I was sent to my first school, he gave mehis own name, so that till the age of fourteen I was known to my Dresdenschoolfellows as Richard Geyer; and it was not until some years after mystepfather’s death, and on my family’s return to Leipzig, the home of my ownkith and kin, that I resumed the name of Wagner.
The earliest recollections of my childhood are associated with my stepfather,and passed from him to the theatre. I well remember that he would have liked tosee me develop a talent for painting; and his studio, with the easel and thepictures upon it, did not fail to impress me. I remember in particular that Itried, with a childish love of imitation, to copy a portrait of King FrederickAugustus of Saxony; but when this simple daubing had to give place to a seriousstudy of drawing, I could not stand it, possibly because I was discouraged bythe pedantic technique of my teacher, a cousin of mine, who was rather a bore.At one time during my early boyhood I became so weak after some childishailment that my mother told me later she used almost to wish me dead, for itseemed as though I should never get well. However, my subsequent good healthapparently astonished my parents. I afterwards learnt the noble part played bymy excellent stepfather on this occasion also; he never gave way to despair, inspite of the cares and troubles of so large a family, but remained patientthroughout, and never lost the hope of pulling me through safely.
My imagination at this time was deeply impressed by my acquaintance with thetheatre, with which I was brought into contact, not only as a childishspectator from the mysterious stagebox, with its access to the stage, and byvisits to the wardrobe with its fantastic costumes, wigs and other disguises,but also by taking a part in the performances myself. After I had been filledwith fear by seeing my father play the villain’s part in such tragedies as DieWaise und der Mörder, Die beiden Galeerensklaven, I occasionally took part incomedy. I remember that I appeared in Der Weinberg an der Elbe, a piecespecially written to welcome the King of Saxony on his return from captivity,with music by the conductor, C. M. von Weber. In this I figured in a tableauvivant as an angel, sewn up in tights with wings on my back, in a graceful posewhich I had laboriously practised. I also remember on this occasion being givena big iced cake, which I was assured the King had intended for me personally.Lastly, I can recall taking a child’s part in which I had a few words to speakin Kotzebue’s Menschenhass und Reue[2],which furnished me with an excuse at school for not having learnt my lessons. Isaid I had too much to do, as I had to learn by heart an important part in DenMenschen ausser der Reihe.[3]
[2]‘Misanthropy and Remorse.’
[3]‘The Man out of the Rank or Row.’ In the German this is a simple phoneticcorruption of Kotzebue’s title, which might easily occur to a child who hadonly heard, and not read, that title.—EDITOR.
On the other hand, to show how seriously my father regarded my education, whenI was six years old he took me to a clergyman in the country at Possendorf,near Dresden, where I was to be given a sound and healthy training with otherboys of my own class. In the evening, the vicar, whose name was Wetzel, used totell us the story of Robinson Crusoe, and discuss it with us in a highlyinstructive manner. I was, moreover, much impressed by a biography of Mozartwhich was read aloud; and the newspaper accounts and monthly reports of theevents of the Greek War of Independence stirred my imagination deeply. My lovefor Greece, which afterwards made me turn with enthusiasm to the mythology andhistory of ancient Hellas, was thus the natural outcome of the intense andpainful interest I took in the events of this period. In after years the storyof the struggle of the Greeks against the Persians always revived myimpressions of this modern revolt of Greece against the Turks.
One day, when I had been in this country home scarcely a year, a messenger camefrom town to ask the vicar to take me to my parents’ house in Dresden, as myfather was dying.
We did the three hours’ journey on foot; and as I was very exhausted when Iarrived, I scarcely understood why my mother was crying. The next day I wastaken to my father’s bedside; the extreme weakness with which he spoke to me,combined with all the precautions taken in the last desperate treatment of hiscomplaint—acute hydrothorax—made the whole scene appear like a dream to me, andI think I was too frightened and surprised to cry.
In the next room my mother asked me to show her what I could play on the piano,wisely hoping to divert my father’s thoughts by the sound. I played Ueb’ immerTreu und Redlichkeit, and my father said to her, ‘Is it possible he has musicaltalent?’
In the early hours of the next morning my mother came into the great nightnursery, and, standing by the bedside of each of us in turn, told us, withsobs, that our father was dead, and gave us each a message with his blessing.To me she said, ‘He hoped to make something of you.’
In the afternoon my schoolmaster, Wetzel, came to take me back to the country.We walked the whole way to Possendorf, arriving at nightfall. On the way Iasked him many questions about the stars, of which he gave me my firstintelligent idea.
A week later my stepfather’s brother arrived from Eisleben for the funeral. Hepromised, as far as he was able, to support the family, which was now once moredestitute, and undertook to provide for my future education.
I took leave of my companions and of the kind-hearted clergyman, and it was forhis funeral that I paid my next visit to Possendorf a few years later. I didnot go to the place again till long afterwards, when I visited it on anexcursion such as I often made, far into the country, at the time when I wasconducting the orchestra in Dresden. I was much grieved not to find the oldparsonage still there, but in its place a more pretentious modern structure,which so turned me against the locality, that thenceforward my excursions werealways made in another direction.
This time my uncle brought me back to Dresden in the carriage. I found mymother and sister in the deepest mourning, and remember being received for thefirst time with a tenderness not usual in our family; and I noticed that thesame tenderness marked our leave-taking, when, a few days later, my uncle tookme with him to Eisleben.
This uncle, who was a younger brother of my stepfather, had settled there as agoldsmith, and Julius, one of my elder brothers, had already been apprenticedto him. Our old grandmother also lived with this bachelor son, and as it wasevident that she could not live long, she was not informed of the death of hereldest son, which I, too, was bidden to keep to myself. The servant carefullyremoved the crape from my coat, telling me she would keep it until mygrandmother died, which was likely to be soon.
I was now often called upon to tell her about my father, and it was no greatdifficulty for me to keep the secret of his death, as I had scarcely realisedit myself. She lived in a dark back room looking out upon a narrow courtyard,and took a great delight in watching the robins that fluttered freely abouther, and for which she always kept fresh green boughs by the stove. When someof these robins were killed by the cat, I managed to catch others for her inthe neighbourhood, which pleased her very much, and, in return, she kept metidy and clean. Her death, as had been expected, took place before long, andthe crape that had been put away was now openly worn in Eisleben.
The back room, with its robins and green branches, now knew me no more, but Isoon made myself at home with a soap-boiler’s family, to whom the housebelonged, and became popular with them on account of the stories I told them.
I was sent to a private school kept by a man called Weiss, who left animpression of gravity and dignity upon my mind.
Towards the end of the fifties I was greatly moved at reading in a musicalpaper the account of a concert at Eisleben, consisting of parts of Tannhäuser,at which my former master, who had not forgotten his young pupil, had beenpresent.
The little old town with Luther’s house, and the numberless memorials itcontained of his stay there, has often, in later days, come back to me indreams. I have always wished to revisit it and verify the clearness of myrecollections, but, strange to say, it has never been my fate to do so. Welived in the market-place, where I was often entertained by strange sights,such, for instance, as performances by a troupe of acrobats, in which a manwalked a rope stretched from tower to tower across the square, an achievementwhich long inspired me with a passion for such feats of daring. Indeed, I gotso far as to walk a rope fairly easily myself with the help of abalancing-pole. I had made the rope out of cords twisted together and stretchedacross the courtyard, and even now I still feel a desire to gratify myacrobatic instincts. The thing that attracted me most, however, was the brassband of a Hussar regiment quartered at Eisleben. It often played a certainpiece which had just come out, and which was making a great sensation, I meanthe ‘Huntsmen’s Chorus’ out of the Freischutz, that had been recently performedat the Opera in Berlin. My uncle and brother asked me eagerly about itscomposer, Weber, whom I must have seen at my parents’ house in Dresden, when hewas conductor of the orchestra there.
About the same time the Jungfernkranz was zealously played and sung by somefriends who lived near us. These two pieces cured me of my weakness for the‘Ypsilanti’ Waltz, which till that time I had regarded as the most wonderful ofcompositions.
I have recollections of frequent tussles with the town boys, who wereconstantly mocking at me for my ‘square’ cap; and I remember, too, that I wasvery fond of rambles of adventure among the rocky banks of the Unstrut.
My uncle’s marriage late in life, and the starting of his new home, broughtabout a marked alteration in his relations to my family.
After a lapse of a year I was taken by him to Leipzig, and handed over for somedays to the Wagners, my own father’s relatives, consisting of my uncle Adolphand his sister Friederike Wagner. This extraordinarily interesting man, whoseinfluence afterwards became ever more stimulating to me, now for the first timebrought himself and his singular environment into my life.
He and my aunt were very close friends of Jeannette Thome, a queer old maid whoshared with them a large house in the market-place, in which, if I am notmistaken, the Electoral family of Saxony had, ever since the days of Augustusthe Strong, hired and furnished the two principal storeys for their own usewhenever they were in Leipzig.
So far as I know, Jeannette Thome really owned the second storey, of which sheinhabited only a modest apartment looking out on the courtyard. As, however,the King merely occupied the hired rooms for a few days in the year, Jeannetteand her circle generally made use of his splendid apartments, and one of thesestaterooms was made into a bedroom for me.
The decorations and fittings of these rooms also dated from the days ofAugustus the Strong. They were luxurious with heavy silk and rich rococofurniture, all of which were much soiled with age. As a matter of fact, I wasdelighted by these large strange rooms, looking out upon the bustling Leipzigmarket-place, where I loved above all to watch the students in the crowd makingtheir way along in their old-fashioned ‘Club’ attire, and filling up the wholewidth of the street.
There was only one portion of the decorations of the rooms that I thoroughlydisliked, and this consisted of the various portraits, but particularly thoseof high-born dames in hooped petticoats, with youthful faces and powdered hair.These appeared to me exactly like ghosts, who, when I was alone in the room,seemed to come back to life, and filled me with the most abject fear. To sleepalone in this distant chamber, in that old-fashioned bed of state, beneaththose unearthly pictures, was a constant terror to me. It is true I tried tohide my fear from my aunt when she lighted me to bed in the evening with hercandle, but never a night passed in which I was not a prey to the most horribleghostly visions, my dread of which would leave me in a bath of perspiration.
The personality of the three chief occupants of this storey was admirablyadapted to materialise the ghostly impressions of the house into a reality thatresembled some strange fairy-tale.
Jeannette Thome was very small and stout; she wore a fair Titus wig, and seemedto hug to herself the consciousness of vanished beauty. My aunt, her faithfulfriend and guardian, who was also an old maid, was remarkable for the heightand extreme leanness of her person. The oddity of her otherwise very pleasantface was increased by an exceedingly pointed chin.
My uncle Adolph had chosen as his permanent study a dark room in the courtyard.There it was that I saw him for the first time, surrounded by a greatwilderness of books, and attired in an unpretentious indoor costume, the moststriking feature of which was a tall, pointed felt cap, such as I had seen wornby the clown who belonged to the troupe of rope-dancers at Eisleben. A greatlove of independence had driven him to this strange retreat. He had beenoriginally destined for the Church, but he soon gave that up, in order todevote himself entirely to philological studies. But as he had the greatestdislike of acting as a professor and teacher in a regular post, he soon triedto make a meagre livelihood by literary work. He had certain social gifts, andespecially a fine tenor voice, and appears in his youth to have been welcome asa man of letters among a fairly wide circle of friends at Leipzig.
On a trip to Jena, during which he and a companion seem to have found their wayinto various musical and oratorical associations, he paid a visit to Schiller.With this object in view, he had come armed with a request from the managementof the Leipzig Theatre, who wanted to secure the rights of Wallenstein, whichwas just finished. He told me later of the magic impression made upon him bySchiller, with his tall slight figure and irresistibly attractive blue eyes.His only complaint was that, owing to a well-meant trick played on him by hisfriend, he had been placed in a most trying position; for the latter hadmanaged to send Schiller a small volume of Adolph Wagner’s poems in advance.
The young poet was much embarrassed to hear Schiller address him in flatteringterms on the subject of his poetry, but was convinced that the great man wasmerely encouraging him out of kindness. Afterwards he devoted himself entirelyto philological studios—one of his best-known publications in that departmentbeing his Parnasso Italiano, which he dedicated to Goethe in an Italian poem.True, I have heard experts say that the latter was written in unusually pompousItalian; but Goethe sent him a letter full of praise, as well as a silver cupfrom his own household plate. The impression that I, as a boy of eight,conceived of Adolph Wagner, amid the surroundings of his own home, was that hewas a peculiarly puzzling character.
I soon had to leave the influence of this environment and was brought back tomy people at Dresden. Meanwhile my family, under the guidance of my bereavedmother, had been obliged to settle down as well as they could under thecircumstances. My eldest brother Albert, who originally intended to studymedicine, had, upon the advice of Weber, who had much admired his beautifultenor voice, started his theatrical career in Breslau. My second sister Louisasoon followed his example, and became an actress. My eldest sister Rosalie hadobtained an excellent engagement at the Dresden Court Theatre, and the youngermembers of the family all looked up to her; for she was now the main support ofour poor sorrowing mother. My family still occupied the same comfortable homewhich my father had made for them. Some of the spare rooms were occasionallylet to strangers, and Spohr was among those who at one time lodged with us.Thanks to her great energy, and to help received from various sources (amongwhich the continued generosity of the Court, out of respect to the memory of mylate stepfather, must not be forgotten), my mother managed so well in makingboth ends meet, that even my education did not suffer.
After it had been decided that my sister Clara, owing to her exceedinglybeautiful voice, should also go on the stage, my mother took the greatest careto prevent me from developing any taste whatever for the theatre. She neverceased to reproach herself for having consented to the theatrical career of myeldest brother, and as my second brother showed no greater talents than thosewhich were useful to him as a goldsmith, it was now her chief desire to seesome progress made towards the fulfilment of the hopes and wishes of mystep-father, ‘who hoped to make something of me.’ On the completion of myeighth year I was sent to the Kreuz Grammar School in Dresden, where it washoped I would study! There I was placed at the bottom of the lowest class, andstarted my education under the most unassuming auspices.
My mother noted with much interest the slightest signs I might show of agrowing love and ability for my work. She herself, though not highly educated,always created a lasting impression on all who really learnt to know her, anddisplayed a peculiar combination of practical domestic efficiency and keenintellectual animation. She never gave one of her children any definiteinformation concerning her antecedents. She came from Weissenfels, and admittedthat her parents had been bakers[4]there. Even in regard to her maiden name she always spoke with someembarrassment, and intimated that it was ‘Perthes,’ though, as we afterwardsascertained, it was in reality ‘Bertz.’ Strange to say, she had been placed ina high-class boarding-school in Leipzig, where she had enjoyed the advantage ofthe care and interest of one of ‘her father’s influential friends,’ to whom sheafterwards referred as being a Weimar prince who had been very kind to herfamily in Weissenfels. Her education in that establishment seems to have beeninterrupted on account of the sudden death of this ‘friend.’ She becameacquainted with my father at a very early age, and married him in the firstbloom of her youth, he also being very young, though he already held anappointment. Her chief characteristics seem to have been a keen sense of humourand an amiable temper, so we need not suppose that it was merely a sense ofduty towards the family of a departed comrade that afterwards induced theadmirable Ludwig Geyer to enter into matrimony with her when she was no longeryouthful, but rather that he was impelled to that step by a sincere and warmregard for the widow of his friend. A portrait of her, painted by Geyer duringthe lifetime of my father, gives one a very favourable impression of what shemust have been. Even from the time when my recollection of her is quitedistinct, she always had to wear a cap owing to some slight affection of thehead, so that I have no recollection of her as a young and pretty mother. Hertrying position at the head of a numerous family (of which I was the seventhsurviving member), the difficulty of obtaining the wherewithal to rear them,and of keeping up appearances on very limited resources, did not conduce toevolve that tender sweetness and solicitude which are usually associated withmotherhood. I hardly ever recollect her having fondled me. Indeed,demonstrations of affection were not common in our family, although a certainimpetuous, almost passionate and boisterous manner always characterised ourdealings. This being so, it naturally seemed to me quite a great event when onenight I, fretful with sleepiness, looked up at her with tearful eyes as she wastaking me to bed, and saw her gaze back at me proudly and fondly, and speak ofme to a visitor then present with a certain amount of tenderness.
[4]According to more recent information—mill owners.
What struck me more particularly about her was the strange enthusiasm andalmost pathetic manner with which she spoke of the great and of the beautifulin Art. Under this heading, however, she would never have let me suppose thatshe included dramatic art, but only Poetry, Music, and Painting. Consequently,she often even threatened me with her curse should I ever express a desire togo on the stage. Moreover, she was very religiously inclined. With intensefervour she would often give us long sermons about God and the divine qualityin man, during which, now and again, suddenly lowering her voice in a ratherfunny way, she would interrupt herself in order to rebuke one of us. After thedeath of our stepfather she used to assemble us all round her bed everymorning, when one of us would read out a hymn or a part of the Church servicefrom the prayer-book before she took her coffee. Sometimes the choice of thepart to be read was hardly appropriate, as, for instance, when my sister Claraon one occasion thoughtlessly read the ‘Prayer to be said in time of War,’ anddelivered it with so much expression that my mother interrupted her, saying:‘Oh, stop! Good gracious me! Things are not quite so bad as that. There’s nowar on at present!’
In spite of our limited means we had lively and—as they appeared to my boyishimagination—even brilliant evening parties sometimes. After the death of mystepfather, who, thanks to his success as a portrait painter, in the lateryears of his life had raised his income to what for those days was a reallydecent total, many agreeable acquaintances of very good social position whom hehad made during this flourishing period still remained on friendly terms withus, and would occasionally join us at our evening gatherings. Amongst those whocame were the members of the Court Theatre, who at that time gave very charmingand highly entertaining parties of their own, which, on my return to Dresdenlater on, I found had been altogether given up.
Very delightful, too, were the picnics arranged between us and our friends atsome of the beautiful spots around Dresden, for these excursions were alwaysbrightened by a certain artistic spirit and general good cheer. I remember onesuch outing we arranged to Loschwitz, where we made a kind of gypsy camp, inwhich Carl Maria von Weber played his part in the character of cook. At home wealso had some music. My sister Rosalie played the piano, and Clara wasbeginning to sing. Of the various theatrical performances we organised in thoseearly days, often after elaborate preparation, with the view of amusingourselves on the birthdays of our elders, I can hardly remember one, save aparody on the romantic play of Sappho, by Grillparzer, in which I took part asone of the singers in the crowd that preceded Phaon’s triumphal car. Iendeavoured to revive these memories by means of a fine puppet show, which Ifound among the effects of my late stepfather, and for which he himself hadpainted some beautiful scenery. It was my intention to surprise my people bymeans of a brilliant performance on this little stage. After I had veryclumsily made several puppets, and had provided them with a scanty wardrobemade from cuttings of material purloined from my sisters, I started to composea chivalric drama, in which I proposed to rehearse my puppets. When I haddrafted the first scene, my sisters happened to discover the MS. and literallylaughed it to scorn, and, to my great annoyance, for a long time afterwardsthey chaffed me by repeating one particular sentence which I had put into themouth of the heroine, and which was—Ich hore schon den Ritter trapsen (‘I hearhis knightly footsteps falling’). I now returned with renewed ardour to thetheatre, with which, even at this time, my family was in close touch. DenFreischutz in particular appealed very strongly to my imagination, mainly onaccount of its ghostly theme. The emotions of terror and the dread of ghostsformed quite an important factor in the development of my mind. From myearliest childhood certain mysterious and uncanny things exercised an enormousinfluence over me. If I were left alone in a room for long, I remember that,when gazing at lifeless objects such as pieces of furniture, and concentratingmy attention upon them, I would suddenly shriek out with fright, because theyseemed to me alive. Even during the latest years of my boyhood, not a nightpassed without my waking out of some ghostly dream and uttering the mostfrightful shrieks, which subsided only at the sound of some human voice. Themost severe rebuke or even chastisement seemed to me at those times no morethan a blessed release. None of my brothers or sisters would sleep anywherenear me. They put me to sleep as far as possible away from the others, withoutthinking that my cries for help would only be louder and longer; but in the endthey got used even to this nightly disturbance.
In connection with this childish terror, what attracted me so strongly to thetheatre—by which I mean also the stage, the rooms behind the scenes, and thedressing-rooms—was not so much the desire for entertainment and amusement suchas that which impels the present-day theatre-goers, but the fascinatingpleasure of finding myself in an entirely different atmosphere, in a world thatwas purely fantastic and often gruesomely attractive. Thus to me a scene, evena wing, representing a bush, or some costume or characteristic part of it,seemed to come from another world, to be in some way as attractive as anapparition, and I felt that contact with it might serve as a lever to lift mefrom the dull reality of daily routine to that delightful region of spirits.Everything connected with a theatrical performance had for me the charm ofmystery, it both bewitched and fascinated me, and while I was trying, with thehelp of a few playmates, to imitate the performance of Der Freischutz, and todevote myself energetically to reproducing the needful costumes and masks in mygrotesque style of painting, the more elegant contents of my sisters’wardrobes, in the beautifying of which I had often seen the family occupied,exercised a subtle charm over my imagination; nay, my heart would beat madly atthe very touch of one of their dresses.
In spite of the fact that, as I already mentioned, our family was not given tooutward manifestations of affection, yet the fact that I was brought upentirely among feminine surroundings must necessarily have influenced thedevelopment of the sensitive side of my nature. Perhaps it was preciselybecause my immediate circle was generally rough and impetuous, that theopposite characteristics of womanhood, especially such as were connected withthe imaginary world of the theatre, created a feeling of such tender longing inme.
Luckily these fantastic humours, merging from the gruesome into the mawkish,were counteracted and balanced by more serious influences undergone at schoolat the hands of my teachers and schoolfellows. Even there, it was chiefly theweird that aroused my keenest interest. I can hardly judge whether I had whatwould be called a good head for study. I think that, in general, what I reallyliked I was soon able to grasp without much effort, whereas I hardly exertedmyself at all in the study of subjects that were uncongenial. Thischaracteristic was most marked in regard to arithmetic and, later on,mathematics. In neither of these subjects did I ever succeed in bringing mymind seriously to bear upon the tasks that were set me. In the matter of theClassics, too, I paid only just as much attention as was absolutely necessaryto enable me to get a grasp of them; for I was stimulated by the desire toreproduce them to myself dramatically. In this way Greek particularly attractedme, because the stories from Greek mythology so seized upon my fancy that Itried to imagine their heroes as speaking to me in their native tongue, so asto satisfy my longing for complete familiarity with them. In thesecircumstances it will be readily understood that the grammar of the languageseemed to me merely a tiresome obstacle, and by no means in itself aninteresting branch of knowledge.
The fact that my study of languages was never very thorough, perhaps bestexplains the fact that I was afterwards so ready to cease troubling about themaltogether. Not until much later did this study really begin to interest meagain, and that was only when I learnt to understand its physiological andphilosophical side, as it was revealed to our modern Germanists by the pioneerwork of Jakob Grimm. Then, when it was too late to apply myself thoroughly to astudy which at last I had learned to appreciate, I regretted that this newerconception of the study of languages had not yet found acceptance in ourcolleges when I was younger.
Nevertheless, by my successes in philological work I managed to attract theattention of a young teacher at the Kreuz Grammar School, a Master of Artsnamed Sillig, who proved very helpful to me. He often permitted me to visit himand show him my work, consisting of metric translations and a few originalpoems, and he always seemed very pleased with my efforts in recitation. What hethought of me may best be judged perhaps from the fact that he made me, as aboy of about twelve, recite not only ‘Hector’s Farewell’ from the Iliad, buteven Hamlet’s celebrated monologue. On one occasion, when I was in the fourthform of the school, one of my schoolfellows, a boy named Starke, suddenly felldead, and the tragic event aroused so much sympathy, that not only did thewhole school attend the funeral, but the headmaster also ordered that a poemshould be written in commemoration of the ceremony, and that this poem shouldbe published. Of the various poems submitted, among which there was one bymyself, prepared very hurriedly, none seemed to the master worthy of the honourwhich he had promised, and he therefore announced his intention of substitutingone of his own speeches in the place of our rejected attempts. Much distressedby this decision, I quickly sought out Professor Sillig, with the view ofurging him to intervene on behalf of my poem. We thereupon went through ittogether. Its well-constructed and well-rhymed verses, written in stanzas ofeight lines, determined him to revise the whole of it carefully. Much of itsimagery was bombastic, and far beyond the conception of a boy of my age. Irecollect that in one part I had drawn extensively from the monologue inAddison’s Cato, spoken by Cato just before his suicide. I had met with thispassage in an English grammar, and it had made a deep impression upon me. Thewords: ‘The stars shall fade away, the sun himself grow dim with age, andnature sink in years,’ which, at all events, were a direct plagiarism, madeSillig laugh—a thing at which I was a little offended. However, I felt verygrateful to him, for, thanks to the care and rapidity with which he cleared mypoem of these extravagances, it was eventually accepted by the headmaster,printed, and widely circulated.
The effect of this success was extraordinary, both on my schoolfellows and onmy own family. My mother devoutly folded her hands in thankfulness, and in myown mind my vocation seemed quite a settled thing. It was clear, beyond thepossibility of a doubt, that I was destined to be a poet. Professor Silligwished me to compose a grand epic, and suggested as a subject ‘The Battle ofParnassus,’ as described by Pausanias. His reasons for this choice were basedupon the legend related by Pausanias, viz., that in the second century B.C. theMuses from Parnassus aided the combined Greek armies against the destructiveinvasion of the Gauls by provoking a panic among the latter. I actually beganmy heroic poem in hexameter verse, but could not get through the first canto.
Not being far enough advanced in the language to understand the Greek tragediesthoroughly in the original, my own attempts to construct a tragedy in the Greekform were greatly influenced by the fact that quite by accident I came acrossAugust Apel’s clever imitation of this style in his striking poems ‘Polyidos’and ‘Aitolier.’ For my theme I selected the death of Ulysses, from a fable ofHyginus, according to which the aged hero is killed by his son, the offspringof his union with Calypso. But I did not get very far with this work either,before I gave it up.
My mind became so bent upon this sort of thing, that duller studies naturallyceased to interest me. The mythology, legends, and, at last, the history ofGreece alone attracted me.
I was fond of life, merry with my companions, and always ready for a joke or anadventure. Moreover, I was constantly forming friendships, almost passionate intheir ardour, with one or the other of my comrades, and in choosing myassociates I was mainly influenced by the extent to which my new acquaintanceappealed to my eccentric imagination. At one time it would be poetising andversifying that decided my choice of a friend; at another, theatricalenterprises, while now and then it would be a longing for rambling andmischief.
Furthermore, when I reached my thirteenth year, a great change came over ourfamily affairs. My sister Rosalie, who had become the chief support of ourhousehold, obtained an advantageous engagement at the theatre in Prague,whither mother and children removed in 1820, thus giving up the Dresden homealtogether. I was left behind in Dresden, so that I might continue to attendthe Kreuz Grammar School until I was ready to go up to the university. I wastherefore sent to board and lodge with a family named Bohme, whose sons I hadknown at school, and in whose house I already felt quite at home. With myresidence in this somewhat rough, poor, and not particularly well-conductedfamily, my years of dissipation began. I no longer enjoyed the quiet retirementnecessary for work, nor the gentle, spiritual influence of my sisters’companionship. On the contrary, I was plunged into a busy, restless life, fullof rough horseplay and of quarrels. Nevertheless, it was there that I began toexperience the influence of the gentler sex in a manner hitherto unknown to me,as the grown-up daughters of the family and their friends often filled thescanty and narrow rooms of the house. Indeed, my first recollections of boyishlove date from this period. I remember a very beautiful young girl, whose name,if I am not mistaken, was Amalie Hoffmann, coming to call at the house oneSunday. She was charmingly dressed, and her appearance as she came into theroom literally struck me dumb with amazement. On other occasions I recollectpretending to be too helplessly sleepy to move, so that I might be carried upto bed by the girls, that being, as they thought, the only remedy for mycondition. And I repeated this, because I found, to my surprise, that theirattention under these circumstances brought me into closer and more gratifyingproximity with them.
The most important event during this year of separation from my family was,however, a short visit I paid to them in Prague. In the middle of the winter mymother came to Dresden, and took me hack with her to Prague for a week. Her wayof travelling was quite unique. To the end of her days she preferred the moredangerous mode of travelling in a hackney carriage to the quicker journey bymail-coach, so that we spent three whole days in the bitter cold on the roadfrom Dresden to Prague. The journey over the Bohemian mountains often seemed tobe beset with the greatest dangers, but happily we survived our thrillingadventures and at last arrived in Prague, where I was suddenly plunged intoentirely new surroundings.
For a long time the thought of leaving Saxony on another visit to Bohemia, andespecially Prague, had had quite a romantic attraction for me. The foreignnationality, the broken German of the people, the peculiar headgear of thewomen, the native wines, the harp-girls and musicians, and finally, the everpresent signs of Catholicism, its numerous chapels and shrines, all produced onme a strangely exhilarating impression. This was probably due to my craze foreverything theatrical and spectacular, as distinguished from simple bourgeoiscustoms. Above all, the antique splendour and beauty of the incomparable cityof Prague became indelibly stamped on my fancy. Even in my own familysurroundings I found attractions to which I had hitherto been a stranger. Forinstance, my sister Ottilie, only two years older than myself, had won thedevoted friendship of a noble family, that of Count Pachta, two of whosedaughters, Jenny and Auguste, who had long been famed as the leading beautiesof Prague, had become fondly attached to her. To me, such people and such aconnection were something quite novel and enchanting. Besides these, certainbeaux esprits of Prague, among them W. Marsano, a strikingly handsome andcharming man, were frequent visitors at our house. They often earnestlydiscussed the tales of Hoffmann, which at that date were comparatively new, andhad created some sensation. It was now that I made my first though rathersuperficial acquaintance with this romantic visionary, and so received astimulus which influenced me for many years even to the point of infatuation,and gave me very peculiar ideas of the world.
In the following spring, 1827, I repeated this journey from Dresden to Prague,but this time on foot, and accompanied by my friend Rudolf Bohme. Our tour wasfull of adventure. We got to within an hour of Teplitz the first night, andnext day we had to get a lift in a wagon, as we had walked our feet sore; yetthis only took us as far as Lowositz, as our funds had quite run out. Under ascorching sun, hungry and half-fainting, we wandered along bypaths throughabsolutely unknown country, until at sundown we happened to reach the main roadjust as an elegant travelling coach came in sight. I humbled my pride so far asto pretend I was a travelling journeyman, and begged the distinguishedtravellers for alms, while my friend timidly hid himself in the ditch by theroadside. Luckily we decided to seek shelter for the night in an inn, where wetook counsel whether we should spend the alms just received on a supper or abed. We decided for the supper, proposing to spend the night under the opensky. While we were refreshing ourselves, a strange-looking wayfarer entered. Hewore a black velvet skull-cap, to which a metal lyre was attached like acockade, and on his back he bore a harp. Very cheerfully he set down hisinstrument, made himself comfortable, and called for a good meal. He intendedto stay the night, and to continue his way next day to Prague, where he lived,and whither he was returning from Hanover.
My good spirits and courage were stimulated by the jovial manners of this merryfellow, who constantly repeated his favourite motto, ‘non plus ultra.’ We soonstruck up an acquaintance, and in return for my confidence, the strollingplayer’s attitude to me was one of almost touching sympathy. It was agreed thatwe should continue our journey together next day on foot. He lent me twotwenty-kreutzer pieces (about ninepence), and allowed me to write my Pragueaddress in his pocket-book. I was highly delighted at this personal success. Myharpist grew extravagantly merry; a good deal of Czernosek wine was drunk; hesang and played on his harp like a madman, continually reiterating his ‘nonplus ultra’ till at last, overcome with wine, he fell down on the straw, whichhad been spread out on the floor for our common bed. When the sun once morepeeped in, we could not rouse him, and we had to make up our minds to set offin the freshness of the early morning without him, feeling convinced that thesturdy fellow would overtake us during the day. But it was in vain that welooked out for him on the road and during our subsequent stay in Prague.Indeed, it was not until several weeks later that the extraordinary fellowturned up at my mother’s, not so much to collect payment of his loan, as toinquire about the welfare of the young friend to whom that loan had been made.
The remainder of our journey was very fatiguing, and the joy I felt when I atlast beheld Prague from the summit of a hill, at about an hour’s distance,simply beggars description. Approaching the suburbs, we were for the secondtime met by a splendid carriage, from which my sister Ottilie’s two lovelyfriends called out to me in astonishment. They had recognised me immediately,in spite of my terribly sunburnt face, blue linen blouse, and bright red cottoncap. Overwhelmed with shame, and with my heart beating like mad, I could hardlyutter a word, and hurried away to my mother’s to attend at once to therestoration of my sunburnt complexion. To this task I devoted two whole days,during which I swathed my face in parsley poultices; and not till then did Iseek the pleasures of society. When, on the return journey, I looked back oncemore on Prague from the same hilltop, I burst into tears, flung myself on theearth, and for a long time could not be induced by my astonished companion topursue the journey. I was downcast for the rest of the way, and we arrived homein Dresden without any further adventures.
During the same year I again gratified my fancy for long excursions on foot byjoining a numerous company of grammar school boys, consisting of pupils ofseveral classes and of various ages, who had decided to spend their summerholidays in a tour to Leipzig. This journey also stands out among the memoriesof my youth, by reason of the strong impressions it left behind. Thecharacteristic feature of our party was that we all aped the student, bybehaving and dressing extravagantly in the most approved student fashion. Aftergoing as far as Meissen on the market-boat, our path lay off the main road,through villages with which I was as yet unfamiliar. We spent the night in thevast barn of a village inn, and our adventures were of the wildest description.There we saw a large marionette show, with almost life-sized figures. Ourentire party settled themselves in the auditorium, where their presence was asource of some anxiety to the managers, who had only reckoned on an audience ofpeasants. Genovefa was the play given. The ceaseless silly jests, and constantinterpolations and jeering interruptions, in which our corps of embryo-studentsindulged, finally aroused the anger even of the peasants, who had come preparedto weep. I believe I was the only one of our party who was pained by theseimpertinences, and in spite of involuntary laughter at some of my comrades’jokes, I not only defended the play itself, but also its original,simple-minded audience. A popular catch-phrase which occurred in the piece hasever since remained stamped on my memory. ‘Golo’ instructs the inevitableKaspar that, when the Count Palatine returns home, he must ‘tickle him behind,so that he should feel it in front’ (hinten zu kitzeln, dass er es vornefuhle). Kaspar conveys Golo’s order verbatim to the Count, and the latterreproaches the unmasked rogue in the following terms, uttered with the greatestpathos: ‘O Golo, Golo! thou hast told Kaspar to tickle me behind, so that Ishall feel it in front!’
From Grimma our party rode into Leipzig in open carriages, but not until we hadfirst carefully removed all the outward emblems of the undergraduate, lest thelocal students we were likely to meet might make us rue our presumption.
Since my first visit, when I was eight years old, I had only once returned toLeipzig, and then for a very brief stay, and under circumstances very similarto those of the earlier visit. I now renewed my fantastic impressions of theThome house, but this time, owing to my more advanced education, I lookedforward to more intelligent intercourse with my uncle Adolph. An opening forthis was soon provided by my joyous astonishment on learning that a bookcase inthe large anteroom, containing a goodly collection of books, was my property,having been left me by my father. I went through the books with my uncle,selected at once a number of Latin authors in the handsome Zweibruck edition,along with sundry attractive looking works of poetry and belles-lettres, andarranged for them to be sent to Dresden. During this visit I was very muchinterested in the life of the students. In addition to my impressions of thetheatre and of Prague, now came those of the so-called swaggeringundergraduate. A great change had taken place in this class. When, as a lad ofeight, I had my first glimpse of students, their long hair, their old Germancostume with the black velvet skull-cap and the shirt collar turned back fromthe bare neck, had quite taken my fancy. But since that time the old student‘associations’ which affected this fashion had disappeared in the face ofpolice prosecutions. On the other hand, the national student clubs, no lesspeculiar to Germans, had become conspicuous. These clubs adopted, more or less,the fashion of the day, but with some little exaggeration. Albeit, their dresswas clearly distinguishable from that of other classes, owing to itspicturesqueness, and especially its display of the various club-colours. The‘Comment,’ that compendium of pedantic rules of conduct for the preservation ofa defiant and exclusive esprit de corps, as opposed to the bourgeois classes,had its fantastic side, just as the most philistine peculiarities of theGermans have, if you probe them deeply enough. To me it represented the idea ofemancipation from the yoke of school and family. The longing to become astudent coincided unfortunately with my growing dislike for drier studies andwith my ever-increasing fondness for cultivating romantic poetry. The resultsof this soon showed themselves in my resolute attempts to make a change.
At the time of my confirmation, at Easter, 1827, I had considerable doubt aboutthis ceremony, and I already felt a serious falling off of my reverence forreligious observances. The boy who, not many years before, had gazed withagonised sympathy on the altarpiece in the Kreuz Kirche (Church of the HolyCross), and had yearned with ecstatic fervour to hang upon the Cross in placeof the Saviour, had now so far lost his veneration for the clergyman, whosepreparatory confirmation classes he attended, as to be quite ready to make funof him, and even to join with his comrades in withholding part of his classfees, and spending the money in sweets. How matters stood with me spirituallywas revealed to me, almost to my horror, at the Communion service, when Iwalked in procession with my fellow-communicants to the altar to the sound oforgan and choir. The shudder with which I received the Bread and Wine was soineffaceably stamped on my memory, that I never again partook of the Communion,lest I should do so with levity. To avoid this was all the easier for me,seeing that among Protestants such participation is not compulsory.
I soon, however, seized, or rather created, an opportunity of forcing a breachwith the Kreuz Grammar School, and thus compelled my family to let me go toLeipzig. In self-defence against what I considered an unjust punishment withwhich I was threatened by the assistant headmaster, Baumgarten-Crusius, forwhom I otherwise had great respect, I asked to be discharged immediately fromthe school on the ground of sudden summons to join my family in Leipzig. I hadalready left the Bohme household three months before, and now lived alone in asmall garret, where I was waited on by the widow of a court plate-washer, whoat every meal served up the familiar thin Saxon coffee as almost my solenourishment. In this attic I did little else but write verses. Here, too, Iformed the first outlines of that stupendous tragedy which afterwards filled myfamily with such consternation. The irregular habits I acquired through thispremature domestic independence induced my anxious mother to consent veryreadily to my removal to Leipzig, the more so as a part of our scattered familyhad already migrated there.
My longing for Leipzig, originally aroused by the fantastic impressions I hadgained there, and later by my enthusiasm for a student’s life, had recentlybeen still further stimulated. I had seen scarcely anything of my sisterLouisa, at that time a girl of about twenty-two, as she had gone to the theatreof Breslau shortly after our stepfather’s death. Quite recently she had been inDresden for a few days on her way to Leipzig, having accepted an engagement atthe theatre there. This meeting with my almost unknown sister, her heartymanifestations of joy at seeing me again, as well as her sprightly, merrydisposition, quite won my heart. To live with her seemed an alluring prospect,especially as my mother and Ottilie had joined her for a while. For the firsttime a sister had treated me with some tenderness. When at last I reachedLeipzig at Christmas in the same year (1827), and there found my mother withOttilie and Cecilia (my half-sister), I fancied myself in heaven. Greatchanges, however, had already taken place. Louisa was betrothed to a respectedand well-to-do bookseller, Friedrich Brockhaus. This gathering together of therelatives of the penniless bride-elect did not seem to trouble her remarkablykind-hearted fiance. But my sister may have become uneasy on the subject, forshe soon gave me to understand that she was not taking it quite in good part.Her desire to secure an entree into the higher social circles of bourgeois lifenaturally produced a marked change in her manner, at one time so full of fun,and of this I gradually became so keenly sensible that finally we wereestranged for a time. Moreover, I unfortunately gave her good cause to reprovemy conduct. After I got to Leipzig I quite gave up my studies and all regularschool work, probably owing to the arbitrary and pedantic system in vogue atthe school there.
In Leipzig there were two higher-class schools, one called St. Thomas’s School,and the other, and the more modern, St. Nicholas’s School. The latter at thattime enjoyed a better reputation than the former; so there I had to go. But thecouncil of teachers before whom I appeared for my entrance examination at theNew Year (1828) thought fit to maintain the dignity of their school by placingme for a time in the upper third form, whereas at the Kreuz Grammar School inDresden I had been in the second form. My disgust at having to lay aside myHomer—from which I had already made written translations of twelve songs—andtake up the lighter Greek prose writers was indescribable. It hurt my feelingsso deeply, and so influenced my behaviour, that I never made a friend of anyteacher in the school. The unsympathetic treatment I met with made me all themore obstinate, and various other circumstances in my position only added tothis feeling. While student life, as I saw it day by day, inspired me ever moreand more with its rebellious spirit, I unexpectedly met with another cause fordespising the dry monotony of school regime. I refer to the influence of myuncle, Adolph Wagner, which, though he was long unconscious of it, went a longway towards moulding the growing stripling that I then was.
The fact that my romantic tastes were not based solely on a tendency tosuperficial amusement was shown by my ardent attachment to this learnedrelative. In his manner and conversation he was certainly very attractive; themany-sidedness of his knowledge, which embraced not only philology but alsophilosophy and general poetic literature, rendered intercourse with him a mostentertaining pastime, as all those who knew him used to admit. On the otherhand, the fact that he was denied the gift of writing with equal charm, orclearness, was a singular defect which seriously lessened his influence uponthe literary world, and, in fact, often made him appear ridiculous, as in awritten argument he would perpetrate the most pompous and involved sentences.This weakness could not have alarmed me, because in the hazy period of my youththe more incomprehensible any literary extravagance was, the more I admired it;besides which, I had more experience of his conversation than of his writings.He also seemed to find pleasure in associating with the lad who could listenwith so much heart and soul. Yet unfortunately, possibly in the fervour of hisdiscourses, of which he was not a little proud, he forgot that their substance,as well as their form, was far above my youthful powers of comprehension. Icalled daily to accompany him on his constitutional walk beyond the city gates,and I shrewdly suspect that we often provoked the smiles of those passers-bywho overheard the profound and often earnest discussions between us. Thesubjects generally ranged over everything serious or sublime throughout thewhole realm of knowledge. I took the most enthusiastic interest in his copiouslibrary, and tasted eagerly of almost all branches of literature, withoutreally grounding myself in any one of them.
My uncle was delighted to find in me a very willing listener to his recital ofclassic tragedies. He had made a translation of Oedipus, and, according to hisintimate friend Tieck, justly flattered himself on being an excellent reader.
I remember once, when he was sitting at his desk reading out a Greek tragedy tome, it did not annoy him when I fell fast asleep, and he afterwards pretendedhe had not noticed it. I was also induced to spend my evenings with him, owingto the friendly and genial hospitality his wife showed me. A very great changehad come over my uncle’s life since my first acquaintance with him at JeannetteThome’s. The home which he, together with his sister Friederike, had found inhis friend’s house seemed, as time went on, to have brought in its train dutiesthat were irksome. As his literary work assured him a modest income, heeventually deemed it more in accordance with his dignity to make a home of hisown. A friend of his, of the same age as himself, the sister of the aestheteWendt of Leipzig, who afterwards became famous, was chosen by him to keep housefor him. Without saying a word to Jeannette, instead of going for his usualafternoon walk he went to the church with his chosen bride, and got through themarriage ceremonies as quickly as possible; and it was only on his return thathe informed us he was leaving, and would have his things removed that very day.He managed to meet the consternation, perhaps also the reproaches, of hiselderly friend with quiet composure; and to the end of his life he continuedhis regular daily visits to ‘Mam’selle Thome,’ who at times would coyly pretendto sulk. It was only poor Friederike who seemed obliged at times to atone forher brother’s sudden unfaithfulness.
What attracted me in my uncle most strongly was his blunt contempt of themodern pedantry in State, Church, and School, to which he gave vent with somehumour. Despite the great moderation of his usual views on life, he yetproduced on me the effect of a thorough free-thinker. I was highly delighted byhis contempt for the pedantry of the schools. Once, when I had come intoserious conflict with all the teachers of the Nicolai School, and the rector ofthe school had approached my uncle, as the only male representative of myfamily, with a serious complaint about my behaviour, my uncle asked me during astroll round the town, with a calm smile as though he were speaking to one ofhis own age, what I had been up to with the people at school. I explained thewhole affair to him, and described the punishment to which I had beensubjected, and which seemed to me unjust. He pacified me, and exhorted me to bepatient, telling me to comfort myself with the Spanish proverb, un rey no puedemorir, which he explained as meaning that the ruler of a school must ofnecessity always be in the right.
He could not, of course, help noticing, to his alarm, the effect upon me ofthis kind of conversation, which I was far too young to appreciate. Although itannoyed me one day, when I wanted to begin reading Goethe’s Faust, to hear himsay quietly that I was too young to understand it, yet, according to mythinking, his other conversations about our own great poets, and even aboutShakespeare and Dante, had made me so familiar with these sublime figures thatI had now for some time been secretly busy working out the great tragedy I hadalready conceived in Dresden. Since my trouble at school I had devoted all myenergies, which ought by rights to have been exclusively directed to my schoolduties, to the accomplishment of this task. In this secret work I had only oneconfidante, my sister Ottilie, who now lived with me at my mother’s. I canremember the misgivings and alarm which the first confidential communication ofmy great poetic enterprise aroused in my good sister; yet she affectionatelysuffered the tortures I sometimes inflicted on her by reciting to her insecret, but not without emotion, portions of my work as it progressed. Once,when I was reciting to her one of the most gruesome scenes, a heavythunderstorm came on. When the lightning flashed quite close to us, and thethunder rolled, my sister felt bound to implore me to stop; but she soon foundit was hopeless, and continued to endure it with touching devotion.
But a more significant storm was brewing on the horizon of my life. My neglectof school reached such a point that it could not but lead to a rupture. Whilstmy dear mother had no presentiment of this, I awaited the catastrophe withlonging rather than with fear.
In order to meet this crisis with dignity I at length decided to surprise myfamily by disclosing to them the secret of my tragedy, which was now completed.They were to be informed of this great event by my uncle. I thought I couldrely upon his hearty recognition of my vocation as a great poet on account ofthe deep harmony between us on all other questions of life, science, and art. Itherefore sent him my voluminous manuscript, with a long letter which I thoughtwould please him immensely. In this I communicated to him first my ideas withregard to the St. Nicholas’s School, and then my firm determination from thattime forward not to allow any mere school pedantry to check my freedevelopment. But the event turned out very different from what I had expected.It was a great shock to them. My uncle, quite conscious that he had beenindiscreet, paid a visit to my mother and brother-in-law, in order to reportthe misfortune that had befallen the family, reproaching himself for the factthat his influence over me had not always, perhaps, been for my good. To me hewrote a serious letter of discouragement; and to this day I cannot understandwhy he showed so small a sense of humour in understanding my bad behaviour. Tomy surprise he merely said that he reproached himself for having corrupted meby conversations unsuited to my years, but he made no attempt to explain to megood-naturedly the error of my ways.
The crime this boy of fifteen had committed was, as I said before, to havewritten a great tragedy, entitled Leubald und Adelaïde.
The manuscript of this drama has unfortunately been lost, but I can still seeit clearly in my mind’s eye. The handwriting was most affected, and thebackward-sloping tall letters with which I had aimed at giving it an air ofdistinction had already been compared by one of my teachers to Persianhieroglyphics. In this composition I had constructed a drama in which I haddrawn largely upon Shakespeare’s Hamlet, King Lear, and Macbeth, and Goethe’sGötz van Berlichingen. The plot was really based on a modification of Hamlet,the difference consisting in the fact that my hero is so completely carriedaway by the appearance of the ghost of his father, who has been murdered undersimilar circumstances, and demands vengeance, that he is driven to fearfuldeeds of violence; and, with a series of murders on his conscience, heeventually goes mad. Leubald, whose character is a mixture of Hamlet and HarryHotspur, had promised his father’s ghost to wipe from the face of the earth thewhole race of Roderick, as the ruthless murderer of the best of fathers wasnamed. After having slain Roderick himself in mortal combat, and subsequentlyall his sons and other relations who supported him, there was only one obstaclethat prevented Leubald from fulfilling the dearest wish of his heart, which wasto be united in death with the shade of his father: a child of Roderick’s wasstill alive. During the storming of his castle the murderer’s daughter had beencarried away into safety by a faithful suitor, whom she, however, detested. Ihad an irresistible impulse to call this maiden ‘Adelaïde.’ As even at thatearly age I was a great enthusiast for everything really German, I can onlyaccount for the obviously un-German name of my heroine by my infatuation forBeethoven’s Adelaïde, whose tender refrain seemed to me the symbol of allloving appeals. The course of my drama was now characterised by the strangedelays which took place in the accomplishment of this last murder of vengeance,the chief obstacle to which lay in the sudden passionate love which arosebetween Leubald and Adelaïde. I succeeded in representing the birth and avowalof this love by means of extraordinary adventures. Adelaïde was once morestolen away by a robber-knight from the lover who had been sheltering her.After Leubald had thereupon sacrificed the lover and all his relations, hehastened to the robber’s castle, driven thither less by a thirst for blood thanby a longing for death. For this reason he regrets his inability to storm therobber’s castle forthwith, because it is well defended, and, moreover, night isfast falling; he is therefore obliged to pitch his tent. After raving for awhile he sinks down for the first time exhausted, but being urged, like hisprototype Hamlet, by the spirit of his father to complete his vow of vengeance,he himself suddenly falls into the power of the enemy during a night assault.In the subterranean dungeons of the castle he meets Roderick’s daughter for thefirst time. She is a prisoner like himself, and is craftily devising flight.Under circumstances in which she produces on him the impression of a heavenlyvision, she makes her appearance before him. They fall in love, and flytogether into the wilderness, where they realise that they are deadly enemies.The incipient insanity which was already noticeable in Leubald breaks out moreviolently after this discovery, and everything that can be done to intensify itis contributed by the ghost of his father, which continually comes between theadvances of the lovers. But this ghost is not the only disturber of theconciliating love of Leubald and Adelaïde. The ghost of Roderick also appears,and according to the method followed by Shakespeare in Richard III., he isjoined by the ghosts of all the other members of Adelaïde’s family whom Leubaldhas slain. From the incessant importunities of these ghosts Leubald seeks tofree himself by means of sorcery, and calls to his aid a rascal named Flamming.One of Macbeth’s witches is summoned to lay the ghosts; as she is unable to dothis efficiently, the furious Leubald sends her also to the devil; but with herdying breath she despatches the whole crowd of spirits who serve her to jointhe ghosts of those already pursuing him. Leubald, tormented beyond endurance,and now at last raving mad, turns against his beloved, who is the apparentcause of all his misery. He stabs her in his fury; then finding himselfsuddenly at peace, he sinks his head into her lap, and accepts her lastcaresses as her life-blood streams over his own dying body.
I had not omitted the smallest detail that could give this plot its propercolouring, and had drawn on all my knowledge of the tales of the old knights,and my acquaintance with Lear and Macbeth, to furnish my drama with the mostvivid situations. But one of the chief characteristics of its poetical form Itook from the pathetic, humorous, and powerful language of Shakespeare. Theboldness of my grandiloquent and bombastic expressions roused my uncle Adolph’salarm and astonishment. He was unable to understand how I could have selectedand used with inconceivable exaggeration precisely the most extravagant formsof speech to be found in Lear and Götz von Berlichingen. Nevertheless, evenafter everybody had deafened me with their laments over my lost time andperverted talents, I was still conscious of a wonderful secret solace in theface of the calamity that had befallen me. I knew, a fact that no one elsecould know, namely, that my work could only be rightly judged when set to themusic which I had resolved to write for it, and which I intended to startcomposing immediately.
I must now explain my position with respect to music hitherto. For this purposeI must go back to my earliest attempts in the art. In my family two of mysisters were musical; the elder one, Rosalie, played the piano, without,however, displaying any marked talent. Clara was more gifted; in addition to agreat deal of musical feeling, and a fine rich touch on the piano, shepossessed a particularly sympathetic voice, the development of which was sopremature and remarkable that, under the tuition of Mieksch, her singingmaster, who was famous at that time, she was apparently ready for the role of aprima donna as early as her sixteenth year, and made her debut at Dresden inItalian opera as ‘Cenerentola’ in Rossini’s opera of that name. Incidentally Imay remark that this premature development proved injurious to Clara’s voice,and was detrimental to her whole career. As I have said, music was representedin our family by these two sisters. It was chiefly owing to Clara’s career thatthe musical conductor C. M. von Weber often came to our house. His visits werevaried by those of the great male-soprano Sassaroli; and in addition to thesetwo representatives of German and Italian music, we also had the company ofMieksch, her singing master. It was on these occasions that I as a child firstheard German and Italian music discussed, and learnt that any one who wished toingratiate himself with the Court must show a preference for Italian music, afact which led to very practical results in our family council. Clara’s talent,while her voice was still sound, was the object of competition between therepresentatives of Italian and German opera. I can remember quite distinctlythat from the very beginning I declared myself in favour of German opera; mychoice was determined by the tremendous impression made on me by the twofigures of Sassaroli and Weber. The Italian male-soprano, a huge pot-belliedgiant, horrified me with his high effeminate voice, his astonishing volubility,and his incessant screeching laughter. In spite of his boundless good-natureand amiability, particularly to my family, I took an uncanny dislike to him. Onaccount of this dreadful person, the sound of Italian, either spoken or sung,seemed to my ears almost diabolical; and when, in consequence of my poorsister’s misfortune, I heard them often talking about Italian intrigues andcabals, I conceived so strong a dislike for everything connected with thisnation that even in much later years I used to feel myself carried away by animpulse of utter detestation and abhorrence.
The less frequent visits of Weber, on the other hand, seemed to have producedupon me those first sympathetic impressions which I have never since lost. Incontrast to Sassaroli’s repulsive figure, Weber’s really refined, delicate, andintellectual appearance excited my ecstatic admiration. His narrow face andfinely-cut features, his vivacious though often half-closed eyes, captivatedand thrilled me; whilst even the bad limp with which he walked, and which Ioften noticed from our windows when the master was making his way home past ourhouse from the fatiguing rehearsals, stamped the great musician in myimagination as an exceptional and almost superhuman being. When, as a boy ofnine, my mother introduced me to him, and he asked me what I was going to be,whether I wanted perhaps to be a musician, my mother told him that, though Iwas indeed quite mad on Freischutz, yet she had as yet seen nothing in me whichindicated any musical talent.
This showed correct observation on my mother’s part; nothing had made so greatan impression on me as the music of Freischutz, and I tried in every possibleway to procure a repetition of the impressions I had received from it, but,strange to say, least of all by the study of music itself. Instead of this, Icontented myself with hearing bits from Freischutz played by my sisters. Yet mypassion for it gradually grew so strong that I can remember taking a particularfancy for a young man called Spiess, chiefly because he could play the overtureto Freischutz, which I used to ask him to do whenever I met him. It was chieflythe introduction to this overture which at last led me to attempt, without everhaving received any instruction on the piano, to play this piece in my ownpeculiar way, for, oddly enough, I was the only child in our family who had notbeen given music lessons. This was probably due to my mother’s anxiety to keepme away from any artistic interests of this kind in case they might arouse inme a longing for the theatre.
When I was about twelve years old, however, my mother engaged a tutor for menamed Humann, from whom I received regular music lessons, though only of a verymediocre description. As soon as I had acquired a very imperfect knowledge offingering I begged to be allowed to play overtures in the form of duets, alwayskeeping Weber as the goal of my ambition. When at length I had got so far as tobe able to play the overture to Freischutz myself, though in a very faultymanner, I felt the object of my study had been attained, and I had noinclination to devote any further attention to perfecting my technique.
Yet I had attained this much: I was no longer dependent for music on theplaying of others; from this time forth I used to try and play, albeit veryimperfectly, everything I wanted to know. I also tried Mozart’s Don Juan, butwas unable to get any pleasure out of it, mainly because the Italian text inthe arrangement for the piano placed the music in a frivolous light in my eyes,and much in it seemed to me trivial and unmanly. (I can remember that when mysister used to sing Zerlinen’s ariette, Batti, batti, ben Masetto, the musicrepelled me, as it seemed so mawkish and effeminate.)
On the other hand, my bent for music grew stronger and stronger, and I nowtried to possess myself of my favourite pieces by making my own copies. I canremember the hesitation with which my mother for the first time gave me themoney to buy the scored paper on which I copied out Weber’s Lutzow’s Jagd,which was the first piece of music I transcribed.
Music was still a secondary occupation with me when the news of Weber’s deathand the longing to learn his music to Oberon fanned my enthusiasm into flameagain. This received fresh impetus from the afternoon concerts in the GrosserGarten at Dresden, where I often heard my favourite music played by Zillmann’sTown Band, as I thought, exceedingly well. The mysterious joy I felt in hearingan orchestra play quite close to me still remains one of my most pleasantmemories. The mere tuning up of the instruments put me in a state of mysticexcitement; even the striking of fifths on the violin seemed to me like agreeting from the spirit world—which, I may mention incidentally, had a veryreal meaning for me. When I was still almost a baby, the sound of these fifths,which has always excited me, was closely associated in my mind with ghosts andspirits. I remember that even much later in life I could never pass the smallpalace of Prince Anthony, at the end of the Ostra Allee in Dresden, without ashudder; for it was there I had first heard the sound of a violin, a verycommon experience to me afterwards. It was close by me, and seemed to my earsto come from the stone figures with which this palace is adorned, some of whichare provided with musical instruments. When I took up my post as musicalconductor at Dresden, and had to pay my official visit to Morgenroth, thePresident of the Concert Committee, an elderly gentleman who lived for manyyears opposite that princely palace, it seemed odd to find that the player offifths who had so strongly impressed my musical fancy as a boy was anything buta supernatural spectre. And when I saw the well-known picture in which askeleton plays on his violin to an old man on his deathbed, the ghostlycharacter of those very notes impressed itself with particular force upon mychildish imagination. When at last, as a young man, I used to listen to theZillmann Orchestra in the Grosser Garten almost every afternoon, one mayimagine the rapturous thrill with which I drew in all the chaotic variety ofsound that I heard as the orchestra tuned up: the long drawn A of the oboe,which seemed like a call from the dead to rouse the other instruments, neverfailed to raise all my nerves to a feverish pitch of tension, and when theswelling C in the overture to Freischutz told me that I had stepped, as it werewith both feet, right into the magic realm of awe. Any one who had beenwatching me at that moment could hardly have failed to see the state I was in,and this in spite of the fact that I was such a bad performer on the piano.
Another work also exercised a great fascination over me, namely, the overtureto Fidelio in E major, the introduction to which affected me deeply. I asked mysisters about Beethoven, and learned that the news of his death had justarrived. Obsessed as I still was by the terrible grief caused by Weber’s death,this fresh loss, due to the decease of this great master of melody, who hadonly just entered my life, filled me with strange anguish, a feeling nearlyakin to my childish dread of the ghostly fifths on the violin. It was nowBeethoven’s music that I longed to know more thoroughly; I came to Leipzig, andfound his music to Egmont on the piano at my sister Louisa’s. After that Itried to get hold of his sonatas. At last, at a concert at the Gewandthaus, Iheard one of the master’s symphonies for the first time; it was the Symphony inA major. The effect on me was indescribable. To this must be added theimpression produced on me by Beethoven’s features, which I saw in thelithographs that were circulated everywhere at that time, and by the fact thathe was deaf, and lived a quiet secluded life. I soon conceived an image of himin my mind as a sublime and unique supernatural being, with whom none couldcompare. This image was associated in my brain with that of Shakespeare; inecstatic dreams I met both of them, saw and spoke to them, and on awakeningfound myself bathed in tears.
It was at this time that I came across Mozart’s Requiem, which formed thestarting-point of my enthusiastic absorption in the works of that master. Hissecond finale to Don Juan inspired me to include him in my spirit world.
I was now filled with a desire to compose, as I had before been to write verse.I had, however, in this case to master the technique of an entirely separateand complicated subject. This presented greater difficulties than I had metwith in writing verse, which came to me fairly easily. It was thesedifficulties that drove me to adopt a career which bore some resemblance tothat of a professional musician, whose future distinction would be to win thetitles of Conductor and Writer of Opera.
I now wanted to set Leubald und Adelaïde to music, similar to that whichBeethoven wrote to Goethe’s Egmont; the various ghosts from the spirit world,who were each to display different characteristics, were to borrow their owndistinctive colouring from appropriate musical accompaniment. In order toacquire the necessary technique of composition quickly I studied Logier’sMethode des Generalbasses, a work which was specially recommended to me at amusical lending library as a suitable text-book from which this art might beeasily mastered. I have distinct recollections that the financial difficultieswith which I was continually harassed throughout my life began at this time. Iborrowed Logier’s book on the weekly payment system, in the fond hope of havingto pay for it only during a few weeks out of the savings of my weeklypocket-money. But the weeks ran on into months, and I was still unable tocompose as well as I wished. Mr. Frederick Wieck, whose daughter afterwardsmarried Robert Schumann, was at that time the proprietor of that lendinglibrary. He kept sending me troublesome reminders of the debt I owed him; andwhen my bill had almost reached the price of Logier’s book I had to make aclean breast of the matter to my family, who thus not only learnt of myfinancial difficulties in general, but also of my latest transgression into thedomain of music, from which, of course, at the very most, they expected nothingbetter than a repetition of Leubald und Adelaïde.
There was great consternation at home; my mother, sister, and brother-in-law,with anxious faces, discussed how my studies should be superintended in future,to prevent my having any further opportunity for transgressing in this way. Noone, however, yet knew the real state of affairs at school, and they hoped Iwould soon see the error of my ways in this case as I had in my former crazefor poetry.
But other domestic changes were taking place which necessitated my being forsome little time alone in our house at Leipzig during the summer of 1829, whenI was left entirely to my own devices. It was during this period that mypassion for music rose to an extraordinary degree. I had secretly been takinglessons in harmony from G. Muller, afterwards organist at Altenburg, anexcellent musician belonging to the Leipzig orchestra. Although the payment ofthese lessons was also destined to get me into hot water at home later on, Icould not even make up to my teacher for the delay in the payment of his feesby giving him the pleasure of watching me improve in my studies. His teachingand exercises soon filled me with the greatest disgust, as to my mind it allseemed so dry. For me music was a spirit, a noble and mystic monster, and anyattempt to regulate it seemed to lower it in my eyes. I gathered much morecongenial instruction about it from Hoffmann’s Phantasiestucken than from myLeipzig orchestra player; and now came the time when I really lived andbreathed in Hoffmann’s artistic atmosphere of ghosts and spirits. With my headquite full of Kreissler, Krespel, and other musical spectres from my favouriteauthor, I imagined that I had at last found in real life a creature whoresembled them: this ideal musician in whom for a time I fancied I haddiscovered a second Kreissler was a man called Flachs. He was a tall,exceedingly thin man, with a very narrow head and an extraordinary way ofwalking, moving, and speaking, whom I had seen at all those open-air concertswhich formed my principal source of musical education. He was always with themembers of the orchestra, speaking exceedingly quickly, first to one and thenthe other; for they all knew him, and seemed to like him. The fact that theywere making fun of him I only learned, to my great confusion, much later. Iremember having noticed this strange figure from my earliest days in Dresden,and I gathered from the conversations which I overheard that he was indeed wellknown to all Dresden musicians. This circumstance alone was sufficient to makeme take a great interest in him; but the point about him which attracted memore than anything was the manner in which he listened to the various items inthe programme: he used to give peculiar, convulsive nods of his head, and blowout his cheeks as though with sighs. All this I regarded as a sign of spiritualecstasy. I noticed, moreover, that he was quite alone, that he belonged to noparty, and paid no attention to anything in the garden save the music;whereupon my identification of this curious being with the conductor Kreisslerseemed quite natural. I was determined to make his acquaintance, and Isucceeded in doing so. Who shall describe my delight when, on going to call onhim at his rooms for the first time, I found innumerable bundles of scores! Ihad as yet never seen a score. It is true I discovered, to my regret, that hepossessed nothing either by Beethoven, Mozart, or Weber; in fact, nothing butimmense quantities of works, masses, and cantatas by composers such asStaerkel, Stamitz, Steibelt, etc., all of whom were entirely unknown to me. YetFlachs was able to tell me so much that was good about them that the respectwhich I felt for scores in general helped me to overcome my regret at notfinding anything by my beloved masters. It is true I learnt later that poorFlachs had only come into the possession of these particular scores throughunscrupulous dealers, who had traded on his weakness of intellect and palmedoff this worthless music on him for large sums of money. At all events, theywere scores, and that was quite enough for me. Flachs and I became mostintimate; we were always seen going about together—I, a lanky boy of sixteen,and this weird, shaky flaxpole. The doors of my deserted home were often openedfor this strange guest, who made me play my compositions to him while he atebread and cheese. In return, he once arranged one of my airs for windinstruments, and, to my astonishment, it was actually accepted and played bythe band in Kintschy’s Swiss Chalet. That this man had not the smallestcapacity to teach me anything never once occurred to me; I was so firmlyconvinced of his originality that there was no need for him to prove it furtherthan by listening patiently to my enthusiastic outpourings. But as, in courseof time, several of his own friends joined us, I could not help noticing thatthe worthy Flachs was regarded by them all as a half-witted fool. At first thismerely pained me, but a strange incident unexpectedly occurred which convertedme to the general opinion about him. Flachs was a man of some means, and hadfallen into the toils of a young lady of dubious character who he believed wasdeeply in love with him. One day, without warning, I found his house closed tome, and discovered, to my astonishment, that jealousy was the cause. Theunexpected discovery of this liaison, which was my first experience of such acase, filled me with a strange horror. My friend suddenly appeared to me evenmore mad than he really was. I felt so ashamed of my persistent blindness thatfor some time to come I never went to any of the garden concerts for fear Ishould meet my sham Kreissler.
By this time I had composed my first Sonata in D minor. I had also begun apastoral play, and had worked it out in what I felt sure must be an entirelyunprecedented way.
I chose Goethe’s Laune der Verliebten as a model for the form and plot of mywork. I scarcely even drafted out the libretto, however, but worked it out atthe same time as the music and orchestration, so that, while I was writing outone page of the score, I had not even thought out the words for the next page.I remember distinctly that following this extraordinary method, although I hadnot acquired the slightest knowledge about writing for instruments, I actuallyworked out a fairly long passage which finally resolved itself into a scene forthree female voices followed by the air for the tenor. My bent for writing forthe orchestra was so strong that I procured a score of Don Juan, and set towork on what I then considered a very careful orchestration of a fairly longair for soprano. I also wrote a quartette in D major after I had myselfsufficiently mastered the alto for the viola, my ignorance of which had causedme great difficulty only a short time before, when I was studying a quartetteby Haydn.
Armed with these works, I set out in the summer on my first journey as amusician. My sister Clara, who was married to the singer Wolfram, had anengagement at the theatre at Magdeburg, whither, in characteristic fashion, Iset forth upon my adventure on foot.
My short stay with my relations provided me with many experiences of musicallife. It was there that I met a new freak, whose influence upon me I have neverbeen able to forget. He was a musical conductor of the name of Kuhnlein, a mostextraordinary person. Already advanced in years, delicate and, unfortunately,given to drink, this man nevertheless impressed one by something striking andvigorous in his expression. His chief characteristics were an enthusiasticworship of Mozart and a passionate depreciation of Weber. He had read only onebook—Goethe’s Faust—and in this work there was not a page in which he had notunderlined some passage, and made some remark in praise of Mozart or indisparagement of Weber. It was to this man that my brother-in-law confided thecompositions which I had brought with me in order to learn his opinion of myabilities. One evening, as we were sitting comfortably in an inn, old Kuhnleincame in, and approached us with a friendly, though serious manner.
I thought I read good news in his features, but when my brother-in-law askedhim what he thought of my work, he answered quietly and calmly, ‘There is not asingle good note in it!’ My brother-in-law, who was accustomed to Kuhnlein’seccentricity, gave a loud laugh which reassured me somewhat. It was impossibleto get any advice or coherent reasons for his opinion out of Kuhnlein; hemerely renewed his abuse of Weber and made some references to Mozart which,nevertheless, made a deep impression upon me, as Kuhnlein’s language was alwaysvery heated and emphatic.
On the other hand, this visit brought me a great treasure, which wasresponsible for leading me in a very different direction from that advised byKuhnlein. This was the score of Beethoven’s great Quartette in E flat major,which had only been fairly recently published, and of which my brother-in-lawhad a copy made for me. Richer in experience, and in the possession of thistreasure, I returned to Leipzig to the nursery of my queer musical studies. Butmy family had now returned with my sister Rosalie, and I could no longer keepsecret from them the fact that my connection with the school had been entirelysuspended, for a notice was found saying that I had not attended the school forthe last six months. As a complaint addressed by the rector to my uncle aboutme had not received adequate attention, the school authorities had apparentlymade no further attempts to exercise any supervision over me, which I hadindeed rendered quite impossible by absenting myself altogether.
A fresh council of war was held in the family to discuss what was to be donewith me. As I laid particular stress on my bent for music, my relations thoughtthat I ought, at any rate, to learn one instrument thoroughly. Mybrother-in-law, Brockhaus, proposed to send me to Hummel, at Weimar, to betrained as a pianist, but as I loudly protested that by ‘music’ I meant‘composing,’ and not ‘playing an instrument,’ they gave way, and decided to letme have regular lessons in harmony from Muller, the very musician from whom Ihad had instruction on the sly some little while before, and who had not yetbeen paid. In return for this I promised faithfully to go back to workconscientiously at St. Nicholas’s School. I soon grew tired of both. I couldbrook no control, and this unfortunately applied to my musical instruction aswell. The dry study of harmony disgusted me more and more, though I continuedto conceive fantasias, sonatas, and overtures, and work them out by myself. Onthe other hand, I was spurred on by ambition to show what I could do at schoolif I liked. When the Upper School boys were set the task of writing a poem, Icomposed a chorus in Greek, on the recent War of Liberation. I can well imaginethat this Greek poem had about as much resemblance to a real Greek oration andpoetry, as the sonatas and overtures I used to compose at that time had tothoroughly professional music. My attempt was scornfully rejected as a piece ofimpudence. After that I have no further recollections of my school. Mycontinued attendance was a pure sacrifice on my side, made out of considerationfor my family: I did not pay the slightest attention to what was taught in thelessons, but secretly occupied myself all the while with reading any book thathappened to attract me.
As my musical instruction also did me no good, I continued in my wilful processof self-education by copying out the scores of my beloved masters, and in sodoing acquired a neat handwriting, which in later years has often been admired.I believe my copies of the C minor Symphony and the Ninth Symphony by Beethovenare still preserved as souvenirs.
Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony became the mystical goal of all my strange thoughtsand desires about music. I was first attracted to it by the opinion prevalentamong musicians, not only in Leipzig but elsewhere, that this work had beenwritten by Beethoven when he was already half mad. It was considered the ‘nonplus ultra’ of all that was fantastic and incomprehensible, and this was quiteenough to rouse in me a passionate desire to study this mysterious work. At thevery first glance at the score, of which I obtained possession with suchdifficulty, I felt irresistibly attracted by the long-sustained pure fifthswith which the first phrase opens: these chords, which, as I related above, hadplayed such a supernatural part in my childish impressions of music, seemed inthis case to form the spiritual keynote of my own life. This, I thought, mustsurely contain the secret of all secrets, and accordingly the first thing to bedone was to make the score my own by a process of laborious copying. I wellremember that on one occasion the sudden appearance of the dawn made such anuncanny impression on my excited nerves that I jumped into bed with a scream asthough I had seen a ghost. The symphony at that time had not yet been arrangedfor the piano; it had found so little favour that the publisher did not feelinclined to run the risk of producing it. I set to work at it, and actuallycomposed a complete piano solo, which I tried to play to myself. I sent my workto Schott, the publisher of the score, at Mainz. I received in reply a lettersaying ‘that the publishers had not yet decided to issue the Ninth Symphony forthe piano, but that they would gladly keep my laborious work,’ and offered meremuneration in the shape of the score of the great Missa Solemnis in D, whichI accepted with great pleasure.
In addition to this work I practised the violin for some time, as my harmonymaster very rightly considered that some knowledge of the practical working ofthis instrument was indispensable for any one who had the intention ofcomposing for the orchestra. My mother, indeed, paid the violinist Sipp (whowas still playing in the Leipzig orchestra in 1865) eight thalers for a violin(I do not know what became of it), with which for quite three months I musthave inflicted unutterable torture upon my mother and sister by practising inmy tiny little room. I got so far as to play certain Variations in F sharp byMayseder, but only reached the second or third. After that I have no furtherrecollections of this practising, in which my family fortunately had very goodreasons of their own for not encouraging me.
But the time now arrived when my interest in the theatre again took apassionate hold upon me. A new company had been formed in my birthplace undervery good auspices. The Board of Management of the Court Theatre at Dresden hadtaken over the management of the Leipzig theatre for three years. My sisterRosalie was a member of the company, and through her I could always gainadmittance to the performances; and that which in my childhood had been merelythe interest aroused by a strange spirit of curiosity now became a moredeep-seated and conscious passion.
Julius Caesar, Macbeth, Hamlet, the plays of Schiller, and to crown all,Goethe’s Faust, excited and stirred me deeply. The Opera was giving the firstperformances of Marschner’s Vampir and Templer und Judin. The Italian companyarrived from Dresden, and fascinated the Leipzig audience by their consummatemastery of their art. Even I was almost carried away by the enthusiasm withwhich the town was over-whelmed, into forgetting the boyish impressions whichSignor Sassaroli had stamped upon my mind, when another miracle—which also cameto us from Dresden—suddenly gave a new direction to my artistic feelings andexercised a decisive influence over my whole life. This consisted of a specialperformance given by Wilhelmine Schroder-Devrient, who at that time was at thezenith of her artistic career, young, beautiful, and ardent, and whose like Ihave never again seen on the stage. She made her appearance in Fidelio.
If I look back on my life as a whole, I can find no event that produced soprofound an impression upon me. Any one who can remember that wonderful womanat this period of her life must to some extent have experienced the almostSatanic ardour which the intensely human art of this incomparable actresspoured into his veins. After the performance I rushed to a friend’s house andwrote a short note to the singer, in which I briefly told her that from thatmoment my life had acquired its true significance, and that if in days to comeshe should ever hear my name praised in the world of Art, she must rememberthat she had that evening made me what I then swore it was my destiny tobecome. This note I left at her hotel, and ran out into the night as if I weremad. In the year 1842, when I went to Dresden to make my debut with Rienzi, Ipaid several visits to the kind-hearted singer, who startled me on one occasionby repeating this letter word for word. It seemed to have made an impression onher too, as she had actually kept it.
At this point I feel myself obliged to acknowledge that the great confusionwhich now began to prevail in my life, and particularly in my studies, was dueto the inordinate effect this artistic interpretation had upon me. I did notknow where to turn, or how to set about producing something myself which mightplace me in direct contact with the impression I had received, while everythingthat could not be brought into touch with it seemed to me so shallow andmeaningless that I could not possibly trouble myself with it. I should haveliked to compose a work worthy of a Schroder-Devrient; but as this was quitebeyond my power, in my head-long despair I let all artistic endeavour slide,and as my work was also utterly insufficient to absorb me, I flung myselfrecklessly into the life of the moment in the company of strangely chosenassociates, and indulged in all kinds of youthful excesses.
I now entered into all the dissipations of raw manhood, the outward uglinessand inward emptiness of which make me marvel to this day. My intercourse withthose of my own age had always been the result of pure chance. I cannotremember that any special inclination or attraction determined me in the choiceof my young friends. While I can honestly say that I was never in a position tostand aloof out of envy from any one who was specially gifted, I can onlyexplain my indifference in the choice of my associates by the fact that throughinexperience regarding the sort of companionship that would be of advantage tome, I cared only to have some one who would accompany me in my excursions, andto whom I could pour out my feelings to my heart’s content without caring whateffect it might have upon him. The result of this was that after a stream ofconfidences to which my own excitement was the only response, I at lengthreached the point when I turned and looked at my friend; to my astonishment Igenerally found that there was no question of response at all, and as soon as Iset my heart on drawing something from him in return, and urged him to confidein me, when he really had nothing to tell, the connection usually came to anend and left no trace on my life. In a certain sense my strange relationshipwith Flachs was typical of the great majority of my ties in after-life.Consequently, as no lasting personal bond of friendship ever found its way intomy life, it is easy to understand how delight in the dissipations of studentlife could become a passion of some duration, because in it individualintercourse is entirely replaced by a common circle of acquaintances. In themidst of rowdyism and ragging of the most foolish description, I remained quitealone, and it is quite possible that these frivolities formed a protectinghedge round my inmost soul, which needed time to grow to its natural strengthand not be weakened by reaching maturity too soon.
My life seemed to break up in all directions; I had to leave St. Nicholas’sSchool at Easter 1830, as I was too deeply in disgrace with the staff ofmasters ever to hope for any promotion in the University from that quarter. Itwas now determined that I should study privately for six months and then go toSt. Thomas’s School, where I should be in fresh surroundings and be able towork up and qualify in a short time for the University. My uncle Adolph, withwhom I was constantly renewing my friendship, and who also encouraged me aboutmy music and exercised a good influence over me in that respect, in spite ofthe utter degradation of my life at that time, kept arousing in me an everfresh desire for scientific studies. I took private lessons in Greek from ascholar, and read Sophocles with him. For a time I hoped this noble poet wouldagain inspire me to get a real hold on the language, but the hope was vain. Ihad not chosen the right teacher, and, moreover, his sitting-room in which wepursued our studies looked out on a tanyard, the repulsive odour of whichaffected my nerves so strongly that I became thoroughly disgusted both withSophocles and Greek. My brother-in-law, Brockhaus, who wanted to put me in theway of earning some pocket-money, gave me the correcting of the proof-sheets ofa new edition he was bringing out of Becker’s Universal History, revised byLobell. This gave me a reason for improving by private study the superficialgeneral instruction on every subject which is given at school, and I thusacquired the valuable knowledge which I was destined to have in later life ofmost of the branches of learning so uninterestingly taught in class. I must notforget to mention that, to a certain extent, the attraction exercised over meby this first closer study of history was due to the fact that it brought me ineightpence a sheet, and I thus found myself in one of the rarest positions inmy life, actually earning money; yet I should be doing myself an injustice if Idid not bear in mind the vivid impressions I now for the first time receivedupon turning my serious attention to those periods of history with which I hadhitherto had a very superficial acquaintance. All I recollect about my schooldays in this connection is that I was attracted by the classical period ofGreek history; Marathon, Salamis, and Thermopylae composed the canon of allthat interested me in the subject. Now for the first time I made an intimateacquaintance with the Middle Ages and the French Revolution, as my work incorrecting dealt precisely with the two volumes which contained these twoperiods. I remember in particular that the description of the Revolution filledme with sincere hatred for its heroes; unfamiliar as I was with the previoushistory of France, my human sympathy was horrified by the cruelty of the men ofthat day, and this purely human impulse remained so strong in me that Iremember how even quite recently it cost me a real struggle to give any weightto the true political significance of those acts of violence.
How great, then, was my astonishment when one day the current political eventsof the time enabled me, as it were, to gain a personal experience of the sortof national upheavals with which I had come into distant contact in the courseof my proof-correcting. The special editions of the Leipzig Gazette brought usthe news of the July Revolution in Paris. The King of France had been drivenfrom his throne; Lafayette, who a moment before had seemed a myth to me, wasagain riding through a cheering crowd in the streets of Paris; the Swiss Guardshad once more been butchered in the Tuileries, and a new King knew no betterway of commending himself to the populace than by declaring himself theembodiment of the Republic. Suddenly to become conscious of living at a time inwhich such things took place could not fail to have a startling effect on a boyof seventeen. The world as a historic phenomenon began from that day in myeyes, and naturally my sympathies were wholly on the side of the Revolution,which I regarded in the light of a heroic popular struggle crowned withvictory, and free from the blemish of the terrible excesses that stained thefirst French Revolution. As the whole of Europe, including some of the Germanstates, was soon plunged more or less violently into rebellion, I remained forsome time in a feverish state of suspense, and now first turned my attention tothe causes of these upheavals, which I regarded as struggles of the young andhopeful against the old and effete portion of mankind. Saxony also did notremain unscathed; in Dresden it came to actual fighting in the streets, whichimmediately produced a political change in the shape of the proclamation of theregency of the future King Frederick, and the granting of a constitution. Thisevent filled me with such enthusiasm that I composed a political overture, theprelude of which depicted dark oppression in the midst of which a strain was atlast heard under which, to make my meaning clearer, I wrote the words Friedrichund Freiheil; this strain was intended to develop gradually and majesticallyinto the fullest triumph, which I hoped shortly to see successfully performedat one of the Leipzig Garden Concerts.
However, before I was able to develop my politico-musical conceptions further,disorders broke out in Leipzig itself which summoned me from the precincts ofArt to take a direct share in national life. National life in Leipzig at thistime meant nothing more than antagonism between the students and the police,the latter being the arch-enemy upon whom the youthful love of liberty venteditself. Some students had been arrested in a street broil who were now to berescued. The under-graduates, who had been restless for some days, assembledone evening in the Market Place and the Clubs, mustered together, and made aring round their leaders. The whole proceeding was marked by a certain measuredsolemnity, which impressed me deeply. They sang Gaudeamus igitur, formed upinto column, and picking up from the crowd any young men who sympathised withthem, marched gravely and resolutely from the Market Place to the Universitybuildings, to open the cells and set free the students who had been arrested.My heart beat fast as I marched with them to this ‘Taking of the Bastille,’ butthings did not turn out as we expected, for in the courtyard of the Paulinumthe solemn procession was stopped by Rector Krug, who had come down to meet itwith his grey head bared; his assurance that the captives had already beenreleased at his request was greeted with a thundering cheer, and the matterseemed at an end.
But the tense expectation of a revolution had grown too great not to demandsome sacrifice. A summons was suddenly spread calling us to a notorious alleyin order to exercise popular justice upon a hated magistrate who, it wasrumoured, had unlawfully taken under his protection a certain house of ill-famein that quarter. When I reached the spot with the tail-end of the crowd, Ifound the house had been broken into and all sorts of violence had beencommitted. I recall with horror the intoxicating effect this unreasoning furyhad upon me, and cannot deny that without the slightest personal provocation Ishared, like one possessed, in the frantic onslaught of the undergraduates, whomadly shattered furniture and crockery to bits. I do not believe that theostensible motive for this outrage, which, it is true, was to be found in afact that was a grave menace to public morality, had any weight with mewhatever; on the contrary, it was the purely devilish fury of these popularoutbursts that drew me, too, like a madman into their vortex.
The fact that such fits of fury are not quick to abate, but, in accordance withcertain natural laws, reach their proper conclusion only after they havedegenerated into frenzy, I was to learn in my own person. Scarcely did thesummons ring out for us to march to another resort of the same kind than I toofound myself in the tide which set towards the opposite end of the town. Therethe same exploits were repeated, and the most ludicrous outrages perpetrated. Icannot remember that the enjoyment of alcoholic drinks contributed to theintoxication of myself and my immediate fellows. I only know that I finally gotinto the state that usually succeeds a debauch, and upon waking next morning,as if from a hideous nightmare, had to convince myself that I had really takenpart in the events of the previous night by a trophy I possessed in the shapeof a tattered red curtain, which I had brought home as a token of my prowess.The thought that people generally, and my own family in particular, were wontto put a lenient construction upon youthful escapades was a great comfort tome; outbursts of this kind on the part of the young were regarded as righteousindignation against really serious scandals, and there was no need for me to beafraid of owning up to having taken part in such excesses.
The dangerous example, however, which had been set by the undergraduatesincited the lower classes and the mob to similar excesses on the followingnights, against employers and any who were obnoxious to them. The matter atonce assumed a more serious complexion; property was threatened, and a conflictbetween rich and poor stood grinning at our doors. As there were no soldiers inthe town, and the police were thoroughly disorganised, the students were calledin as a protection against the lower orders. An undergraduate’s hour of glorynow began, such as I could only have thirsted for in my schoolboy dreams. Thestudent became the tutelar deity of Leipzig, called on by the authorities toarm and band together in defence of property, and the same young men who twodays before had yielded to a rage for destruction, now mustered in theUniversity courtyard. The proscribed names of the students’ clubs and unionswere shouted by the mouths of town councillors and chief constables in order tosummon curiously equipped undergraduates, who thereupon, in simple mediaevalarray of war, scattered throughout the town, occupied the guard-rooms at thegates, provided sentinels for the grounds of various wealthy merchants, and, asoccasion demanded, took places which seemed threatened, more especially inns,under their permanent protection.
Though, unluckily, I was not yet a member of their body, I anticipated thedelights of academic citizenship by half-impudent, half-obsequious solicitationof the leaders of the students whom I honoured most. I had the good fortune torecommend myself particularly to these ‘cocks of the walk,’ as they werestyled, on account of my relationship to Brockhaus, in whose grounds the mainbody of these champions were encamped for some time. My brother-in-law wasamong those who had been seriously threatened, and it was only owing to reallygreat presence of mind and assurance that he succeeded in saving his printingworks, and especially his steam presses, which were the chief object of attack,from destruction. To protect his property against further assault, detachmentsof students were told off to his grounds as well; the excellent entertainmentwhich the generous master of the house offered his jovial guardians in hispleasant summer-house enticed the pick of the students to him. Mybrother-in-law was for several weeks guarded day and night against possibleattacks by the populace, and on this occasion, as the mediator of a flowinghospitality, I celebrated among the most famous ‘bloods’ of the University thetrue saturnalia of my scholarly ambition.
For a still longer period the guarding of the gates was entrusted to thestudents; the unheard-of splendour which accordingly became associated withthis post drew fresh aspirants to the spot from far and near. Every day hugechartered vehicles discharged at the Halle Gate whole bands of the boldest sonsof learning from Halle, Jena, Gottingen, and the remotest regions. They gotdown close to the guards at the gate, and for several weeks never set foot inan inn or any other dwelling; they lived at the expense of the Council, drewvouchers on the police for food and drink, and knew but one care, that thepossibility of a general quieting of men’s minds would make their opportuneguardianship superfluous. I never missed a day on guard or a night either,alas! trying to impress on my family the urgent need for my personal endurance.Of course, the quieter and really studious spirits among us soon resigned theseduties, and only the flower of the flock of undergraduates remained so staunchthat it became difficult for the authorities to relieve them of their task. Iheld out to the very last, and succeeded in making most astonishing friends formy age. Many of the most audacious remained in Leipzig even when there was noguard duty to fulfil, and peopled the place for some time with champions of anextraordinarily desperate and dissipated type, who had been repeatedly sentdown from various universities for rowdyism or debt, and who now, thanks to theexceptional circumstances of the day, found a refuge in Leipzig, where at firstthey had been received with open arms by the general enthusiasm of theircomrades.
In the presence of all these phenomena I felt as if I were surrounded by theresults of an earthquake which had upset the usual order of things. Mybrother-in-law, Friedrich Brockhaus, who could justly taunt the formerauthorities of the place with their inability to maintain peace and order, wascarried away by the current of a formidable movement of opposition. He made adaring speech at the Guildhall before their worships the Town Council, whichbrought him popularity, and he was appointed second-in-command of the newlyconstituted Leipzig Municipal Guard. This body at length ousted my adoredstudents from the guard-rooms of the town gates, and we no longer had the rightof stopping travellers and inspecting their passes. On the other hand, Iflattered myself that I might regard my new position as a boy citizen asequivalent to that of the French National Guard, and my brother-in-law,Brockhaus, as a Saxon Lafayette, which, at all events, succeeded in furnishingmy soaring excitement with a healthy stimulant. I now began to read the papersand cultivate politics enthusiastically; however, the social intercourse of thecivic world did not attract me sufficiently to make me false to my belovedacademic associates. I followed them faithfully from the guard-rooms to theordinary bars, where their splendour as men of the literary world now soughtretirement.
My chief ambition was to become one of them as soon as possible. This, however,could only be accomplished by being again entered at a grammar school. St.Thomas’s, whose headmaster was a feeble old man, was the place where my wishescould be most speedily attained.
I joined the school in the autumn of 1830 simply with the intention ofqualifying myself for the Leaving Examination by merely nominal attendancethere. The chief thing in connection with it was that I and friends of the samebent succeeded in establishing a sham students’ association called theFreshman’s Club. It was formed with all possible pedantry, the institution ofthe ‘Comment’ was introduced, fencing-practice and sword-bouts were held, andan inaugural meeting to which several prominent students were invited, and atwhich I presided as ‘Vice’ in white buckskin trousers and great jack-boots,gave me a foretaste of the delights awaiting me as a full-blown son of theMuses.
The masters of St. Thomas’s, however, were not quite so ready to fall in withmy aspirations to studentship; at the end of the half-year they were of theopinion that I had not given a thought to their institution, and nothing couldpersuade them that I had earned a title to academic citizenship by anyacquisition of knowledge. Some sort of decision was necessary, so I accordinglyinformed my family that I had made up my mind not to study for a profession atthe University, but to become a musician. There was nothing to prevent mematriculating as ‘Studiosus Musicae,’ and, without therefore troubling myselfabout the pedantries of the authorities at St. Thomas’s, I defiantly quittedthat seat of learning from which I had derived small profit, and presentedmyself forthwith to the rector of the University, whose acquaintance I had madeon the evening of the riot, to be enrolled as a student of music. This wasaccordingly done without further ado, on the payment of the usual fees.
I was in a great hurry about it, for in a week the Easter vacation would begin,and the ‘men’ would go down from Leipzig, when it would be impossible to beelected member of a club until the vacation was over, and to stay all thoseweeks at home in Leipzig without having the right to wear the coveted coloursseemed to me unendurable torture. Straight from the rector’s presence I ranlike a wounded animal to the fencing school, to present myself for admission tothe Saxon Club, showing my card of matriculation. I attained my object, I couldwear the colours of the Saxonia, which was in the fashion at that time, and ingreat request because it numbered so many delightful members in its ranks.
The strangest fate was to befall me in this Easter vacation, during which I wasreally the only remaining representative of the Saxon Club in Leipzig. In thebeginning this club consisted chiefly of men of good family as well as thebetter class elements of the student world; all of them were members of highlyplaced and well-to-do families in Saxony in general, and in particular from thecapital, Dresden, and spent their vacation at their respective homes. Thereremained in Leipzig during the vacations only those wandering students who hadno homes, and for whom in reality it was always or never holiday time. Amongthose a separate club had arisen of daring and desperate young reprobates whohad found a last refuge, as I said, at Leipzig in the glorious period I haverecorded. I had already made the personal acquaintance of these swashbucklers,who pleased my fancy greatly, when they were guarding the Brockhaus grounds.Although the regular duration of a university course did not exceed threeyears, most of these men had never left their universities for six or sevenyears.
I was particularly fascinated by a man called Gebhardt, who was endowed withextraordinary physical beauty and strength, and whose slim heroic figuretowered head and shoulders above all his companions. When he walked down thestreet arm-in-arm with two of the strongest of his comrades, he used suddenlyto take it into his head, by an easy movement of his arm, to lift his friendshigh in the air and flutter along in this way as though he had a pair of humanwings. When a cab was going along the streets at a sharp trot, he would seize aspoke of the wheel with one hand and force it to pull up. Nobody ever told himthat he was stupid because they were afraid of his strength, hence hislimitations were scarcely noticed. His redoubtable strength, combined with atemperate disposition, lent him a majestic dignity which placed him above thelevel of an ordinary mortal. He had come to Leipzig from Mecklenburg in thecompany of a certain Degelow, who was as powerful and adroit, though by nomeans of such gigantic proportions, as his friend, and whose chief attractionlay in his great vivacity and animated features, he had led a wild anddissipated life in which play, drink, passionate love affairs, and constant andprompt duelling had rung the changes. Ceremonious politeness, an ironic andpedantic coldness, which testified to bold self-confidence, combined with avery hot temper, formed the chief characteristics of this personage and naturesakin to his. Degelow’s wildness and passion were lent a curious diabolicalcharm by the possession of a malicious humour which he often turned againsthimself, whereas towards others he exercised a certain chivalrous tenderness.
These two extraordinary men were joined by others who possessed all thequalities essential to a reckless life, together with real and headstrongvalour. One of them, named Stelzer, a regular Berserker out of theNibelungenlied, who was nick-named Lope, was in his twentieth term. While thesemen openly and consciously belonged to a world doomed to destruction, and alltheir actions and escapades could only be explained by the hypothesis that theyall believed that inevitable ruin was imminent, I made in their company theacquaintance of a certain Schroter, who particularly attracted me by hiscordial disposition, pleasant Hanoverian accent, and refined wit. He was notone of the regular young dare-devils, towards whom he adopted a calm observantattitude, while they were all fond of him and glad to see him. I made a realfriend of this Schroter, although he was much older than I was. Through him Ibecame acquainted with the works and poems of H. Heine, and from him I acquireda certain neat and saucy wit, and I was quite ready to surrender myself to hisagreeable influence in the hope of improving my outward bearing. It was hiscompany in particular that I sought every day; in the afternoon I generally methim in the Rosenthal or Kintschy’s Chalet, though always in the presence ofthose wonderful Goths who excited at once my alarm and admiration.
They all belonged to university clubs which were on hostile terms with the oneof which I was a member. What this hostility between the various clubs meantonly those can judge who are familiar with the tone prevalent among them inthose days. The mere sight of hostile colours sufficed to infuriate these men,who otherwise were kind and gentle, provided they had taken the slightest droptoo much. At all events, as long as the old stagers were sober they would lookwith good-natured complacency at a slight young fellow like me in the hostilecolours moving among them so amicably. Those colours I wore in my own peculiarfashion. I had made use of the brief week during which my club was still inLeipzig to become the possessor of a splendid ‘Saxon’ cap, richly embroideredwith silver, and worn by a man called Muller, who was afterwards a prominentconstable at Dresden. I had been seized with such a violent craving for thiscap that I managed to buy it from him, as he wanted money to go home. In spiteof this remarkable cap I was, as I have said, welcome in the den of this bandof rowdies: my friend Schroter saw to that. It was only when the grog, whichwas the principal beverage of these wild spirits, began to work that I used tonotice curious glances and overhear doubtful speeches, the significance ofwhich was for some time hidden from me by the dizziness in which my own senseswere plunged by this baneful drink.
As I was inevitably bound on this account to be mixed up in quarrels for sometime to come, it afforded me a great satisfaction that my first fight, as amatter of fact, arose from an incident more creditable to me than thoseprovocations which I had left half unnoticed. One day Degelow came up toSchroter and me in a wine-bar that we often frequented, and in quite a friendlymanner confessed to us confidentially his liking for a young and very prettyactress whose talent Schroter disputed. Degelow rejoined that this was as itmight be, but that, for his part, he regarded the young lady as the mostrespectable woman in the theatre. I at once asked him if he considered mysister’s reputation was not as good. According to students’ notions it wasimpossible for Degelow, who doubtless had not the remotest intention of beinginsulting, to give me any assurance further than to say that he certainly didnot think my sister had an inferior reputation, but that, nevertheless, hemeant to abide by his assertion concerning the young lady he had mentioned.Hereupon followed without delay the usual challenge, opening with the words,‘You’re an ass,’ which sounded almost ridiculous to my own ears when I saidthem to this seasoned swashbuckler.
I remember that Degelow too gasped with astonishment, and lightning seemed toflash from his eyes; but he controlled himself in the presence of my friend,and proceeded to observe the usual formalities of a challenge, and chosebroadswords (krumme Sabel) as the weapons for the fight. The event made a greatstir among our companions, but I saw less reason than before to abstain from myusual intercourse with them. Only I became more strict about the behaviour ofthe swashbucklers, and for several days no evening passed without producing achallenge between me and some formidable bully, until at last Count Solms, theonly member of my club who had returned to Leipzig as yet, visited me as thoughhe were an intimate friend and inquired into what had occurred. He applauded myconduct, but advised me not to wear my colours until the return of our comradesfrom the vacation, and to keep away from the bad company into which I hadventured. Fortunately I had not long to wait; university life soon began again,and the fencing ground was filled. The unenviable position, in which, instudent phrase, I was suspended with a half-dozen of the most terribleswordsmen, earned me a glorious reputation among the ‘freshmen’ and ‘juniors,’and even among the older ‘champions’ of the Saxonia.
My seconds were duly arranged, the dates for the various duels on hand settled,and by the care of my seniors the needful time was secured for me to acquiresome sort of skill in fencing. The light heart with which I awaited the fatewhich threatened me in at least one of the impending encounters I myself couldnot understand at the time; on the other hand, the way in which that fatepreserved me from the consequences of my rashness seems truly miraculous in myeyes to this day, and, worthy of further description.
The preparations for a duel included obtaining some experience of theseencounters by being present at several of them. We freshmen attained thisobject by what is called ‘carrying duty,’ that is to say, we were entrustedwith the rapiers of the corps (precious weapons of honour belonging to theassociation), and had to take them first to the grinder and thence to the sceneof encounter, a proceeding which was attended with some danger, as it had to bedone surreptitiously, since duelling was forbidden by law; in return weacquired the right of assisting as spectators at the impending engagements.
When I had earned this honour, the meeting-place chosen for the duel I was towatch was the billiard-room of an inn in the Burgstrasse; the table had beenmoved to one side, and on it the authorised spectators took their places. Amongthem I stood up with a beating heart to watch the dangerous encounters betweenthose doughty champions. I was told on this occasion of the story of one of myfriends (a Jew named Levy, but known as Lippert), who on this very floor hadgiven so much ground before his antagonist that the door had to be opened forhim, and he fell back through it down the steps into the street, stillbelieving he was engaged in the duel. When several bouts had been finished, twomen came on to the ‘pitch,’ Tempel, the president of the Markomanen, and acertain Wohlfart, an old stager, already in his fourteenth half-year of study,with whom I also was booked for an encounter later on. When this was the case,a man was not allowed to watch, in order that the weak points of the duellistmight not be betrayed to his future opponent. Wohlfart was accordingly asked bymy chiefs whether he wanted me removed; whereupon he replied with calmcontempt, ‘Let them leave the little freshman there, in God’s name!’ Thus Ibecame an eye-witness of the disablement of a swordsman who nevertheless showedhimself so experienced and skilful on the occasion that I might well havebecome alarmed for the issue of my future encounter with him. His giganticopponent cut the artery of his right arm, which at once ended the fight; thesurgeon declared that Wohlfart would not be able to hold a sword again foryears, under which circumstances my proposed meeting with him was at oncecancelled. I do not deny that this incident cheered my soul.
Shortly afterwards the first general reunion of our club was held at the GreenTap. These gatherings are regular hot-beds for the production of duels. Here Ibrought upon myself a new encounter with one Tischer, but learned at the sametime that I had been relieved of two of my most formidable previous engagementsof the kind by the disappearance of my opponents, both of whom had escaped onaccount of debt and left no trace behind them. The only one of whom I couldhear anything was the terrible Stelzer, surnamed Lope. This fellow had takenadvantage of the passing of Polish refugees, who had at that time already beendriven over the frontier and were making their way through Germany to France,to disguise himself as an ill-starred champion of freedom, and he subsequentlyfound his way to the Foreign Legion in Algeria. On the way home from thegathering, Degelow, whom I was to meet in a few weeks, proposed a ‘truce.’ Thiswas a device which, if it was accepted, as it was in this case, enabled thefuture combatants to entertain and talk to one another, which was otherwisemost strictly forbidden. We wandered back to the town arm-in-arm; withchivalrous tenderness my interesting and formidable opponent declared that hewas delighted at the prospect of crossing swords with me in a few weeks’ time;that he regarded it as an honour and a pleasure, as he was fond of me andrespected me for my valorous conduct. Seldom has any personal success flatteredme more. We embraced, and amid protestations which, owing to a certain dignityabout them, acquired a significance I can never forget, we parted. He informedme that he must first pay a visit to Jena, where he had an appointment to fighta duel. A week later the news of his death reached Leipzig; he had beenmortally wounded in the duel at Jena.
I felt as if I were living in a dream, out of which I was aroused by theannouncement of my encounter with Tischer. Though he was a first-rate andvigorous fighter, he had been chosen by our chiefs for my first passage of armsbecause he was fairly short. In spite of being unable to feel any greatconfidence in my hastily acquired and little practised skill in fencing, Ilooked forward to this my first duel with a light heart. Although it wasagainst the rules, I never dreamed of telling the authorities that I wassuffering from a slight rash which I had caught at that time, and which I wasinformed made wounds so dangerous that if it were reported it would postponethe meeting, in spite of the fact that I was modest enough to be prepared forwounds. I was sent for at ten in the morning, and left home smiling to thinkwhat my mother and sisters would say if in a few hours I were brought back inthe alarming state I anticipated. My chief, Herr v. Schonfeld, was a pleasant,quiet sort of man, who lived on the marsh. When I reached his house, he leantout of the window with his pipe in his mouth, and greeted me with the words:‘You can go home, my lad, it is all off; Tischer is in hospital.’ When I gotupstairs I found several ‘leading men’ assembled, from whom I learned thatTischer had got very drunk the night before, and had in consequence laidhimself open to the most outrageous treatment by the inhabitants of a house ofill-fame. He was terribly hurt, and had been taken by the police in the firstinstance to the hospital. This inevitably meant rustication, and, above all,expulsion from the academic association to which he belonged.
I cannot clearly recall the incidents that removed from Leipzig the fewremaining fire-eaters to whom I had pledged myself since that fatalvacation-time; I only know that this aide of my fame as a student yielded toanother. We celebrated the ‘freshmen’s gathering,’ to which all those who couldmanage it drove a four-in-hand in a long procession through the town. After thepresident of the club had profoundly moved me with his sudden and yet prolongedsolemnity, I conceived the desire to be among the very last to return home fromthe outing. Accordingly I stayed away three days and three nights, and spentthe time chiefly in gambling, a pastime which from the first night of ourfestivity cast its devilish snares around me. Some half-dozen of the smartestclub members chanced to be together at early dawn in the Jolly Peasant, andforthwith formed the nucleus of a gambling club, which was reinforced duringthe day by recruits coming back from the town. Members came to see whether wewere still at it, members also went away, but I with the original six held outfor days and nights without faltering.
The desire that first prompted me to take part in the play was the wish to winenough for my score (two thalers): this I succeeded in doing, and thereupon Iwas inspired with the hope of being able to settle all the debts I had made atthat time by my winnings at play. Just as I had hoped to learn composition mostquickly by Logier’s method, but had found myself hampered in my object for along period by unexpected difficulties, so my plan for speedily improving myfinancial position was likewise doomed to disappointment. To win was not suchan easy matter, and for some three months I was such a victim to the rage forgambling that no other passion was able to exercise the slightest influenceover my mind.
Neither the Fechtboden (where the students’ fights were practised), nor thebeer-house, nor the actual scene of the fights, ever saw my face again. In mylamentable position I racked my brains all day to devise ways and means ofgetting the money wherewith to gamble at night. In vain did my poor mother tryeverything in her power to induce me not to come home so late at night,although she had no idea of the real nature of my debauches: after I had leftthe house in the afternoon I never returned till dawn the next day, and Ireached my room (which was at some distance from the others) by climbing overthe gate, for my mother had refused to give me a latch-key.
In despair over my ill-luck, my passion for gambling grew into a veritablemania, and I no longer felt any inclination for those things which at one timehad lured me to student life. I became absolutely indifferent to the opinion ofmy former companions and avoided them entirely; I now lost myself in thesmaller gambling dens of Leipzig, where only the very scum of the studentscongregated. Insensible to any feeling of self-respect, I bore even thecontempt of my sister Rosalie; both she and my mother hardly ever deigning tocast a glance at the young libertine whom they only saw at rare intervals,looking deadly pale and worn out: my ever-growing despair made me at lastresort to foolhardiness as the only means of forcing hostile fate to my side.It suddenly struck me that only by dint of big stakes could I make big profits.To this end I decided to make use of my mother’s pension, of which I wastrustee of a fairly large sum. That night I lost everything I had with meexcept one thaler: the excitement with which I staked that last coin on a cardwas an experience hitherto quite strange to my young life. As I had had nothingto eat, I was obliged repeatedly to leave the gambling table owing to sickness.With this last thaler I staked my life, for my return to my home was, ofcourse, out of the question. Already I saw myself in the grey dawn, a prodigalson, fleeing from all I held dear, through forest and field towards theunknown. My mood of despair had gained so strong a hold upon me that, when mycard won, I immediately placed all the money on a fresh stake, and repeatedthis experiment until I had won quite a considerable amount. From that momentmy luck grew continuously. I gained such confidence that I risked the mosthazardous stakes: for suddenly it dawned upon me that this was destined to bemy last day with the cards. My good fortune now became so obvious that the bankthought it wise to close. Not only had I won back all the money I had lost, butI had won enough to pay off all my debts as well. My sensations during thewhole of this process were of the most sacred nature: I felt as if God and Hisangels were standing by my side and were whispering words of warning and ofconsolation into my ears.
Once more I climbed over the gate of my home in the early hours of the morning,this time to sleep peacefully and soundly and to awake very late, strengthenedand as though born again.
No sense of shame deterred me from telling my mother, to whom I presented hermoney, the whole truth about this decisive night. I voluntarily confessed mysin in having utilised her pension, sparing no detail. She folded her hands andthanked God for His mercy, and forthwith regarded me as saved, believing itimpossible for me ever to commit such a crime again.
And, truth to tell, gambling had lost all fascination for me from that moment.The world, in which I had moved like one demented, suddenly seemed stripped ofall interest or attraction. My rage for gambling had already made me quiteindifferent to the usual student’s vanities, and when I was freed from thispassion also, I suddenly found myself face to face with an entirely new world.
To this world I belonged henceforth: it was the world of real and seriousmusical study, to which I now devoted myself heart and soul.
Even during this wild period of my life, my musical development had not beenentirely at a standstill; on the contrary, it daily became plainer that musicwas the only direction towards which my mental tendencies had a marked bent.Only I had got quite out of the habit of musical study. Even now it seemsincredible that I managed to find time in those days to finish quite asubstantial amount of composition. I have but the faintest recollection of anOverture in C major (6/8 time), and of a Sonata in B flat major arranged as aduet; the latter pleased my sister Ottilie, who played it with me, so much thatI arranged it for orchestra. But another work of this period, an Overture in Bflat major, left an indelible impression on my mind on account of an incidentconnected with it. This composition, in fact, was the outcome of my study ofBeethoven’s Ninth Symphony in about the same degree as Leubald und Adelaïde wasthe result of my study of Shakespeare. I had made a special point of bringingout the mystic meaning in the orchestra, which I divided into three distinctlydifferent and opposite elements. I wanted to make the characteristic nature ofthese elements clear to the score reader the moment he looked at it by astriking display of colour, and only the fact that I could not get any greenink made this picturesque idea impossible. I employed black ink for the brassinstruments alone, the strings were to have red and the wind green ink. Thisextraordinary score I gave for perusal to Heinrich Dorn, who was at that timemusical director of the Leipzig theatre. He was very young, and impressed me asbeing a very clever musician and a witty man of the world, whom the Leipzigpublic made much of.
Nevertheless, I have never been able to understand how he could have granted myrequest to produce this overture.
Some time afterwards I was rather inclined to believe with others, who knew howmuch he enjoyed a good joke, that he intended to treat himself to a little fun.At the time, however, he vowed that he thought the work interesting, andmaintained that if it were only brought out as a hitherto unknown work byBeethoven, the public would receive it with respect, though withoutunderstanding.
It was the Christmas of the fateful year 1830; as usual, there would be noperformance at the theatre on Christmas Eve, but instead a concert for the poorhad been organised, which received but scant support. The first item on theprogramme was called by the exciting title ‘New Overture’—nothing more! I hadsurreptitiously listened to the rehearsal with some misgiving. I was very muchimpressed by the coolness with which Dorn fenced with the apparent confusionwhich the members of the orchestra showed with regard to this mysteriouscomposition. The principal theme of the Allegro was contained in four bars;after every fourth bar, however, a fifth bar had been inserted, which hadnothing to do with the melody, and which was announced by a loud bang on thekettle-drum on the second beat. As this drum-beat stood out alone, the drummer,who continually thought he was making a mistake, got confused, and did not givethe right sharpness to the accent as prescribed by the score. Listening from myhidden corner, and frightened at my original intention, this accidentallydifferent rendering did not displease me. To my genuine annoyance, however,Dorn called the drummer to the front and insisted on his playing the accentswith the prescribed sharpness. When, after the rehearsal, I told the musicaldirector of my misgivings about this important fact, I could not get him topromise a milder interpretation of the fatal drum-beat; he stuck to it that thething would sound very well as it was. In spite of this assurance myrestlessness grew, and I had not the courage to introduce myself to my friendsin advance as the author of the ‘New Overture.’
My sister Ottilie, who had already been forced to survive the secret readingsof Leubald und Adelaïde, was the only person willing to come with me to hear mywork. It was Christmas Eve, and there was to be the usual Christmas tree,presents, etc., at my brother-in-law’s, Friedrich Brockhaus, and both of usnaturally wanted to be there. My sister, in particular, who lived there, had agood deal to do with the arrangements, and could only get away for a shortwhile, and that with great difficulty; our amiable relation accordingly had thecarriage ready for her so that she might get back more quickly. I made use ofthis opportunity to inaugurate, as it were, my entree into the musical world ina festive manner. The carriage drew up in front of the theatre. Ottilie wentinto my brother-in-law’s box, which forced me to try and find a seat in thepit. I had forgotten to buy a ticket, and was refused admission by the man atthe door. Suddenly the tuning up of the orchestra grew louder and louder, and Ithought I should have to miss the beginning of my work. In my anxiety Irevealed myself to the man at the door as the composer of the ‘New Overture,’and in this way succeeded in passing without a ticket. I pushed my way throughto one of the first rows of the pit, and sat down in terrible anxiety.
The Overture began: after the theme of the ‘black’ brass instruments had madeitself heard with great emphasis, the ‘red’ Allegro theme started, in which, asI have already mentioned, every fifth bar was interrupted by the drum-beat fromthe ‘black’ world. What kind of effect the ‘green’ theme of the windinstruments, which joined in afterwards, produced upon the listeners, and whatthey must have thought when ‘black,’ ‘red,’ and ‘green’ themes becameintermingled, has always remained a mystery to me, for the fatal drum-beat,brutally hammered out, entirely deprived me of my senses, especially as thisprolonged and continually recurring effect now began to rouse, not only theattention, but the merriment of the audience. I heard my neighbours calculatingthe return of this effect; knowing the absolute correctness of theircalculation, I suffered ten thousand torments, and became almost unconscious.At last I awoke from my nightmare when the Overture, to which I had disdainedto give what I considered a trite ending, came to a standstill mostunexpectedly.
No phantoms like those in Hoffmann’s Tales could have succeeded in producingthe extraordinary state in which I came to my senses on noticing theastonishment of the audience at the end of the performance. I heard noexclamations of disapproval, no hissing, no remarks, not even laughter; all Isaw was intense astonishment at such a strange occurrence, which impressedthem, as it did me, like a horrible nightmare. The worst moment, however, camewhen I had to leave the pit and take my sister home. To get up and pass throughthe people in the pit was horrible indeed. Nothing, however, equalled the painof coming face to face with the man at the door; the strange look he gave mehaunted me ever afterwards, and for a considerable time I avoided the pit ofthe Leipzig theatre.
My next step was to find my sister, who had gone through the whole sadexperience with infinite pity; in silence we drove home to be present at abrilliant family festivity, which contrasted with grim irony with the gloom ofmy bewilderment.
In spite of it all I tried to believe in myself, and thought I could findcomfort in my overture to the Braut von Messina, which I believed to be abetter work than the fatal one I had just heard. A reinstatement, however, wasout of the question, for the directors of the Leipzig theatre regarded me for along time as a very doubtful person, in spite of Dorn’s friendship. It is truethat I still tried my hand at sketching out compositions to Goethe’s Faust,some of which have been preserved to this day: but soon my wild student’s liferesumed its sway and drowned the last remnant of serious musical study in me.
I now began to imagine that because I had become a student I ought to attendthe University lectures. From Traugott Krug, who was well known to me onaccount of his having suppressed the student’s revolt, I tried to learn thefirst principles of philosophy; a single lesson sufficed to make me give thisup. Two or three times, however, I attended the lectures on aesthetics given byone of the younger professors, a man called Weiss. This perseverance was due tothe interest which Weiss immediately aroused in me. When I made hisacquaintance at my uncle Adolph’s house, Weiss had just translated themetaphysics of Aristotle, and, if I am not mistaken, dedicated them in acontroversial spirit to Hegel.
On this occasion I had listened to the conversation of these two men onphilosophy and philosophers, which made a tremendous impression on me. Iremember that Weiss was an absent-minded man, with a hasty and abrupt manner ofspeaking; he had an interesting and pensive expression which impressed meimmensely. I recollect how, on being accused of a want of clearness in hiswriting and style, he justified himself by saying that the deep problems of thehuman mind could not in any case be solved by the mob. This maxim, which struckme as being very plausible, I at once accepted as the principle for all myfuture writing. I remember that my eldest brother Albert, to whom I once had towrite for my mother, grew so disgusted with my letter and style that he said hethought I must be going mad.
In spite of my hopes that Weiss’s lectures would do me much good, I was notcapable of continuing to attend them, as my desires in those days drove me toanything but the study of aesthetics. Nevertheless, my mother’s anxiety at thistime on my behalf made me try to take up music again. As Muller, the teacherunder whom I had studied till that time, had not been able to inspire me with apermanent love of study, it was necessary to discover whether another teachermight not be better able to induce me to do serious work.
Theodor Weinlich, who was choirmaster and musical director at St. Thomas’sChurch, held at that time this important and ancient post which was afterwardsoccupied by Schicht, and before him by no less a person than Sebastian Bach. Byeducation he belonged to the old Italian school of music, and had studied inBologna under Pater Martini. He had made a name for himself in this art by hisvocal compositions, in which his fine manner of treating the parts was muchpraised. He himself told me one day that a Leipzig publisher had offered him avery substantial fee if he would write for his firm another book of vocalexercises similar to the one which had proved so profitable to his firstpublisher. Weinlich told him that he had not got any exercises of the kindready at the moment, but offered him instead a new Mass, which the publisherrefused with the words: ‘Let him who got the meat gnaw the bones.’ The modestywith which Weinlich told me this little story showed how excellent a man hewas. As he was in a very bad and weak state of health when my mother introducedme to him, he at first refused to take me as a pupil. But, after havingresisted all persuasions, he at last took pity on my musical education, which,as he soon discovered from a fugue which I had brought with me, was exceedinglyfaulty. He accordingly promised to teach me, on condition that I should give upall attempts at composing for six months, and follow his instructionsimplicitly. To the first part of my promise I remained faithful, thanks to thevast vortex of dissipation into which my life as a student had drawn me.
When, however, I had to occupy myself for any length of time with nothing butfour-part harmony exercises in strictly rigorous style, it was not only thestudent in me, but also the composer of so many overtures and sonatas, that wasthoroughly disgusted. Weinlich, too, had his grievances against me, and decidedto give me up.
During this period I came to the crisis of my life, which led to thecatastrophe of that terrible evening at the gambling den. But an even greaterblow than this fearful experience awaited me when Weinlich decided not to haveanything more to do with me. Deeply humiliated and miserable, I besought thegentle old man, whom I loved dearly, to forgive me, and I promised him fromthat moment to work with unflagging energy. One morning at seven o’clockWeinlich sent for me to begin the rough sketch for a fugue; he devoted thewhole morning to me, following my work bar by bar with the greatest attention,and giving me his valuable advice. At twelve o’clock he dismissed me with theinstruction to perfect and finish the sketch by filling in the remaining partsat home.
When I brought him the fugue finished, he handed me his own treatment of thesame theme for comparison. This common task of fugue writing establishedbetween me and my good-natured teacher the tenderest of ties, for, from thatmoment, we both enjoyed the lessons. I was astonished how quickly the timeflew. In eight weeks I had not only gone through a number of the most intricatefugues, but had also waded through all kinds of difficult evolutions incounterpoint, when one day, on bringing him an extremely elaborate doublefugue, he took my breath away by telling me that after this there was nothingleft for him to teach me.
As I was not aware of any great effort on my part, I often wondered whether Ihad really become a well-equipped musician. Weinlich himself did not seem toattach much importance to what he had taught me: he said, ‘Probably you willnever write fugues or canons; but what you have mastered is Independence: youcan now stand alone and rely upon having a fine technique at your fingers’ endsif you should want it.’
The principal result of his influence over me was certainly the growing love ofclearness and fluency to which he had trained me. I had already had to writethe above-mentioned fugue for ordinary voices; my feeling for the melodious andvocal had in this way been awakened. In order to keep me strictly under hiscalming and friendly influence, he had at the same time given me a sonata towrite which, as a proof of my friendship for him, I had to build up on strictlyharmonic and thematic lines, for which he recommended me a very early andchildlike sonata by Pleyel as a model.
Those who had only recently heard my Overture must, indeed, have wondered how Iever wrote this sonata, which has been published through the indiscretion ofMessrs. Breitkopf and Hartel (to reward me for my abstemiousness, Weinlichinduced them to publish this poor composition). From that moment he gave me afree hand. To begin with I was allowed to compose a Fantasia for the pianoforte(in F sharp minor) which I wrote in a quite informal style by treating themelody in recitative form; this gave me intense satisfaction because it won mepraise from Weinlich.
Soon afterwards I wrote three overtures which all met with his entire approval.In the following winter (1831-1832) I succeeded in getting the first of them,in D minor, performed at one of the Gewandhaus concerts.
At that time a very simple and homely tone reigned supreme in this institution.The instrumental works were not conducted by what we call ‘a conductor of theorchestra,’ but were simply played to the audience by the leader of theorchestra. As soon as the singing began, Pohlenz took his place at theconductor’s desk; he belonged to the type of fat and pleasant musicaldirectors, and was a great favourite with the Leipzig public. He used to comeon the platform with a very important-looking blue baton in his hand.
One of the strangest events which occurred at that time was the yearlyproduction of the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven; after the first three movementshad been played straight through like a Haydn symphony, as well as theorchestra could manage it, Pohlenz, instead of having to conduct a vocalquartette, a cantata, or an Italian aria, took his place at the desk toundertake this highly complicated instrumental work, with its particularlyenigmatical and incoherent opening, one of the most difficult tasks that couldpossibly be found for a musical conductor. I shall never forget the impressionproduced upon me at the first rehearsal by the anxiously and carefully played3/4 time, and the way in which the wild shrieks of the trumpet (with which thismovement begins) resulted in the most extraordinary confusion of sound.
He had evidently chosen this tempo in order, in some way, to manage therecitative of the double basses; but it was utterly hopeless. Pohlenz was in abath of perspiration, the recitative did not come off, and I really began tothink that Beethoven must have written nonsense; the double bass player,Temmler, a faithful veteran of the orchestra, prevailed upon Pohlenz at last,in rather coarse and energetic language, to put down the baton, and in this waythe recitative really proceeded properly. All the same, I felt at this timethat I had come to the humble conclusion, in a way I can hardly explain, thatthis extraordinary work was still beyond my comprehension. For a long time Igave up brooding over this composition, and I turned my thoughts with simplelonging towards a clearer and calmer musical form.
My study of counterpoint had taught me to appreciate, above all, Mozart’s lightand flowing treatment of the most difficult technical problems, and the lastmovement of his great Symphony in C major in particular served me as examplefor my own work. My D minor Overture, which clearly showed the influence ofBeethoven’s Coriolanus Overture, had been favourably received by the public; mymother began to have faith in me again, and I started at once on a secondoverture (in C major), which really ended with a ‘Fugato’ that did more creditto my new model than I had ever hoped to accomplish.
This overture, also, was soon afterwards performed at a recital given by thefavourite singer, Mlle. Palazzesi (of the Dresden Italian Opera). Before this Ihad already introduced it at a concert given by a private musical societycalled ‘Euterpe’, when I had conducted it myself.
I remember the strange impression I received from a remark that my mother madeon that occasion; as a matter of fact this work, which was written in acounterpoint style, without any real passion or emotion, had produced a strangeeffect upon her. She gave vent to her astonishment by warmly praising theEgmont Overture, which was played at the same concert, maintaining that ‘thiskind of music was after all more fascinating than any stupid fugue.’
At this time I also wrote (as my third opus) an overture to Raupach’s drama,Konig Enzio, in which again Beethoven’s influence made itself even morestrongly felt. My sister Rosalie succeeded in getting it performed at thetheatre before the play; for the sake of prudence they did not announce it onthe programme the first time. Dorn conducted it, and as the performance wentoff all right, and the public showed no dissatisfaction, my overture was playedwith my full name on the programme several times during the run of theabove-mentioned drama.
After this I tried my hand at a big Symphony (in C major); in this work Ishowed what I had learnt by using the influence of my study of Beethoven andMozart towards the achievement of a really pleasant and intelligible work, inwhich the fugue was again present at the end, while the themes of the variousmovements were so constructed that they could be played consecutively.
Nevertheless, the passionate and bold element of the Sinfonia Eroica wasdistinctly discernible, especially in the first movement. The slow movement, onthe contrary, contained reminiscences of my former musical mysticism. A kind ofrepeated interrogative exclamation of the minor third merging into the fifthconnected in my mind this work (which I had finished with the utmost effort atclearness) with my very earliest period of boyish sentimentality.
When, in the following year, I called on Friedrich Rochlitz, at that time the‘Nestor’ of the musical aesthetes in Leipzig, and president of the Gewandhaus,I prevailed upon him to promise me a performance of my work. As he had beengiven my score for perusal before seeing me, he was quite astonished to findthat I was a very young man, for the character of my music had prepared him tosee a much older and more experienced musician. Before this performance tookplace many things happened which I must first mention, as they were of greatimportance to my life.
My short and stormy career as a student had drowned in me not only all longingfor further development, but also all interest in intellectual and spiritualpursuits. Although, as I have pointed out, I had never alienated myselfentirely from music, my revived interest in politics aroused my first realdisgust for my senseless student’s life, which soon left no deeper traces on mymind than the remembrance of a terrible nightmare.
The Polish War of Independence against Russian supremacy filled me with growingenthusiasm. The victories which the Poles obtained for a short period duringMay, 1831, aroused my enthusiastic admiration: it seemed to me as though theworld had, by some miracle, been created anew. As a contrast to this, the newsof the battle of Ostrolenka made it appear as if the end of the world had come.To my astonishment, my boon companions scoffed at me when I commented upon someof these events; the terrible lack of all fellow-feeling and comradeshipamongst the students struck me very forcibly. Any kind of enthusiasm had to besmothered or turned into pedantic bravado, which showed itself in the form ofaffectation and indifference. To get drunk with deliberate cold-bloodedness,without even a glimpse of humour, was reckoned almost as brave a feat asduelling. Not until much later did I understand the far nobler spirit whichanimated the lower classes in Germany in comparison with the sadly degeneratestate of the University students. In those days I felt terribly indignant atthe insulting remarks which I brought upon myself when I deplored the battle ofOstrolenka.
To my honour be it said, that these and similar impressions helped to make megive up my low associates. During my studies with Weinlich the only littledissipation I allowed myself was my daily evening visit to Kintschy, theconfectioner in the Klostergasse, where I passionately devoured the latestnewspapers. Here I found many men who held the same political views as myself,and I specially loved to listen to the eager political discussions of some ofthe old men who frequented the place. The literary journals, too, began tointerest me; I read a great deal, but was not very particular in my choice.Nevertheless, I now began to appreciate intelligence and wit, whereas beforeonly the grotesque and the fantastic had had any attraction for me.
My interest in the issue of the Polish war, however, remained paramount. I feltthe siege and capture of Warsaw as a personal calamity. My excitement when theremains of the Polish army began to pass through Leipzig on their way to Francewas indescribable, and I shall never forget the impression produced upon me bythe first batch of these unfortunate soldiers on the occasion of their beingquartered at the Green Shield, a public-house in the Meat Market. Much as thisdepressed me, I was soon roused to a high pitch of enthusiasm, for in thelounge of the Leipzig Gewandhaus, where that night Beethoven’s C minor Symphonywas being played, a group of heroic figures, the principal leaders of thePolish revolution, excited my admiration. I felt more particularly attracted byCount Vincenz Tyszkiewitcz, a man of exceptionally powerful physique and nobleappearance, who impressed me by his dignified and aristocratic manner and hisquiet self-reliance—qualities with which I had not met before. When I saw a manof such kingly bearing in a tight-fitting coat and red velvet cap, I at oncerealised my foolishness in ever having worshipped the ludicrously dressed uplittle heroes of our students’ world. I was delighted to meet this gentlemanagain at the house of my brother-in-law, Friedrich Brockhaus, where I saw himfrequently.
My brother-in-law had the greatest pity and sympathy for the Polish rebels, andwas the president of a committee whose task it was to look after theirinterests, and for a long time he made many personal sacrifices for theircause.
The Brockhaus establishment now became tremendously attractive to me. AroundCount Vincenz Tyszkiewitcz, who remained the lodestar of this small Polishworld, gathered a great many other wealthy exiles, amongst whom I chieflyremember a cavalry captain of the name of Bansemer, a man of unlimitedkindness, but of a rather frivolous nature; he possessed a marvellous team offour horses which he drove at such breakneck speed as to cause great annoyanceto the people of Leipzig. Another man of importance with whom I remember diningwas General Bem, whose artillery had made such a gallant stand at Ostrolenka.
Many other exiles passed through this hospitable house, some of whom impressedus by their melancholy, warlike bearing, others by their refined behaviour.Vincenz Tyszkiewitcz, however, remained my ideal of a true man, and I loved himwith a profound adoration. He, too, began to be interested in me; I used tocall upon him nearly every day, and was sometimes present at a sort of martialfeast, from which he often withdrew in order to be able to open his heart to meabout the anxieties which oppressed him. He had, in fact, received absolutelyno news of the whereabouts of his wife and little son since they separated atVolhynien. Besides this, he was under the shadow of a great sorrow which drewall sympathetic natures to him. To my sister Louise he had confided theterrible calamity that had once befallen him. He had been married before, andwhile staying with his wife in one of his lonely castles, in the dead of nighthe had seen a ghostly apparition at the window of his bedroom. Hearing his namecalled several times, he had taken up a revolver to protect himself frompossible danger, and had shot his own wife, who had had the eccentric idea ofteasing him by pretending to be a ghost. I had the pleasure of sharing his joyon hearing that his family was safe. His wife joined him in Leipzig with theirbeautiful boy, Janusz. I felt sorry not to be able to feel the same sympathyfor this lady as I did for her husband; perhaps one of the reasons of myantipathy was the obvious and conspicuous way in which she made herself up, bymeans of which the poor woman probably tried to hide how much her beauty hadsuffered through the terrible strain of the past events. She soon went back toGalicia to try and save what she could of their property, and also to provideher husband with a pass from the Austrian Government, by means of which hecould follow her.
Then came the third of May. Eighteen of the Poles who were still in Leipzig mettogether at a festive dinner in a hotel outside the town; on this day was to becelebrated the first anniversary of the third of May, so dear to the memory ofthe Poles. Only the chiefs of the Leipzig Polish Committee receivedinvitations, and as a special favour I also was asked. I shall never forgetthat occasion. The dinner became an orgy; throughout the evening a brass bandfrom the town played Polish folksongs, and these were sung by the wholecompany, led by a Lithuanian called Zan, in a manner now triumphant and nowmournful. The beautiful ‘Third of May’ song more particularly drew forth apositive uproar of enthusiasm. Tears and shouts of joy grew into a terribletumult; the excited men grouped themselves on the grass swearing eternalfriendship in the most extravagant terms, for which the word ‘Oiczisna’(Fatherland) provided the principal theme, until at last night threw her veilover this wild debauch.
That evening afterwards served me as the theme for an orchestral composition(in the form of an overture) named Polonia; I shall recount the fate of thiswork later on. My friend Tyszkiewitcz’s passport now arrived, and he made uphis mind to go back to Galicia via Brunn, although his friends considered itwas very rash of him to do so. I very much wanted to see something of theworld, and Tyszkiewitcz’s offer to take me with him, induced my mother toconsent to my going to Vienna, a place that I had long wished to visit. I tookwith me the scores of my three overtures which had already been performed, andalso that of my great symphony as yet unproduced, and had a grand time with myPolish patron, who took me in his luxurious travelling-coach as far as thecapital of Moravia. During a short stop at Dresden the exiles of all classesgave our beloved Count a friendly farewell dinner in Pirna, at which thechampagne flowed freely, while the health was drunk of the future ‘Dictator ofPoland.’
At last we separated at Brunn, from which place I continued my journey toVienna by coach. During the afternoon and night, which I was obliged to spendin Brunn by myself, I went through terrible agonies from fear of the cholerawhich, as I unexpectedly heard, had broken out in this place. There I was allalone in a strange place, my faithful friend just departed, and on hearing ofthe epidemic I felt as if a malicious demon had caught me in his snare in orderto annihilate me. I did not betray my terror to the people in the hotel, butwhen I was shown into a very lonely wing of the house and left by myself inthis wilderness, I hid myself in bed with my clothes on, and lived once againthrough all the horrors of ghost stories as I had done in my boyhood. Thecholera stood before me like a living thing; I could see and touch it; it layin my bed and embraced me. My limbs turned to ice, I felt frozen to the verymarrow. Whether I was awake or asleep I never knew; I only remember howastonished I was when, on awakening, I felt thoroughly well and healthy.
At last I arrived in Vienna, where I escaped the epidemic which had penetratedas far as that town. It was midsummer of the year 1832. Owing to theintroductions I had with me, I found myself very much at home in this livelycity, in which I made a pleasant stay of six weeks. As my sojourn, however, hadno really practical purpose, my mother looked upon the cost of this holiday,short as it seemed, as an unnecessary extravagance on my part. I visited thetheatres, heard Strauss, made excursions, and altogether had a very good time.I am afraid I contracted a few debts as well, which I paid off later on when Iwas conductor of the Dresden orchestra. I had received very pleasantimpressions of musical and theatrical life, and for a long time Vienna lived inmy memory as the acme of that extraordinarily productive spirit peculiar to itspeople. I enjoyed most of all the performances at the Theater an der Wien, atwhich they were acting a grotesque fairy play called Die Abenteuer Fortunat’szu Wasser und zu Land, in which a cab was called on the shores of the Black Seaand which made a tremendous impression on me. About the music I was moredoubtful. A young friend of mine took me with immense pride to a performance ofGluck’s Iphigenia in Tauris, which was made doubly attractive by a first-ratecast including Wild, Staudigl and Binder: I must confess that on the whole Iwas bored by this work, but I did not dare say so. My ideas of Gluck hadattained gigantic proportions from my reading of Hoffmann’s well-knownPhantasies; my anticipation of this work therefore, which I had not studiedyet, had led me to expect a treatment full of overpowering dramatic force. Itis possible that Schroder-Devrient’s acting in Fidelio had taught me to judgeeverything by her exalted standard.
With the greatest trouble I worked myself up to some kind of enthusiasm for thegreat scene between Orestes and the Furies. I hoped against hope that I shouldbe able to admire the remainder of the opera. I began to understand theViennese taste, however, when I saw how great a favourite the opera Zampabecame with the public, both at the Karnthner Thor and at the Josephstadt. Boththeatres competed vigorously in the production of this popular work, andalthough the public had seemed mad about Iphigenia, nothing equalled theirenthusiasm for Zampa. No sooner had they left the Josephstadt Theatre in thegreatest ecstasies about Zampa than they proceeded to the public-house calledthe Strausslein. Here they were immediately greeted by the strains ofselections from Zampa which drove the audience to feverish excitement. I shallnever forget the extraordinary playing of Johann Strauss, who put equalenthusiasm into everything he played, and very often made the audience almostfrantic with delight.
At the beginning of a new waltz this demon of the Viennese musical spirit shooklike a Pythian priestess on the tripod, and veritable groans of ecstasy (which,without doubt, were more due to his music than to the drinks in which theaudience had indulged) raised their worship for the magic violinist to almostbewildering heights of frenzy.
The hot summer air of Vienna was absolutely impregnated with Zampa and Strauss.A very poor students’ rehearsal at the Conservatoire, at which they performed aMass by Cherubini, seemed to me like an alms paid begrudgingly to the study ofclassical music. At the same rehearsal one of the professors, to whom I wasintroduced, tried to make the students play my Overture in D minor (the onealready performed in Leipzig). I do not know what his opinion was, nor that ofthe students, with regard to this attempt; I only know they soon gave it up.
On the whole I had wandered into doubtful musical bypaths; and I now withdrewfrom this first educational visit to a great European art centre in order tostart on a cheap, but long and monotonous return journey to Bohemia, bystage-coach. My next move was a visit to the house of Count Pachta, of whom Ihad pleasant recollections from my boyhood days. His estate, Pravonin, wasabout eight miles from Prague. Received in the kindest possible way by the oldgentleman and his beautiful daughters, I enjoyed his delightful hospitalityuntil late into the autumn. A youth of nineteen, as I then was, with afast-growing beard (for which my sisters had already prepared the young ladiesby letter), the continual and close intimacy with such kind and pretty girlscould hardly fail to make a strong impression on my imagination. Jenny, theelder of the two, was slim, with black hair, blue eyes, and wonderfully noblefeatures; the younger one, Auguste, was a little smaller, and stouter, with amagnificent complexion, fair hair, and brown eyes. The natural and sisterlymanner with which both girls treated me and conversed with me did not blind meto the fact that I was expected to fall in love with one or the other of them.It amused them to see how embarrassed I got in my efforts to choose betweenthem, and consequently they teased me tremendously.
Unfortunately, I did not act judiciously with regard to the daughters of myhost: in spite of their homely education, they belonged to a very aristocratichouse, and consequently hesitated between the hope of marrying men of eminentposition in their own sphere, and the necessity of choosing husbands amongstthe higher middle classes, who could afford to keep them in comfort. Theshockingly poor, almost mediaeval, education of the Austrian so-calledcavalier, made me rather despise the latter; the girls, too, had suffered fromthe same lack of proper training. I soon noticed with disgust how little theyknew about things artistic, and how much value they attached to superficialthings. However much I might try to interest them in those higher pursuitswhich had become necessary to me, they were incapable of appreciating them. Iadvocated a complete change from the bad library novels, which representedtheir only reading, from the Italian operatic arias, sung by Auguste, and, lastbut not least, from the horsy, insipid cavaliers, who paid their court to bothJenny and her sister in the most coarse and offensive manner. My zeal in thislatter respect soon gave rise to great unpleasantness. I became hard andinsulting, harangued them about the French Revolution, and begged them withfatherly admonitions ‘for the love of heaven’ to be content with well-educatedmiddle-class men, and give up those impertinent suitors who could only harmtheir reputation. The indignation provoked by my friendly advice I often had toward off with the harshest retorts. I never apologised, but tried by dint ofreal or feigned jealousy to get our friendship back on the old footing. In thisway, undecided, half in love and half angry, one cold November day I saidgood-bye to these pretty children. I soon met the whole family again at Prague,where I made a long sojourn, without, however, staying at the Count’sresidence.
My stay at Prague was to be of great musical importance to me. I knew thedirector of the Conservatoire, Dionys Weber, who promised to bring my symphonybefore the public; I also spent much of my time with an actor called Moritz, towhom, as an old friend of our family, I had been recommended, and there I madethe acquaintance of the young musician Kittl.
Moritz, who noticed that not a day passed but what I went to the much-fearedchief of the Conservatoire upon some pressing musical business, once despatchedme with an improvised parody on Schiller’s Burgschaft:—
Zu Dionys dem Direktor schlichWagner, die Partitur im Gewande;Ihn schlugen die Schuler im Bande:‘Was wolltest du mit den Noten sprich?’Entgegnet ihm finster der Wutherich:‘Die Stadt vom schlechten Geschmacke befreien!Das sollst du in den Rezensionen bereuen.’[5]
[5]To Dionys, the Director,crept Wagner, the score in his pocket;The students arrested him forthwith:‘What do’st thou with that music, say?’Thus asked him the angry tyrant:‘To free the town from taste too vile!For this the critics will make thee suffer.’
Truly I had to deal with a kind of ‘Dionysius the Tyrant.’ A man who did notacknowledge Beethoven’s genius beyond his Second Symphony, a man who lookedupon the Eroica as the acme of bad taste on the master’s part; who praisedMozart alone, and next to him tolerated only Lindpaintner: such a man was noteasy to approach, and I had to learn the art of making use of tyrants for one’sown purposes. I dissimulated; I pretended to be struck by the novelty of hisideas, never contradicted him, and, to point out the similarity of ourstandpoints, I referred him to the end fugue in my Overture and in my Symphony(both in C major), which I had only succeeded in making what they were throughhaving studied Mozart. My reward soon followed: Dionys set to work to study myorchestral creations with almost youthful energy.
The students of the Conservatoire were compelled to practise with the greatestexactitude my new symphony under his dry and terribly noisy baton. In thepresence of several of my friends, amongst whom was also the dear old CountPachta in his capacity of President of the Conservatoire Committee, we actuallyheld a first performance of the greatest work that I had written up to thatdate.
During these musical successes I went on with my love-making in the attractivehouse of Count Pachta, under the most curious circumstances. A confectioner ofthe name of Hascha was my rival. He was a tall, lanky young man who, like mostBohemians, had taken up music as a hobby; he played the accompaniments toAuguste’s songs, and naturally fell in love with her. Like myself, he hated thefrequent visits of the cavaliers, which seemed to be quite the custom in thiscity; but while my displeasure expressed itself in humour, his showed itself ingloomy melancholy. This mood made him behave boorishly in public: for instance,one evening, when the chandelier was to be lighted for the reception of one ofthese gentlemen, he ran his head purposely against this ornament and broke it.The festive illumination was thus rendered impossible; the Countess wasfurious, and Hascha had to leave the house never to return.
I well remember that the first time I was conscious of any feelings of love,these manifested themselves as pangs of jealousy, which had, however, nothingto do with real love: this happened one evening when I called at the house. TheCountess kept me by her side in an ante-room, while the girls, beautifullydressed and gay, flirted in the reception-room with those hateful youngnoblemen. All I had ever read in Hoffmann’s Tales of certain demoniacalintrigues, which until that moment had been obscure to me, now became reallytangible facts, and I left Prague with an obviously unjust and exaggeratedopinion of those things and those people, through whom I had suddenly beendragged into an unknown world of elementary passions.
On the other hand I had gained by my stay at Pravonin: I had written poetry aswell as musical compositions. My musical work was a setting of Glockentone, apoem by the friend of my youth, Theodor Apel. I had already written an aria forsoprano which had been performed the winter before at one of the theatreconcerts. But my new work was decidedly the first vocal piece I had writtenwith real inspiration; generally speaking, I suppose it owed its’characteristics to the influence of Beethoven’s Liederkreis: all the same, theimpression that it has left on my mind is that it was absolutely part ofmyself, and pervaded by a delicate sentimentality which was brought into reliefby the dreaminess of the accompaniment. My poetical efforts lay in thedirection of a sketch of a tragi-operatic subject, which I finished in itsentirety in Prague under the title of Die Hochzeit (‘The Wedding’). I wrote itwithout anybody’s knowledge, and this was no easy matter, seeing that I couldnot write in my chilly little hotel-room, and had therefore to go to the houseof Moritz, where I generally spent my mornings. I remember how I used quicklyto hide my manuscript behind the sofa as soon as I heard my host’s footsteps.
An extraordinary episode was connected with the plot of this work.
Already years ago I had come across a tragic story, whilst perusing Busching’sbook on chivalry, the like of which I have never since read. A lady of noblebirth had been assaulted one night by a man who secretly cherished a passionatelove for her, and in the struggle to defend her honour superhuman strength wasgiven her to fling him into the courtyard below. The mystery of his deathremained unexplained until the day of his solemn obsequies, when the ladyherself, who attended them and was kneeling in solemn prayer, suddenly fellforward and expired. The mysterious strength of this profound and passionatestory made an indelible impression upon my mind. Fascinated, moreover, by thepeculiar treatment of similar phenomena in Hoffmann’s Tales, I sketched a novelin which musical mysticism, which I still loved so deeply, played an importantpart. The action was supposed to take place on the estate of a rich patron ofthe fine arts: a young couple was going to be married, and had invited thefriend of the bride-groom, an interesting but melancholy and mysterious youngman, to their wedding. Intimately connected with the whole affair was a strangeold organist. The mystic relations which gradually developed between the oldmusician, the melancholy young man and the bride, were to grow out of theunravelment of certain intricate events, in a somewhat similar manner to thatof the mediaeval story above related. Here was the same idea: the young manmysteriously killed, the equally strange sudden death of his friend’s bride,and the old organist found dead on his bench after the playing of an impressiverequiem, the last chord of which was inordinately prolonged as if it neverwould end.
I never finished this novel: but as I wanted to write the libretto for anopera, I took up the theme again in its original shape, and built on this (asfar as the principal features went) the following dramatic plot:—
Two great houses had lived in enmity, and had at last decided to end the familyfeud. The aged head of one of these houses invited the son of his former enemyto the wedding of his daughter with one of his faithful partisans. The weddingfeast is thus used as an opportunity for reconciling the two families. Whilstthe guests are full of the suspicion and fear of treachery, their young leaderfalls violently in love with the bride of his newly found ally. His tragicglance deeply affects her; the festive escort accompanies her to the bridalchamber, where she is to await her beloved; leaning against her tower-windowshe sees the same passionate eyes fixed on her, and realises that she is faceto face with a tragedy.
When he penetrates into her chamber, and embraces her with frantic passion, shepushes him backwards towards the balcony, and throws him over the parapet intothe abyss, from whence his mutilated remains are dragged by his companions.They at once arm themselves against the presumed treachery, and call forvengeance; tumult and confusion fill the courtyard: the interrupted weddingfeast threatens to end in a night of slaughter. The venerable head of the houseat last succeeds in averting the catastrophe. Messengers are sent to bear thetidings of the mysterious calamity to the relatives of the victim: the corpseitself shall be the medium of reconciliation, for, in the presence of thedifferent generations of the suspected family, Providence itself shall decidewhich of its members has been guilty of treason. During the preparations forthe obsequies the bride shows signs of approaching madness; she flies from herbridegroom, refuses to be united to him, and locks herself up in hertower-chamber. Only when, at night, the gloomy though gorgeous ceremonycommences, does she appear at the head of her women to be present at the burialservice, the gruesome solemnity of which is interrupted by the news of theapproach of hostile forces and then by the armed attack of the kinsmen of themurdered man. When the avengers of the presumed treachery penetrate into thechapel and call upon the murderer to declare himself, the horrified lord of themanor points towards his daughter who, turning away from her bridegroom, fallslifeless by the coffin of her victim. This nocturnal drama, through which ranreminiscences of Leubald und Adelaïde (the work of my far-off boyhood), I wrotein the darkest vein, but in a more polished and more noble style, disdainingall light-effects, and especially all operatic embellishments. Tender passagesoccurred here and there all the same, and Weinlich, to whom I had already shownthe beginning of my work on my return to Leipzig, praised me for the clearnessand good vocal quality of the introduction I had composed to the first act;this was an Adagio for a vocal septette, in which I had tried to express thereconciliation of the hostile families, together with the emotions of thewedded couple and the sinister passion of the secret lover. My principal objectwas, all the same, to win my sister Rosalie’s approval. My poem, however, didnot find favour in her eyes: she missed all that which I had purposely avoided,insisted on the ornamentation and development of the simple situation, anddesired more brightness generally. I made up my mind in an instant: I took themanuscript, and without a suggestion of ill-temper, destroyed it there andthen. This action had nothing whatever to do with wounded vanity. It wasprompted merely by my desire honestly to prove to my sister how little Ithought of my own work and how much I cared for her opinion. She was held ingreat and loving esteem by my mother and by the rest of our family, for she wastheir principal breadwinner: the important salary she earned as an actressconstituted nearly the whole income out of which my mother had to defray thehousehold expenses. For the sake of her profession she enjoyed many advantagesat home. Her part of the house had been specially arranged so that she shouldhave all the necessary comfort and peace for her studies; on marketing days,when the others had to put up with the simplest fare, she had to have the samedainty food as usual. But more than any of these things did her charminggravity and her refined way of speaking place her above the younger children.She was thoughtful and gentle and never joined us in our rather loudconversation. Of course, I had been the one member of the family who had causedthe greatest anxieties both to my mother and to my motherly sister, and duringmy life as a student the strained relations between us had made a terribleimpression on me. When therefore they tried to believe in me again, and oncemore showed some interest in my work, I was full of gratitude and happiness.The thought of getting this sister to look kindly upon my aspirations, and evento expect great things of me, had become a special stimulus to my ambition.Under these circumstances a tender and almost sentimental relationship grew upbetween Rosalie and myself, which in its purity and sincerity could vie withthe noblest form of friendship between man and woman. This was principally dueto her exceptional individuality. She had not any real talent, at least not foracting, which had often been considered stagey and unnatural. Nevertheless shewas much appreciated owing to her charming appearance as well as to her pureand dignified womanliness, and I remember many tokens of esteem which shereceived in those days. All the same, none of these advances ever seemed tolead to the prospect of a marriage, and year by year went by without bringingher hopes of a suitable match—a fact which to me appeared quite unaccountable.From time to time I thought I noticed that Rosalie suffered from this state ofaffairs. I remember one evening when, believing herself to be alone, I heardher sobbing and moaning; I stole away unnoticed, but her grief made such animpression upon me that from that moment I vowed to bring some joy into herlife, principally by making a name for myself. Not without reason had ourstepfather Geyer given my gentle sister the nickname of ‘Geistchen’ (littlespirit), for if her talent as an actress was not great, her imagination and herlove of art and of all high and noble things were perhaps, on that accountalone, all the greater. From her lips I had first heard expressions ofadmiration and delight concerning those subjects which became dear to me lateron, and she moved amongst a circle of serious and interesting people who lovedthe higher things of life without this attitude ever degenerating intoaffectation.
On my return from my long journey I was introduced to Heinrich Laube, whom mysister had added to her list of intimate friends. It was at the time when theafter-effects of the July revolution were beginning to make themselves feltamongst the younger men of intellect in Germany, and of these Laube was one ofthe most conspicuous. As a young man he came from Silesia to Leipzig, hisprincipal object being to try and form connections in this publishing centrewhich might be of use to him in Paris, whither he was going, and from whichplace Borne also made a sensation amongst us by his letters. On this occasionLaube was present at a representation of a play by Ludwig Robert, Die Macht derVerhallnisse (‘The Power of Circumstances’). This induced him to write acriticism for the Leipzig Tageblatt, which made such a sensation through itsterse and lively style that he was at once offered, in addition to otherliterary work, the post of editor of Die elegante Welt. In our house he waslooked upon as a genius; his curt and often biting manner of speaking, whichseemed to exclude all attempt at poetic expression, made him appear bothoriginal and daring: his sense of justice, his sincerity and fearless bluntnessmade one respect his character, hardened as it had been in youth by greatadversity. On me he had a very inspiring effect, and I was very much astonishedto find that he thought so much of me as to write a flattering notice about mytalent in his paper after hearing the first performance of my symphony.
This performance took place in the beginning of the year 1833 at the LeipzigSchneider-Herberge. It was, by the bye, in this dignified old hall that thesociety ‘Euterpe’ held its concerts! The place was dirty, narrow, and poorlylighted, and it was here that my work was introduced to the Leipzig public forthe first time, and by means of an orchestra that interpreted it simplydisgracefully. I can only think of that evening as a gruesome nightmare; and myastonishment was therefore all the greater at seeing the important notice whichLaube wrote about the performance. Full of hope, I therefore looked forward toa performance of the same work at the Gewandhaus concert, which followed soonafter, and which came off brilliantly in every way. It was well received andwell spoken of in all the papers; of real malice there was not a trace—on thecontrary, several notices wore encouraging, and Laube, who had quickly becomecelebrated, confided to me that he was going to offer me a libretto for anopera, which he had first written for Meyerbeer. This staggered me somewhat,for I was not in the least prepared to pose as a poet, and my only idea was towrite a real plot for an opera. As to the precise manner, however, in whichsuch a book had to be written, I already had a very definite and instinctivenotion, and I was strengthened in the certainty of my own feelings in thematter when Laube now explained the nature of his plot to me. He told me thathe wanted to arrange nothing less than Kosziusko into a libretto for grandopera! Once again I had qualms, for I felt at once that Laube had a mistakenidea about the character of a dramatic subject. When I inquired into the realaction of the play, Laube was astonished that I should expect more than thestory of the Polish hero, whose life was crowded with incident; in any case, hethought there was quite sufficient action in it to describe the unhappy fate ofa whole nation. Of course the usual heroine was not missing; she was a Polishgirl who had a love affair with a Russian; and in this way some sentimentalsituations were also to be found in the plot. Without a moment’s delay Iassured my sister Rosalie that I would not set this story to music: she agreedwith me, and begged me only to postpone my answer to Laube. My journey toWurzburg was of great help to me in this respect, for it was easier to write mydecision to Laube than to announce it to him personally. He accepted the slightrebuff with good grace, but he never forgave me, either then or afterwards, forwriting my own words!
When he heard what subject I had preferred to his brilliant political poem, hemade no effort to conceal his contempt for my choice. I had borrowed the plotfrom a dramatic fairy tale by Gozzi, La Donna Serpente, and called it Die Feen(‘The Fairies’). The names of my heroes I chose from different Ossian andsimilar poems: my prince was called Arindal; he was loved by a fairy calledAda, who held him under her spell and kept him in fairyland, away from hisrealm, until his faithful friends at last found him and induced him to return,for his country was going to rack and ruin, and even its capital had falleninto the enemy’s hands. The loving fairy herself sends the prince back to hiscountry; for the oracle has decreed that she shall lay upon her lover theseverest of tasks. Only by performing this task triumphantly can he make itpossible for her to leave the immortal world of fairies in order to share thefate of her earthly lover, as his wife. In a moment of deepest despair aboutthe state of his country, the fairy queen appears to him and purposely destroyshis faith in her by deeds of the most cruel and inexplicable nature. Driven madby a thousand fears, Arindal begins to imagine that all the time he has beendealing with a wicked sorceress, and tries to escape the fatal spell bypronouncing a curse upon Ada. Wild with sorrow, the unhappy fairy sinks down,and reveals their mutual fate to the lover, now lost to her for ever, and tellshim that, as a punishment for having disobeyed the decree of Fate, she isdoomed to be turned into stone (in Gozzi’s version she becomes a serpent).Immediately afterwards it appears that all the catastrophes which the fairy hadprophesied were but deceptions: victory over the enemy as well as the growingprosperity and welfare of the kingdom now follow in quick succession: Ada istaken away by the Fates, and Arindal, a raving madman, remains behind alone.The terrible sufferings of his madness do not, however, satisfy the Fates: tobring about his utter ruin they appear before the repentant man and invite himto follow them to the nether world, on the pretext of enabling him to free Adafrom the spell. Through the treacherous promises of the wicked fairiesArindal’s madness grows into sublime exaltation; and one of his householdmagicians, a faithful friend, having in the meantime equipped him with magicweapons and charms, he now follows the traitresses. The latter cannot get overtheir astonishment when they see how Arindal overcomes one after the other ofthe monsters of the infernal regions: only when they arrive at the vault inwhich they show him the stone in human shape do they recover their hope ofvanquishing the valiant prince, for, unless he can break the charm which bindsAda, he must share her fate and be doomed to remain a stone for ever. Arindal,who until then has been using the dagger and the shield given him by thefriendly magician, now makes use of an instrument—a lyre—which he has broughtwith him, and the meaning of which he had not yet understood. To the sounds ofthis instrument he now expresses his plaintive moans, his remorse, and hisoverpowering longing for his enchanted queen. The stone is moved by the magicof his love: the beloved one is released. Fairyland with all its marvels opensits portals, and the mortal learns that, owing to his former inconstancy, Adahas lost the right to become his wife on earth, but that her beloved, throughhis great and magic power, has earned the right to live for ever by her side infairyland.
Although I had written Die Hochzeit in the darkest vein, without operaticembellishments, I painted this subject with the utmost colour and variety. Incontrast to the lovers out of fairyland I depicted a more ordinary couple, andI even introduced a third pair that belonged to the coarser and more comicalservant world. I purposely went to no pains in the matter of the poetic dictionand the verse. My idea was not to encourage my former hopes of making a name asa poet; I was now really a ‘musician’ and a ‘composer,’ and wished to write adecent opera libretto simply because I was sure that nobody else could writeone for me; the reason being that such a book is something quite unique andcannot be written either by a poet or by a mere man of letters. With theintention of setting this libretto to music, I left Leipzig in January, 1833,to stay in Wurzburg with my eldest brother Albert, who at the time held anappointment at the theatre. It now seemed necessary for me to begin to apply mymusical knowledge to a practical purpose, and to this end my brother hadpromised to help me in getting some kind of post at the small Wurzburg theatre.I travelled by post to Bamberg via Hof, and in Bamberg I stayed a few days inthe company of a young man called Schunke, who from a player on the horn hadbecome an actor. With the greatest interest I learned the story of CasparHauser, who at that time was very well known, and who (if I am not mistaken)was pointed out to me. In addition to this, I admired the peculiar costumes ofthe market-women, thought with much interest of Hoffmann’s stay at this place,and of how it had led to the writing of his Tales, and resumed my journey (toWurzburg) with a man called Hauderer, and suffered miserably from the cold allthe way.
My brother Albert, who was almost a new acquaintance to me, did his best tomake me feel at home in his not over luxurious establishment. He was pleased tofind me less mad than he had expected me to be from a certain letter with whichI had succeeded in frightening him some time previously, and he really managedto procure me an exceptional occupation as choir-master at the theatre, forwhich I received the monthly fee of ten guilders. The remainder of the winterwas devoted to the serious study of the duties required of a musical director:in a very short time I had to tackle two new grand operas, namely, Marschner’sVampir and Meyerbeer’s Robert der Teufel, in both of which the chorus played aconsiderable part. At first I felt absolutely like a beginner, and had to starton Camilla von Paer, the score of which was utterly unknown to me. I stillremember that I felt I was doing a thing which I had no right to undertake: Ifelt quite an amateur at the work. Soon, however, Marschner’s score interestedme sufficiently to make the labour seem worth my while. The score of Robert wasa great disappointment to me: from the newspapers I had expected plenty oforiginality and novelty; I could find no trace of either in this transparentwork, and an opera with a finale like that of the second act could not be namedin the same breath with any of my favourite works. The only thing thatimpressed me was the unearthly keyed trumpet which, in the last act,represented the voice of the mother’s ghost.
It was remarkable to observe the aesthetic demoralisation into which I now fellthrough having daily to deal with such a work. I gradually lost my dislike forthis shallow and exceedingly uninteresting composition (a dislike I shared withmany German musicians) in the growing interest which I was compelled to take inits interpretation; and thus it happened that the insipidness and affectationof the commonplace melodies ceased to concern me save from the standpoint oftheir capability of eliciting applause or the reverse. As, moreover, my futurecareer as musical conductor was at stake, my brother, who was very anxious onmy behalf, looked favourably on this lack of classical obstinacy on my part,and thus the ground was gradually prepared for that decline in my classicaltaste which was destined to last some considerable time.
All the same, this did not occur before I had given some proof of my greatinexperience in the lighter style of writing. My brother wanted to introduce a‘Cavatine’ from the Piraten, by Bellini, into the same composer’s opera,Straniera; the score was not to be had, and he entrusted me with theinstrumentation of this work. From the piano score alone I could not possiblydetect the heavy and noisy instrumentation of the ritornelles and intermezziwhich, musically, were so very thin; the composer of a great C major Symphonywith an end fugue could only help himself out of the difficulty by the use of afew flutes and clarinets playing in thirds. At the rehearsal the ‘Cavatine’sounded so frightfully thin and shallow that my brother made me seriousreproaches about the waste of copying expenses. But I had my revenge: to thetenor aria of ‘Aubry’ in Marschner’s Vampir I added an Allegro, for which Ialso wrote the words.
My work succeeded splendidly, and earned the praise of both the public and mybrother. In a similar German style I wrote the music to my Feen in the courseof the year 1833. My brother and his wife left Wurzburg after Easter in orderto avail themselves of several invitations at friends’ houses; I stayed behindwith the children—three little girls of tender years—which placed me in theextraordinary position of a responsible guardian, a post for which I was not inthe least suited at that time of my life. My time was divided between my workand pleasure, and in consequence I neglected my charges. Amongst the friends Imade there, Alexander Muller had much influence over me; he was a good musicianand pianist, and I used to listen for hours to his improvisations on giventhemes—an accomplishment in which he so greatly excelled, that I could not failto be impressed. With him and some other friends, amongst whom was alsoValentin Hamm, I often made excursions in the neighbourhood, on which occasionsthe Bavarian beer and the Frankish wine were wont to fly. Valentin Hamm was agrotesque individual, who entertained us often with his excellent violinplaying; he had an enormous stretch on the piano, for he could reach aninterval of a twelfth. Der Letzte Hieb, a public beer-garden situated on apleasant height, was a daily witness of my fits of wild and often enthusiasticboisterousness; never once during those mild summer nights did I return to mycharges without having waxed enthusiastic over art and the world in general. Ialso remember a wicked trick which has always remained a blot in my memory.Amongst my friends was a fair and very enthusiastic Swabian called Frohlich,with whom I had exchanged my score of the C minor Symphony for his, which hehad copied out with his own hand. This very gentle, but rather irritable youngman had taken such a violent dislike to one Andre, whose malicious face I alsodetested, that he declared that this person spoilt his evenings for him, merelyby being in the same room with him. The unfortunate object of his hatred triedall the same to meet us whenever he could: friction ensued, but Andre wouldinsist upon aggravating us. One evening Frohlich lost patience. After someinsulting retort, he tried to chase him from our table by striking him with astick: the result was a fight in which Frolich’s friends felt they must takepart, though they all seemed to do so with some reluctance. A mad longing tojoin the fray also took possession of me. With the others I helped in knockingour poor victim about, and I even heard the sound of one terrible blow which Istruck Andre on the head, whilst he fixed his eyes on me in bewilderment.
I relate this incident to atone for a sin which has weighed very heavily on myconscience ever since. I can compare this sad experience only with one out ofmy earliest boyhood days, namely the drowning of some puppies in a shallow poolbehind my uncle’s house in Eisleben. Even to this day I cannot think of theslow death of these poor little creatures without horror. I have never quiteforgotten some of my thoughtless and reckless actions; for the sorrows ofothers, and in particular those of animals, have always affected me deeply tothe extent of filling me with a disgust of life.
My first love affair stands out in strong contrast against these recollections.It was only natural that one of the young chorus ladies with whom I had topractise daily should know how to attract my attentions. Therese Ringelmann,the daughter of a grave-digger, thanks to her beautiful soprano voice, led meto believe that I could make a great singer of her. After I told her of thisambitious scheme, she paid much attention to her appearance, and dressedelegantly for the rehearsals, and a row of white pearls which she wound throughher hair specially fascinated me. During the summer holidays I gave Thereseregular lessons in singing, according to a method which has always remained amystery to me ever since. I also called on her very often at her house, where,fortunately, I never met her unpleasant father, but always her mother and hersisters. We also met in the public gardens, but false vanity always kept mefrom telling my friends of our relations. I do not know whether the fault laywith her lowly birth, her lack of education, or my own doubt about thesincerity of my affections; but in any case when, in addition to the fact thatI had my reasons for being jealous, they also tried to urge me to a formalengagement, this love affair came quietly to an end.
An infinitely more genuine affair was my love for Friederike Galvani, thedaughter of a mechanic, who was undoubtedly of Italian origin. She was verymusical, and had a lovely voice; my brother had patronised her and helped herto a debut at his theatre, which test she stood brilliantly. She was rathersmall, but had large dark eyes and a sweet disposition. The first oboist of theorchestra, a good fellow as well as a clever musician, was thoroughly devotedto her. He was looked upon as her fiance, but, owing to some incident in hispast, he was not allowed to visit at her parents’ house, and the marriage wasnot to take place for a long time yet. When the autumn of my year in Wurzburgdrew near, I received an invitation from friends to be present at a countrywedding at a little distance from Wurzburg; the oboist and his fiancee had alsobeen invited. It was a jolly, though primitive affair; we drank and danced, andI even tried my hand at violin playing, but I must have forgotten it badly, foreven with the second violin I could not manage to satisfy the other musicians.But my success with Friederike was all the greater; we danced like mad throughthe many couples of peasants until at one moment we got so excited that, losingall self-control, we embraced each other while her real lover was playing thedance music. For the first time in my life I began to feel a flatteringsensation of self-respect when Friederike’s fiance, on seeing how we twoflirted, accepted the situation with good grace, if not without some sadness. Ihad never had the chance of thinking that I could make a favourable impressionon any young girl. I never imagined myself good-looking, neither had I everthought it possible that I could attract the attention of pretty girls.
On the other hand, I had gradually acquired a certain self-reliance in mixingwith men of my own age. Owing to the exceptional vivacity and innatesusceptibility of my nature—qualities which were brought home to me in myrelations with members of my circle—I gradually became conscious of a certainpower of transporting or bewildering my more indolent companions.
From my poor oboist’s silent self-control on becoming aware of the ardentadvances of his betrothed towards me, I acquired, as I have said, the firstsuggestion of the fact that I might count for something, not only among men,but also among women. The Frankish wine helped to bring about a state of evergreater confusion, and under the cover of its influence I at length declaredmyself, quite openly, to be Friederike’s lover. Ever so far into the night, infact, when day was already breaking, we set off home together to Wurzburg in anopen wagon. This was the crowning triumph of my delightful adventure; for whileall the others, including, in the end, the jealous oboist, slept off theirdebauch in the face of the dawning day, I, with my cheek against Friederike’s,and listening to the warbling of the larks, watched the coming of the risingsun.
On the following day we had scarcely any idea of what had happened. A certainsense of shame, which was not unbecoming, held us aloof from one another: andyet I easily won access to Friederike’s family, and from that time forward wasdaily a welcome guest, when for some hours I would linger in unconcealedintimate intercourse with the same domestic circle from which the unhappybetrothed remained excluded. No word was ever mentioned of this lastconnection; never once did it even dawn upon Friederike to effect any change inthe state of affairs, and it seemed to strike no one that I ought, so to speak,to take the fiance’s place. The confiding manner in which I was received byall, and especially by the girl herself, was exactly similar to one of Nature’sgreat processes, as, for instance, when spring steps in and winter passessilently away. Not one of them ever considered the material consequences of thechange, and this is precisely the most charming and flattering feature of thisfirst youthful love affair, which was never to degenerate into an attitudewhich might give rise to suspicion or concern. These relations ended only withmy departure from Wurzburg, which was marked by the most touching and mosttearful leavetaking.
For some time, although I kept up no correspondence, the memory of this episoderemained firmly imprinted on my mind. Two years later, while making a rapidjourney through the old district, I once more visited Friederike: the poorchild approached me utterly shamefaced. Her oboist was still her lover, andthough his position rendered marriage impossible, the unfortunate young womanhad become a mother. I have heard nothing more of her since.
Amid all this traffic of love I worked hard at my opera, and, thanks to theloving sympathy of my sister Rosalie, I was able to find the necessary goodspirits for the task. When at the commencement of the summer my earnings as aconductor came to an end, this same sister again made it her business loyallyto provide me with ample pocket-money, so that I might devote myself solely tothe completion of my work, without troubling about anything or being a burdento any one. At a much later date I came across a letter of mine written toRosalie in those days, which were full of a tender, almost adoring love forthat noble creature.
When the winter was at hand my brother returned, and the theatre reopened.Truth to tell, I did not again become connected with it, but acquired aposition, which was even more prominent, in the concerts of the Musical Societyin which I produced my great overture in C major, my symphony, and eventuallyportions of my new opera as well. An amateur with a splendid voice,Mademoiselle Friedel, sang the great aria from Ada. In addition to this, a triowas given which, in one of its passages, had such a moving effect upon mybrother, who took part in it, that, to his astonishment, as he himselfadmitted, he completely lost his cue on account of it.
By Christmas my work had come to an end, my score was written out complete withthe most laudable neatness, and now I was to return to Leipzig for the NewYear, in order to get my opera accepted by the theatre there. On the way home Ivisited Nuremberg, where I stayed a week with my sister Clara and with herhusband, who were engaged at the theatre there. I well remember how happy andcomfortable I felt during this pleasant visit to the very same relatives who afew years previously, when I had stayed with them at Magdeburg, had been upsetby my resolve to adopt music as a calling. Now I had become a real musician,had written a grand opera, and had already brought out many things withoutcoming to grief. The sense of all this was a great joy to me, while it was noless flattering to my relatives, who could not fail to see that the supposedmisfortune had in the end proved to my advantage. I was in a jolly mood andquite unrestrained—a state of mind which was very largely the result not onlyof my brother-in-law’s cheerful and sociable household, but also of thepleasant tavern life of the place. In a much more confident and elated spirit Ireturned to Leipzig, where I was able to lay the three huge volumes of my scorebefore my highly delighted mother and sister.
Just then my family was the richer for the return of my brother Julius from hislong wanderings. He had worked a good while in Paris as a goldsmith, and hadnow set up for himself in that capacity in Leipzig. He too, like the rest, waseager to hear something out of my opera, which, to be sure, was not so easy, asI entirely lacked the gift of playing anything of the sort in an easy andintelligible way. Only when I was able to work myself into a state of absoluteecstasy was it possible for me to render something with any effect. Rosalieknew that I meant it to draw a sort of declaration of love from her; but I havenever felt certain whether the embrace and the sisterly kiss which were awardedme after I had sung my great aria from Ada, were bestowed on me from realemotion or rather out of affectionate regard. On the other hand, the zeal withwhich she urged my opera on the director of the theatre, Ringelhardt, theconductor and the manager was unmistakable, and she did it so effectually thatshe obtained their consent for its performance, and that very speedily. I wasparticularly interested to learn that the management immediately showedthemselves eager to try to settle the matter of the costumes for my drama: butI was astonished to hear that the choice was in favour of oriental attire,whereas I had intended, by the names I had selected, to suggest a northerncharacter for the setting. But it was precisely these names which they foundunsuitable, as fairy personages are not seen in the North, but only in theEast; while apart from this, the original by Gozzi, which formed the basis ofthe work, undoubtedly bore an oriental character. It was with the utmostindignation that I opposed the insufferable turban and caftan style of dress,and vehemently advocated the knightly garb worn in the early years of theMiddle Ages. I then had to come to a thorough understanding with the conductor,Stegmayer, on the subject of my score. He was a remarkable, short, fat man,with fair curly hair, and an exceptionally jovial disposition; he was, however,very hard to bring to a point. When over our wine we always arrived at anunderstanding very quickly, but as soon as we sat at the piano, I had to listento the most extraordinary objections concerning the trend of which I was forsome time extremely puzzled. As the matter was much delayed by thisvacillation, I put myself into closer communication with the stage manager ofthe opera, Hauser, who at that time was much appreciated as a singer and patronof art by the people of Leipzig.
With this man, too, I had the strangest experiences: he who had captivated theaudiences of Leipzig, more especially with his impersonation of the barber andthe Englishman in Fra Diavolo, suddenly revealed himself in his own house asthe most fanatical adherent of the most old-fashioned music. I listened withastonishment to the scarcely veiled contempt with which he treated even Mozart,and the only thing he seemed to regret was that we had no operas by SebastianBach. After he had explained to me that dramatic music had not actually beenwritten yet, and that properly speaking Gluck alone had shown any ability forit, he proceeded to what seemed an exhaustive examination of my own opera,concerning which all I had wished to hear from him was whether it was fit to beperformed. Instead of this, however, his object seemed to be to point out thefailure of my purpose in every number. I sweated blood under the unparalleledtorture of going through my work with this man; and I told my mother and sisterof my grave depression. All these delays had already succeeded in making itimpossible to perform my opera at the date originally fixed, and now it waspostponed until August of the current year (1834).
An incident which I shall never forget inspired me with fresh courage. OldBierey, an experienced and excellent musician, and in his day a successfulcomposer, who, thanks more particularly to his long practice as a conductor atthe Breslau theatre, had acquired a perfectly practical knowledge of suchthings, was then living at Leipzig, and was a good friend of my people. Mymother and sister begged him to give his opinion about the fitness of my operafor the stage, and I duly submitted the score to him. I cannot say how deeplyaffected and impressed I was to see this old gentleman appear one day among myrelatives, and to hear him declare with genuine enthusiasm that he simply couldnot understand how so young a man could have composed such a score. His remarksconcerning the greatness which he had recognised in my talent were reallyirresistible, and positively amazed me. When asked whether he considered thework presentable and calculated to produce an effect, he declared his onlyregret was that he was no longer at the head of a theatre, because, had hebeen, he would have thought himself extremely lucky to secure such a man asmyself permanently for his enterprise. At this announcement my family wasovercome with joy, and their feelings were all the more justified seeing that,as they all knew, Bierey was by no means an amiable romancer, but a practicalmusician well seasoned by a life full of experience.
The delay was now borne with better spirits, and for a long time I was able towait hopefully for what the future might bring. Among other things, I now beganto enjoy the company of a new friend in the person of Laube, who at that time,although I had not set his Kosziusko to music, was at the zenith of his fame.The first portion of his novel, Young Europe, the form of which was epistolary,had appeared, and had a most stimulating effect on me, more particularly inconjunction with all the youthful hopefulness which at that time pulsated in myveins. Though his teaching was essentially only a repetition of that inHeinse’s Ardinghello, the forces that then surged in young breasts were givenfull and eloquent expression. The guiding spirit of this tendency was followedin literary criticism, which was aimed mainly at the supposed or actualincapacity of the semi-classical occupants of our various literary thrones.Without the slightest mercy the pedants,[6] among whom Tieck for one was numbered, weretreated as sheer encumbrances and hindrances to the rise of a new literature.That which led to a remarkable revulsion of my feelings with regard to thoseGerman composers who hitherto had been admired and respected, was partly theinfluence of these critical skirmishes, and the luring sprightliness of theirtone; but mainly the impression made by a fresh visit of Schroder-Devrient toLeipzig, when her rendering of Borneo in Bellini’s Romeo and Juliet carriedevery one by storm. The effect of it was not to be compared with anything thathad been witnessed theretofore. To see the daring, romantic figure of theyouthful lover against a background of such obviously shallow and empty musicprompted one, at all events, to meditate doubtfully upon the cause of the greatlack of effect in solid German music as it had been applied hitherto to thedrama. Without for the moment plunging too deeply into this meditation, Iallowed myself to be borne along with the current of my youthful feelings, thenroused to ardour, and turned involuntarily to the task of working off all thatbrooding seriousness which in my earlier years had driven me to such patheticmysticism.
[6]Zöpfe in the German text.—TRANSLATOR.
What Pohlenz had not done by his conducting of the Ninth Symphony, what theVienna Conservatoire, Dionys Weber, and many other clumsy performances (whichhad led me to regard classical music as absolutely colourless) had not fullyaccomplished, was achieved by the inconceivable charm of the most unclassicalItalian music, thanks to the wonderful, thrilling, and entrancing impersonationof Romeo by Schroder-Devrient. What effect such powerful, and as regards theircauses, incomprehensible, effects had upon my opinion was shown in thefrivolous way in which I was able to contrive a short criticism of Weber’sEuryanthe for the Elegante Zeitung. This opera had been performed by theLeipzig company shortly before the appearance of Schroder-Devrient: cold andcolourless performers, among whom the singer in the title-role, appearing inthe wilderness with the full sleeves which were then the pink of fashion, isstill a disagreeable memory. Very laboriously, and without verve, but simplywith the object of satisfying the demands of classical rules, this company didits utmost to dispel even the enthusiastic impressions of Weber’s music which Ihad formed in my youth. I did not know what answer to make to a brother criticof Laube’s, when he pointed out to me the laboured character of this operaticperformance, as soon as he was able to contrast it with the entrancing effectof that Romeo evening. Here I found myself confronted with a problem, thesolving of which I was just at that time disposed to take as easily aspossible, and displayed my courage by discarding all prejudice, and thatdaringly, in the short criticism just mentioned in which I simply scoffed atEuryanthe. Just as I had had my season of wild oat sowing as a student, so nowI boldly rushed into the same courses in the development of my artistic taste.
It was May, and beautiful spring weather, and a pleasure trip that I nowundertook with a friend into the promised land of my youthful romance, Bohemia,was destined to bring the unrestrained ‘Young-European’ mood in me to fullmaturity. This friend was Theodor Apel. I had known him a long while, and hadalways felt particularly flattered by the fact that I had won his heartyaffection; for, as the son of the gifted master of metre and imitator of Greekforms of poetry, August Apel, I felt that admiring deference for him which Ihad never yet been able to bestow upon the descendant of a famous man. Beingwell-to-do and of a good family, his friendship gave me such opportunities ofcoming into touch with the easy circumstances of the upper classes as were notof frequent occurrence in my station of life. While my mother, for instance,regarded my association with this highly respectable family with greatsatisfaction, I for my part was extremely gratified at the thought of thecordiality with which I was received in such circles.
Apel’s earnest wish was to become a poet, and I took it for granted that he hadall that was needed for such a calling; above all, what seemed to me soimportant, the complete freedom that his considerable fortune assured him byliberating him from all need of earning his living or of adopting a professionfor a livelihood. Strange to say, his mother, who on the death of hisdistinguished father had married a Leipzig lawyer, was very anxious about thevocation he should choose, and wished her son to make a fine career in the law,as she was not at all disposed to favour his poetical gifts. And it was to herattempts to convert me to her view, in order that by my influence I might avertthe calamity of a second poet in the family, in the person of the son, that Iowed the specially friendly relations that obtained between herself and me. Allher suggestions succeeded in doing, however, was to stimulate me, even morethan my own favourable opinion of his talent could, to confirm my friend in hisdesire to be a poet, and thus to support him in his rebellious attitude towardshis family.
He was not displeased at this. As he was also studying music and composed quitenicely, I succeeded in being on terms of the greatest intimacy with him. Thefact that he had spent the very year in which I had sunk into the lowest depthsof undergraduate madness, studying at Heidelberg and not at Leipzig, had kepthim unsullied by any share in my strange excesses, and when we now met again atLeipzig, in the spring of 1834, the only thing that we still had in common wasthe aesthetic aspiration of our lives, which we now strove by way of experimentto divert into the direction of the enjoyment of life. Gladly would we haveflung ourselves into lively adventures if only the conditions of ourenvironment and of the whole middle-class world in which we lived had in anyway admitted of such things. Despite all the promptings of our instincts,however, we got no further than planning this excursion to Bohemia. At allevents, it was something that we made the journey not by the post, but in ourown carriage, and our genuine pleasure continued to lie in the fact that atTeplitz, for instance, we daily took long drives in a fine carriage. When inthe evening we had supped off trout at the Wilhelmsburg, drunk good Czernosekwine with Bilin water, and duly excited ourselves over Hoffmann, Beethoven,Shakespeare, Heinse’s Ardinghello, and other matters, and then, with our limbscomfortably outstretched in our elegant carriage, drove back in the summertwilight to the ‘King of Prussia,’ where we occupied the large balcony-room onthe first floor, we felt that we had spent the day like young gods, and forsheer exuberance could think of nothing better to do than to indulge in themost frightful quarrels which, especially when the windows were open, wouldcollect numbers of alarmed listeners in the square before the inn.
One fine morning I stole away from my friend in order to take my breakfastalone at the ‘Schlackenburg,’ and also to seize an opportunity of jotting downthe plan of a new operatic composition in my note-book. With this end in view,I had mastered the subject of Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure, which, inaccordance with my present mood, I soon transformed pretty freely into alibretto entitled Liebesverbot. Young Europe and Ardinghello, and the strangeframe of mind into which I had fallen with regard to classical operatic music,furnished me with the keynote of my conception, which was directed moreparticularly against puritanical hypocrisy, and which thus tended boldly toexalt ‘unrestrained sensuality.’ I took care to understand the graveShakespearean theme only in this sense. I could see only the gloomystrait-laced viceroy, his heart aflame with the most passionate love for thebeautiful novice, who, while she beseeches him to pardon her brother condemnedto death for illicit love, at the same time kindles the most dangerous fire inthe stubborn Puritan’s breast by infecting him with the lovely warmth of herhuman emotion.
The fact that these powerful features are so richly developed in Shakespeare’screation only in order that, in the end, they may be weighed all the moregravely in the scales of justice, was no concern of mine: all I cared about wasto expose the sinfulness of hypocrisy and the unnaturalness of such cruel moralcensure. Thus I completely dropped Measure for Measure, and made the hypocritebe brought to justice only by the avenging power of love. I transferred thetheme from the fabulous city of Vienna to the capital of sunny Sicily, in whicha German viceroy, indignant at the inconceivably loose morals of the people,attempts to introduce a puritanical reform, and comes miserably to grief overit. Die Stumme von Portici probably contributed to some extent to this theme,as did also certain memories of Die Sizilianische Vesper. When I remember thatat last even the gentle Sicilian Bellini constituted a factor in thiscomposition, I cannot, to be sure, help smiling at the strange medley in whichthe most extraordinary misunderstandings here took shape.
This remained for the present a mere draft. Studies from life destined for mywork were first to be carried out on this delightful excursion to Bohemia. Iled my friend in triumph to Prague, in the hope of securing the sameimpressions for him which had stirred me so profoundly when I was there. We metmy fair friends in the city itself; for, owing to the death of old CountPachta, material changes had taken place in the family, and the survivingdaughters no longer went to Pravonin. My behaviour was full of arrogance, andby means of it I doubtless wished to vent a certain capricious lust of revengefor the feelings of bitterness with which I had taken leave of this circle someyears previously. My friend was well received. The changed family circumstancesforced the charming girls ever more and more imperatively to come to somedecision as to their future, and a wealthy bourgeois, though not exactly intrade himself, but in possession of ample means, seemed to the anxious mother,at all events, a good adviser. Without either showing or feeling any malice inthe matter, I expressed my pleasure at the sight of the strange confusioncaused by Theodor’s introduction into the family by the merriest and wildestjests: for my only intercourse with the ladies consisted purely of jokes andfriendly chaff. They could not understand how it was that I had altered sostrangely. There was no longer any of that love of wrangling, that rage forinstructing, and that zeal in converting in me which formerly they had found soirritating. But at the same time not a sensible word could I be made to utter,and they who were now wanting to talk over many things seriously could getnothing out of me save the wildest tomfoolery. As on this occasion, in mycharacter of an uncaged bird, I boldly allowed myself many a liberty againstwhich they felt themselves powerless, my exuberant spirits were excited all themore when my friend, who was led away by my example, tried to imitate me—athing they took in very bad part from him.
Only once was there any attempt at seriousness between us: I was sitting at thepiano, and was listening to my companion, who was telling the ladies that in aconversation at the hotel I had found occasion to express myself most warmly tosome one who appeared to be surprised on hearing of the domestic andindustrious qualities of my lady friends. I was deeply moved when, as theoutcome of my companion’s remarks, I gathered what unpleasant experiences thepoor things had already been through: for what seemed to me a very naturalaction on my part, appeared to fill them with unexpected pleasure. Jenny, forinstance, came up to me and hugged me with great warmth. By general consent Iwas now granted the right of behaving with almost studied rudeness, and Ireplied even to Jenny’s warm outburst only with my usual banter.
In our hotel, the ‘Black Horse,’ which was so famous in those days, I found theplayground in which I was able to carry the mischievous spirit not exhausted atthe Pachta’s house to the point of recklessness. Out of the most accidentalmaterial in table and travelling guests we succeeded in gathering a companyaround us which allowed us, until far into the night, to lead it into the mostinconceivable follies. To all this I was incited more particularly by thepersonality of a very timid and undersized business man from Frankfort on theOder, who longed to seem of a daring disposition; and his presence stimulatedme, if only owing to the remarkable chance it gave me of coming into contactwith some one who was at home in Frankfort ‘on the Oder.’ Any one who knows howthings then stood in Austria can form some idea of my recklessness when I saythat I once went so far as to cause our symposium in the public room to bellowthe Marseillaise out loud into the night. Therefore, when after this heroicexploit was over, and while I was undressing, I clambered on the outer ledgesof the windows from one room to the other on the second floor, I naturallyhorrified those who did not know of the love of acrobatic feats which I hadcultivated in my earliest boyhood.
Even if I had exposed myself without fear to such dangers, I was soon sobereddown next morning by a summons from the police. When, in addition to this, Irecalled the singing of the Marseillaise, I was filled with the gravest fears.After having been detained at the station a long time, owing to a strangemisunderstanding, the upshot of it was that the inspector who was told off toexamine me found that there was not sufficient time left for a serious hearing,and, to my great relief, I was allowed to go after replying to a few harmlessquestions concerning the intended length of my stay. Nevertheless, we thoughtit advisable not to yield to the temptation of playing any more pranks beneaththe spread wings of the double eagle.
By means of a circuitous route into which we were led by our insatiable longingfor adventures—adventures which, as a matter of fact, occurred only in ourimagination, and which to all intents and purposes were but modest diversionson the road—we at length got back to Leipzig. And with this return home thereally cheerful period of my life as a youth definitely closed. If, up to thattime, I had not been free from serious errors and moments of passion, it wasonly now that care cast its first shadow across my path.
My family had anxiously awaited my return in order to inform me that the postof conductor had been offered to me by the Magdeburg Theatre Company. Thiscompany during the current summer month was performing at a watering placecalled Lauchstadt. The manager could not get on with an incompetent conductorthat had been sent to him, and in his extremity had applied to Leipzig in thehope of getting a substitute forthwith. Stegmayer, the conductor, who had noinclination to practise my score Feen during the hot summer weather, as he hadpromised to do, promptly recommended me for the post, and in that way reallymanaged to shake off a very troublesome tormentor. For although, on the onehand, I really desired to be able to abandon myself freely and withoutrestraint to the torrent of adventures that constitute the artist’s life, yet alonging for independence, which could be won only by my earning my own living,had been greatly strengthened in me by the state of my affairs. Albeit, I hadthe feeling that a solid basis for the gratification of this desire was not tobe laid in Lauchstadt; nor did I find it easy to assist the plot concoctedagainst the production of my Feen. I therefore determined to make a preliminaryvisit to the place just to see how things stood.
This little watering-place had, in the days of Goethe and Schiller, acquired avery wide reputation, its wooden theatre had been built according to the designof the former, and the first performance of the Braut von Messina had beengiven there. But although I repeated all this to myself, the place made me feelrather doubtful. I asked for the house of the director of the theatre. Heproved to be out, but a small dirty boy, his son, was told to take me to thetheatre to find ‘Papa.’ Papa, however, met us on the way. He was an elderlyman; he wore a dressing-gown, and on his head a cap. His delight at greeting mewas interrupted by complaints about a serious indisposition, for which his sonwas to fetch him a cordial from a shop close by. Before despatching the boy onthis errand he pressed a real silver penny into his hand with a certainostentation which was obviously for my benefit. This person was HeinrichBethmann, surviving husband of the famous actress of that name, who, havinglived in the heyday of the German stage, had won the favour of the King ofPrussia; and won it so lastingly, that long after her death it had continued tobe extended to her spouse. He always drew a nice pension from the Prussiancourt, and permanently enjoyed its support without ever being able to forfeitits protection by his irregular and dissipated ways.
At the time of which I am speaking he had sunk to his lowest, owing tocontinued theatre management. His speech and manners revealed the sugaryrefinement of a bygone day, while all that he did and everything about himtestified to the most shameful neglect. He took me back to his house, where hepresented me to his second wife, who, crippled in one foot, lay on anextraordinary couch while an elderly bass, concerning whose excessive devotionBethmann had already complained to me quite openly, smoked his pipe beside her.From there the director took me to his stage manager, who lived in the samehouse.
With the latter, who was just engaged in a consultation about the repertorywith the theatre attendant, a toothless old skeleton, he left me to settle thenecessary arrangements. As soon as Bethmann had gone, Schmale, the stagemanager, shrugged his shoulders and smiled, assuring me that that was just theway of the director, to put everything on his back and trouble himself aboutnothing. There he had been sitting for over an hour, discussing with Kroge whatshould be put on next Sunday: it was all very well his starting Don Juan, buthow could he get a rehearsal carried out, when the Merseburg town bandsmen, whoformed the orchestra, would not come over on Saturday to rehearse?
All the time Schmale kept reaching out through the open window to a cherry treefrom which he picked and persistently ate the fruit, ejecting the stones with adisagreeable noise. Now it was this last circumstance in particular whichdecided me; for, strange to say, I have an innate aversion from fruit. Iinformed the stage manager that he need not trouble at all about Don Juan forSunday, since for my part, if they had reckoned on my making my firstappearance at this performance, I must anyhow disappoint the director, as I hadno choice but to return at once to Leipzig, where I had to put my affairs inorder. This polite manner of tendering my absolute refusal to accept theappointment—a conclusion I had quickly arrived at in my own mind—forced me topractise some dissimulation, and made it necessary for me to appear as if Ireally had some other purpose in coming to Lauchstadt. This pretence in itselfwas quite unnecessary, seeing that I was quite determined never to return thereagain.
People offered to help me in finding a lodging, and a young actor whom I hadchanced to know at Wurzburg undertook to be my guide in the matter. While hewas taking me to the best lodging he knew, he told me that presently he woulddo me the kindness of making me the housemate of the prettiest and nicest girlto be found in the place at the time. She was the junior lead of the company,Mademoiselle Minna Planer, of whom doubtless I had already heard.
As luck would have it, the promised damsel met us at the door of the house inquestion. Her appearance and bearing formed the most striking contrast possibleto all the unpleasant impressions of the theatre which it had been my lot toreceive on this fateful morning. Looking very charming and fresh, the youngactress’s general manner and movements were full of a certain majesty and graveassurance which lent an agreeable and captivating air of dignity to herotherwise pleasant expression. Her scrupulously clean and tidy dress completedthe startling effect of the unexpected encounter. After I had been introducedto her in the hall as the new conductor, and after she had done regarding withastonishment the stranger who seemed so young for such a title, she recommendedme kindly to the landlady of the house, and begged that I might be well lookedafter; whereupon she walked proudly and serenely across the street to herrehearsal.
I engaged a room on the spot, agreed to Don Juan for Sunday, regretted greatlythat I had not brought my luggage with me from Leipzig, and hastened to returnthither as quickly as possible in order to get back to Lauchstadt all thesooner. The die was cast. The serious side of life at once confronted me in theform of significant experiences. At Leipzig I had to take a furtive leave ofLaube. At the instance of Prussia he had been warned off Saxon soil, and hehalf guessed at the meaning which was to be attached to this move. The time ofundisguised reaction against the Liberal movement of the early ‘thirties hadset in: the fact that Laube was concerned in no sort of political work, but haddevoted himself merely to literary activity, always aiming simply at aestheticobjects, made the action of the police quite incomprehensible to us for thetime being. The disgusting ambiguity with which the Leipzig authoritiesanswered all his questions as to the cause of his expulsion soon gave him thestrongest suspicions as to what their intentions towards him actually were.
Leipzig, as the scene of his literary labours, being inestimably precious, itmattered greatly to him to keep within reach of it. My friend Apel owned a fineestate on Prussian soil, within but a few hours’ distance of Leipzig, and weconceived the wish of seeing Laube hospitably harboured there. My friend, whowithout infringing the legal stipulations was in a position to give thepersecuted man a place of refuge, immediately assented, and with greatreadiness, to our desire, but confessed to us next day, after havingcommunicated with his family, that he thought he might incur someunpleasantnesses if he entertained Laube. At this the latter smiled, and in amanner I shall never forget, though I have noticed in the course of my lifethat the expression which I then saw in his face was one which has oftenflitted over my own features. He took his leave, and in a short time we heardthat he had been arrested, owing to having undertaken fresh proceedings againstformer members of the Burschenschaft (Students’ League), and had been lodged inthe municipal prison at Berlin. I had thus had two experiences which weighed medown like lead, so I packed my scanty portmanteau, took leave of my mother andsister, and, with a stout heart, started on my career as a conductor.
In order to be able to look upon the little room under Minna’s lodging as mynew home, I was forced also to make the best of Bethmann’s theatricalenterprise. As a matter of fact, a performance of Don Juan was given at once,for the director, who prided himself on being a connoisseur of things artistic,suggested that opera to me as one with which it would be wise for an aspiringyoung artist, of a good family, to make his debut. Despite the fact that, apartfrom some of my own instrumental compositions, I had never yet conducted, andleast of all in opera, the rehearsal and the performance went off fairly well.Only once or twice did discrepancies appear in the recitative of Donna Anna;yet this did not involve me in any kind of hostility, and when I took my placeunabashed and calm for the production of Lumpaci Vagabundus, which I hadpractised very thoroughly, the people generally seemed to have gained fullconfidence in the theatre’s new acquisition.
The fact that I submitted without bitterness and even with some cheerfulness tothis unworthy use of my musical talent, was due less to my taste being at thisperiod, as I called it, in its salad days, than to my intercourse with MinnaPlaner, who was employed in that magic trifle as the Amorous Fairy. Indeed, inthe midst of this dust-cloud of frivolity and vulgarity, she always seemed verymuch like a fairy, the reasons of whose descent into this giddy whirl, which ofa truth seemed neither to carry her away nor even to affect her, remained anabsolute mystery. For while I could discover nothing in the opera singers savethe familiar stage caricatures and grimaces, this fair actress differed whollyfrom those about her in her unaffected soberness and dainty modesty, as also inthe absence of all theatrical pretence and stiltedness. There was only oneyoung man whom I could place beside Minna on the ground of qualities like thoseI recognised in her. This fellow was Friedrich Schmitt, who had only justadopted the stage as a career in the hope of making a ‘hit’ in opera, to which,as the possessor of an excellent tenor voice, he felt himself called. He toodiffered from the rest of the company, especially in the earnestness which hebrought to bear upon his studies and his work in general: the soulful manlypitch of his chest voice, his clear, noble enunciation and intelligentrendering of his words, have always remained as standards in my memory. Owingto the fact that he was wholly devoid of theatrical talent, and acted clumsilyand awkwardly, a check was soon put to his progress, but he always remaineddear to me as a clever and original man of trustworthy and upright character—myonly associate.
But my dealings with my kind housemate soon became a cherished habit, while shereturned the ingenuously impetuous advances of the conductor of one-and-twentywith a certain tolerant astonishment which, remote as it was from all coquetryand ulterior motives, soon made familiar and friendly intercourse possible withher. When, one evening, I returned late to my ground-floor room, by climbingthrough the window, for I had no latch-key, the noise of my entry brought Minnato her window just over mine. Standing on my window ledge I begged her to allowme to bid her good-night once more. She had not the slightest objection tothis, but declared it must be done from the window, as she always had her doorlocked by the people of the house, and nobody could get in that way. She kindlyfacilitated the handshake by leaning far out of her window, so that I couldtake her hand as I stood on my ledge. When later on I had an attack oferysipelas, from which I often suffered, and with my face all swollen andfrightfully distorted concealed myself from the world in my gloomy room, Minnavisited me repeatedly, nursed me, and assured me that my distorted features didnot matter in the least. On recovering, I paid her a visit and complained of arash that had remained round my mouth, and which seemed so unpleasant that Iapologised for showing it to her. This also she made light of. Then I inferredshe would not give me a kiss, whereupon she at once gave me practical proofthat she did not shrink from that either.
This was all done with a friendly serenity and composure that had somethingalmost motherly about it, and it was free from all suggestion of frivolity orof heartlessness. In a few weeks the company had to leave Lauchstadt to proceedto Rudolstadt and fulfil a special engagement there. I was particularly anxiousto make this journey, which in those days was an arduous undertaking, inMinna’s company, and if only I had succeeded in getting my well-earned salaryduly paid by Bethmann, nothing would have hindered the fulfilment of my wish.But in this matter I encountered exceptional difficulties, which in the courseof eventful years grew in chronic fashion into the strangest of ailments. Evenat Lauchstadt I had discovered that there was only one man who drew his salaryin full, namely the bass Kneisel, whom I had seen smoking his pipe beside thecouch of the director’s lame wife. I was assured that if I cared greatly aboutgetting some of my wages from time to time, I could obtain this favour only bypaying court to Mme. Bethmann. This time I preferred once more to appeal to myfamily for help, and therefore travelled to Rudolstadt through Leipzig, where,to the sad astonishment of my mother, I had to replenish my coffer with thenecessary supplies. On the way to Leipzig I had travelled with Apel through hisestate, he having fetched me from Lauchstadt for the purpose. His arrival wasfixed in my memory by a noisy banquet which my wealthy friend gave at the hotelin my honour. It was on this occasion that I and one of the other guestssucceeded in completely destroying a huge, massively built Dutch-tile stove,such as we had in our room at the inn. Next morning none of us could understandhow it had happened.
It was on this journey to Rudolstadt that I first passed through Weimar, whereon a rainy day I strolled with curiosity, but without emotion, towards Goethe’shouse. I had pictured something rather different, and thought I shouldexperience livelier impressions from the active theatre life of Rudolstadt, towhich I felt strongly attracted. In spite of the fact that I was not to beconductor myself, this post having been entrusted to the leader of the royalorchestra, who had been specially engaged for our performances, yet I was sofully occupied with rehearsals for the many operas and musical comediesrequired to regale the frivolous public of the principality that I found noleisure for excursions into the charming regions of this little land. Inaddition to these severe and ill-paid labours, two passions held me chainedduring the six weeks of my stay in Rudolstadt. These were, first, a longing towrite the libretto of Liebesverbot; and secondly, my growing attachment toMinna. It is true, I sketched out a musical composition about this time, asymphony in E major, whose first movement (3/4 time) I completed as a separatepiece. As regards style and design, this work was suggested by Beethoven’sSeventh and Eighth Symphonies, and, so far as I can remember, I should have hadno need to be ashamed of it, had I been able to complete it, or keep the part Ihad actually finished. But I had already begun at this time to form the opinionthat, to produce anything fresh and truly noteworthy in the realm of symphony,and according to Beethoven’s methods, was an impossibility. Whereas opera, towhich I felt inwardly drawn, though I had no real example I wished to copy,presented itself to my mind in varied and alluring shapes as a most fascinatingform of art. Thus, amid manifold and passionate agitations, and in the fewleisure hours which were left to me, I completed the greater part of myoperatic poem, taking infinitely more pains, both as regards words andversification, than with the text of my earlier Feen. Moreover, I found myselfpossessed of incomparably greater assurance in the arrangement and partialinvention of situations than when writing that earlier work.
On the other hand, I now began for the first time to experience the cares andworries of a lover’s jealousy. A change, to me inexplicable, manifested itselfin Minna’s hitherto unaffected and gentle manner towards me. It appears that myartless solicitations for her favour, by which at that time I meant nothingserious, and in which a man of the world would merely have seen the exuberanceof a youthful and easily satisfied infatuation, had given rise to certainremarks and comments upon the popular actress. I was astonished to learn, firstfrom her reserved manner, and later from her own lips, that she felt compelledto inquire into the seriousness of my intentions, and to consider theirconsequences. She was at that time, as I had already discovered, on veryintimate terms with a young nobleman, whose acquaintance I first made inLauchstadt, where he used to visit her. I had already realised on that occasionthat he was unfeignedly and cordially attached to her; in fact, in the circleof her friends she was regarded as engaged to Herr von O., although it wasobvious that marriage was out of the question, as the young lover was quitewithout means, and owing to the high standing of his family it was essentialthat he should sacrifice himself to a marriage of convenience, both on accountof his social position and of the career which he would have to adopt. Duringthis stay at Rudolstadt Minna appears to have gathered certain information onthis point which troubled and depressed her, thus rendering her more inclinedto treat my impetuous attempts at courtship with cool reserve.
After mature deliberation I recognised that, in any case, Young Europe,Ardinghello, and Liebesverbot could not be produced at Rudolstadt; but it was avery different matter for the Fee Amorosa, with its merry theatrical mood, andan Ehrlicher Burger Kind to seek a decent livelihood. Therefore, greatlydiscouraged, I proceeded to accentuate the more extravagant situations of myLiebesverbot by rioting with a few comrades in the sausage-scented atmosphereof the Rudolstadt Vogelwiese. At this time my troubles again brought me more orless into contact with the vice of gambling, although on this occasion it onlycast temporary fetters about me in the very harmless form of the dice androulette-tables out on the open market-place.
We were looking forward to the time when we should leave Rudolstadt for thehalf-yearly winter season at the capital, Magdeburg, mainly because I shouldthere resume my place at the head of the orchestra, and might in any case counton a better reward for my musical efforts. But before returning to Magdeburg Ihad to endure a trying interval at Bernburg, where Bethmann, the director, inaddition to his other undertakings, had also promised sundry theatricalperformances. During our brief stay in the town I had to arrange for thepresentation, with a mere fraction of the company, of several operas, whichwere again to be conducted by the royal conductor of the place. But in additionto these professional labours, I had to endure such a meagre, ill-provided andgrievously farcical existence as was enough to disgust me, if not for ever, atany rate for the time being, with the wretched profession of a theatricalconductor. Yet I survived even this, and Magdeburg was destined to lead meeventually to the real glory of my adopted profession.
The sensation of sitting in command at the very conductor’s desk from which,not many years before, the great master Kuhnlein had so moved the perplexedyoung enthusiast by the weighty wisdom of his musical directorship, was notwithout its charm for me, and, indeed, I very quickly succeeded in obtainingperfect confidence in conducting an orchestra. I was soon a persona grata withthe excellent musicians of the orchestra. Their splendid combination inspirited overtures, which, especially towards the finale, I generally took atan unheard-of speed, often earned for us all the intoxicating applause of thepublic. The achievements of my fiery and often exuberant zeal won merecognition from the singers, and were greeted by the audience with rapturousappreciation. As in Magdeburg, at least in those days, the art of theatricalcriticism was but slightly developed, this universal satisfaction was a greatencouragement, and at the end of the first three months of my Magdeburgconductorship I felt sustained by the flattering and comforting assurance thatI was one of the bigwigs of opera. Under these circumstances, Schmale, thestage manager, who has been my good friend ever since, proposed a special galaperformance for New Year’s Day, which he felt sure would be a triumph. I was tocompose the necessary music. This was very speedily done; a rousing overture,several melodramas and choruses were all greeted with enthusiasm, and broughtus such ample applause that we repeated the performance with great success,although such repetitions after the actual gala day were quite contrary tousage.
With the new year (1835) there came a decisive turning-point in my life. Afterthe rupture between Minna and myself at Rudolstadt, we had been to some extentlost to one another; but our friendship was resumed on our meeting again inMagdeburg; this time, however, it remained cool and purposely indifferent. Whenshe first appeared in the town, a year before, her beauty had attractedconsiderable notice, and I now learned that she was the object of greatattention from several young noblemen, and had shown herself not unmoved by thecompliment implied by their visits. Although her reputation, thanks to herabsolute discretion and self-respect, remained beyond reproach, my objection toher receiving such attentions grew very strong, owing possibly, in some degree,to the memory of the sorrows I had endured in Pachta’s house in Prague.Although Minna assured me that the conduct of these gentlemen was much morediscreet and decent than that of theatre-goers of the bourgeois class, andespecially than that of certain young musical conductors, she never succeededin soothing the bitterness and insistence with which I protested against heracceptance of such attentions. So we spent three unhappy months inever-increasing estrangement, and at the same time, in half-frantic despair, Ipretended to be fond of the most undesirable associates, and acted in every waywith such blatant levity that Minna, as she told me afterwards, was filled withthe deepest anxiety and solicitude concerning me. Moreover, as the ladies ofthe opera company were not slow to pay court to their youthful conductor, andespecially as one young woman, whose reputation was not spotless, openly sether cap at me, this anxiety of Minna’s seems at last to have culminated in adefinite decision. I hit upon the idea of treating the elite of our operacompany to oysters and punch in my own room on New Year’s Eve. The marriedcouples were invited, and then came the question whether Fraulein Planer wouldconsent to take part in such a festivity. She accepted quite ingenuously, andpresented herself, as neatly and becomingly dressed as ever, in my bachelorapartments, where things soon grew pretty lively. I had already warned mylandlord that we were not likely to be very quiet, and reassured him as to anypossible damage to his furniture. What the champagne failed to accomplish, thepunch eventually succeeded in doing; all the restraints of pettyconventionality, which the company usually endeavoured to observe, were castaside, giving place to an unreserved demeanour all round, to which no oneobjected. And then it was that Minna’s queenly dignity distinguished her fromall her companions. She never lost her self-respect; and whilst no one venturedto take the slightest liberty with her, every one very clearly recognised thesimple candour with which she responded to my kindly and solicitous attentions.They could not fail to see that the link existing between us was not to becompared to any ordinary liaison, and we had the satisfaction of seeing theflighty young lady who had so openly angled for me fall into a fit over thediscovery.
From that time onward I remained permanently on the best of terms with Minna. Ido not believe that she ever felt any sort of passion or genuine love for me,or, indeed, that she was capable of such a thing, and I can therefore onlydescribe her feeling for me as one of heartfelt goodwill, and the sincerestdesire for my success and prosperity, inspired as she was with the kindestsympathy, and genuine delight at, and admiration for, my talents. All this atlast became part of her nature. She obviously had a very favourable opinion ofmy abilities, though she was surprised at the rapidity of my success. Myeccentric nature, which she knew so well how to humour pleasantly by hergentleness, stimulated her to the continual exercise of the power, soflattering to her own vanity, and without ever betraying any desire or ardourherself, she never met my impetuous advances with coldness.
At the Magdeburg theatre I had already made the acquaintance of a veryinteresting woman called Mme. Haas. She was an actress, no longer in her firstyouth, and played so-called ‘chaperone’s parts.’ This lady won my sympathy bytelling me she had been friendly ever since her youth with Laube, in whosedestiny she continued to take a heartfelt and cordial interest. She was clever,but far from happy, and an unprepossessing exterior, which with the lapse ofyears grew more uninviting, did not tend to make her any happier. She lived inmeagre circumstances, with one child, and appeared to remember her better dayswith a bitter grief. My first visit to her was paid merely to inquire afterLaube’s fate, but I soon became a frequent and familiar caller. As she andMinna speedily became fast friends, we three often spent pleasant eveningstalking together. But when, later on, a certain jealousy manifested itself onthe part of the elder woman towards the younger, our confidential relationswere more or less disturbed, for it particularly grieved me to hear Minna’stalents and mental gifts criticised by the other. One evening I had promisedMinna to have tea with her and Mme. Haas, but I had thoughtlessly promised togo to a whist party first. This engagement I purposely prolonged, much as itwearied me, in the deliberate hope that her companion—who had already grownirksome to me—might have left before my arrival. The only way in which I coulddo this was by drinking hard, so that I had the very unusual experience ofrising from a sober whist party in a completely fuddled condition, into which Ihad imperceptibly fallen, and in which I refused to believe. This incredulitydeluded me into keeping my engagement for tea, although it was so late. To myintense disgust the elder woman was still there when I arrived, and herpresence at once had the effect of rousing my tipsiness to a violent outbreak;for she seemed astonished at my rowdy and unseemly behaviour, and made severalremarks upon it intended for jokes, whereupon I scoffed at her in the coarsestmanner, so that she immediately left the house in high dudgeon. I had stillsense enough to be conscious of Minna’s astonished laughter at my outrageousconduct. As soon as she realised, however, that my condition was such as torender my removal impossible without great commotion, she rapidly formed aresolution which must indeed have cost her an effort, though it was carried outwith the utmost calmness and good-humour. She did all she could for me, andprocured me the necessary relief, and when I sank into a heavy slumber,unhesitatingly resigned her own bed to my use. There I slept until awakened bythe wonderful grey of dawn. On recognising where I was, I at once realised andgrew ever more convinced of the fact that this morning’s sunrise marked thestarting-point of an infinitely momentous period of my life. The demon of carehad at last entered into my existence.
Without any light-hearted jests, without gaiety or joking of any description,we breakfasted quietly and decorously together, and at an hour when, in view ofthe compromising circumstances of the previous evening, we could set outwithout attracting undue notice, I set off with Minna for a long walk beyondthe city gates. Then we parted, and from that day forward freely and openlygratified our desires as an acknowledged pair of lovers.
The peculiar direction which my musical activities had gradually takencontinued to receive ever fresh impetus, not only from the successes, but alsofrom the disasters which about this time befell my efforts. I produced theoverture to my Feen with very satisfactory results at a concert given by theLogengesellschaft, and thereby earned considerable applause. On the other hand,news came from Leipzig confirming the shabby action of the directors of thetheatre in that place with regard to the promised presentation of this opera.But, happily for me, I had begun the music for my Liebesverbot, an occupationwhich so absorbed my thoughts that I lost all interest in the earlier work, andabstained with proud indifference from all further effort to secure itsperformance in Leipzig. The success of its overture alone amply repaid me forthe composition of my first opera.
Meanwhile, in spite of numerous other distractions, I found time, during thebrief six months of this theatrical season in Magdeburg, to complete a largeportion of my new opera, besides doing other work. I ventured to introduce twoduets from it at a concert given in the theatre, and their reception encouragedme to proceed hopefully with the rest of the opera.
During the second half of this season my friend Apel came to sun himselfenthusiastically in the splendour of my musical directorship. He had written adrama, Columbus, which I recommended to our management for production. This wasa peculiarly easy favour to win, as Apel volunteered to have a new scene,representing the Alhambra, painted at his own expense. Besides this, heproposed to effect many welcome improvements in the condition of the actorstaking part in his play; for, owing to the continued preference displayed bythe directress for Kneisel, the bass, they had all suffered very much fromuncertainty about their wages. The piece itself appeared to me to contain muchthat was good. It described the difficulties and struggles of the greatnavigator before he set sail on his first voyage of discovery. The drama endedwith the momentous departure of his ships from the harbour of Palos, an episodewhose results are known to all the world. At my desire Apel submitted his playto my uncle Adolph, and even in his critical opinion it was remarkable for itslively and characteristic popular scenes. On the other hand, a love romance,which he had woven into the plot, struck me as unnecessary and dull. Inaddition to a brief chorus for some Moors who were expelled from Granada, to besung on their departure from the familiar home country, and a short orchestralpiece by way of conclusion, I also dashed off an overture for my friend’s play.I sketched out the complete draft of this one evening at Minna’s house, whileApel was left free to talk to her as much and as loudly as he liked. The effectthis composition was calculated to produce rested on a fundamental idea whichwas quite simple, yet startling in its development. Unfortunately I worked itout rather hurriedly. In not very carefully chosen phrasing the orchestra wasto represent the ocean, and, as far as might be, the ship upon it. A forcible,pathetically yearning and aspiring theme was the only comprehensible idea amidthe swirl of enveloping sound. When the whole had been repeated, there was asudden jump to a different theme in extreme pianissimo, accompanied by theswelling vibrations of the first violins, which was intended to represent aFata Morgana. I had secured three pairs of trumpets in different keys, in orderto produce this exquisite, gradually dawning and seductive theme with theutmost niceties of shade and variety of modulation. This was intended torepresent the land of desire towards which the hero’s eyes are turned, andwhose shores seem continually to rise before him only to sink elusively beneaththe waves, until at last they soar in very deed above the western horizon, thecrown of all his toil and search, and stand clearly and unmistakably revealedto all the sailors, a vast continent of the future. My six trumpets were now tocombine in one key, in order that the theme assigned to them might re-echo inglorious jubilation. Familiar as I was with the excellence of the Prussianregimental trumpeters, I could rely upon a startling effect, especially in thisconcluding passage. My overture astonished every one, and was tumultuouslyapplauded. The play itself, however, was acted without dignity. A conceitedcomedian, named Ludwig Meyer, completely ruined the title part, for which heexcused himself on the ground that, having to act as stage manager also, he hadbeen unable to commit his lines to memory. Nevertheless, he managed to enrichhis wardrobe with several splendid costumes at Apel’s expense, wearing them, asColumbus, one after the other. At all events, Apel had lived to see a play ofhis own actually performed, and although this was never repeated, yet itafforded me an opportunity of increasing my personal popularity with the peopleof Magdeburg, as the overture was several times repeated at concerts by specialrequest.
But the chief event of this theatrical season occurred towards its close. Iinduced Mme. Schroder-Devrient, who was staying in Leipzig, to come to us for afew special performances, when, on two occasions, I had the great satisfactionand stimulating experience of myself conducting the operas in which she sang,and thus entering into immediate artistic collaboration with her. She appearedas Desdemona and Romeo. In the latter role particularly she surpassed herself,and kindled a fresh flame in my breast. This visit brought us also into closerpersonal contact. So kindly disposed and sympathetic did she show herselftowards me, that she even volunteered to lend me her services at a concertwhich I proposed to give for my own benefit, although this would necessitateher returning after a brief absence. Under circumstances so auspicious I couldonly expect the best possible results from my concert, and in my situation atthat time its proceeds were a matter of vital importance to me. My scantysalary from the Magdeburg opera company had become altogether illusory, beingpaid only in small and irregular instalments, so that I could see but one wayof meeting my daily expenses. These included frequent entertainment of a largecircle of friends, consisting of singers and players, and the situation hadbecome unpleasantly accentuated by no small number of debts. True, I did notknow their exact amount; but reckoned that I could at least form anadvantageous, if indefinite, estimate of the sum to be realized by my concert,whereby the two unknown quantities might balance each other. I thereforeconsoled my creditors with the tale of these fabulous receipts, which were topay them all in full the day after the concert. I even went so far as to invitethem to come and be paid at the hotel to which I had moved at the close of theseason.
And, indeed, there was nothing unreasonable in my counting on the highestimaginable receipts, when supported by so great and popular a singer, who,moreover, was returning to Magdeburg on purpose for the event. I consequentlyacted with reckless prodigality as regards cost, launching out into all mannerof musical extravagance, such as engaging an excellent and much largerorchestra, and arranging many rehearsals. Unfortunately for me, however, nobodywould believe that such a famous actress, whose time was so precious, wouldreally return again to please a little Magdeburg conductor. My pompousannouncement of her appearance was almost universally regarded as a deceitfulmanœuvre, and people took offence at the high prices charged for seats. Theresult was that the hall was only very scantily filled, a fact whichparticularly grieved me on account of my generous patroness. Her promise I hadnever doubted. Punctually on the day appointed she reappeared to support me,and now had the painful and unaccustomed experience of performing before asmall audience. Fortunately, she treated the matter with great good-humour(which, I learned later, was prompted by other motives, not personallyconcerning me). Among several pieces she sang Beethoven’s Adelaïde mostexquisitely, wherein, to my own astonishment, I accompanied her on the piano.But, alas! another and more unexpected mishap befell my concert, through ourunfortunate selection of pieces. Owing to the excessive reverberation of thesaloon in the Hotel ‘The City of London,’ the noise was unbearable. My ColumbusOverture, with its six trumpets, had early in the evening filled the audiencewith terror; and now, at the end, came Beethoven’s Schlacht bei Vittoria, forwhich, in enthusiastic expectation of limitless receipts, I had provided everyimaginable orchestral luxury. The firing of cannon and musketry was organisedwith the utmost elaboration, on both the French and English sides, by means ofspecially constructed and costly apparatus; while trumpets and bugles had beendoubled and trebled. Then began a battle, such as has seldom been more cruellyfought in a concert-room. The orchestra flung itself, so to speak, upon thescanty audience with such an overwhelming superiority of numbers that thelatter speedily gave up all thought of resistance and literally took to flight.Mme. Schroder-Devrient had kindly taken a front seat, that she might hear theconcert to an end. Much as she may have been inured to terrors of this kind,this was more than she could stand, even out of friendship for me. When,therefore, the English made a fresh desperate assault upon the French position,she took to flight, almost wringing her hands. Her action became the signal fora panic-stricken stampede. Every one rushed out; and Wellington’s victory wasfinally celebrated in a confidential outburst between myself and the orchestraalone. Thus ended this wonderful musical festival. Schroder-Devrient at oncedeparted, deeply regretting the ill-success of her well-meant effort, andkindly left me to my fate. After seeking comfort in the arms of my sorrowingsweetheart, and attempting to nerve myself for the morrow’s battle, which didnot seem likely to end in a victorious symphony, I returned next morning to thehotel. I found I could only reach my rooms by running the gauntlet between longrows of men and women in double file, who had all been specially invitedthither for the settlement of their respective affairs. Reserving the right toselect individuals from among my visitors for separate interview, I first ofall led in the second trumpeter of the orchestra, whose duty it had been tolook after the cash and the music. From his account I learned that, owing tothe high fees which, in my generous enthusiasm, I had promised to theorchestra, a few more shillings and sixpences would still have to come out ofmy own pocket to meet these charges alone. When this was settled, the positionof affairs was plain. The next person I invited to come in was Mme. Gottschalk,a trustworthy Jewess, with whom I wanted to come to some arrangement respectingthe present crisis. She perceived at once that more than ordinary help wasrequired in this case, but did not doubt that I should be able to obtain itfrom my opulent connections in Leipzig. She undertook, therefore, to appeasethe other creditors with tranquillising assurances, and railed, or pretended torail, against their indecent conduct with great vigour. Thus at last wesucceeded, though not without some difficulty, in making the corridor outsidemy door once more passable.
The theatrical season was now over, our company on the point of dissolution,and I myself free from my appointment. But meanwhile the unhappy director ofour theatre had passed from a state of chronic to one of acute bankruptcy. Hepaid with paper money, that is to say, with whole sheets of box-tickets forperformances which he guaranteed should take place. By dint of great craftMinna managed to extract some profit even from these singular treasury-bonds.She was living at this time most frugally and economically. Moreover, as thedramatic company still continued its efforts on behalf of its members—only theopera troupe having been dissolved—she remained at the theatre. Thus, when Istarted out on my compulsory return to Leipzig, she saw me off with heartygood-wishes for our speedy reunion, promising to spend the next holidays invisiting her parents in Dresden, on which occasion she hoped also to look me upin Leipzig.
Thus it came about that early in May I once more went home to my own folk, inorder that after this abortive first attempt at civic independence, I mightfinally lift the load of debt with which my efforts in Magdeburg had burdenedme. An intelligent brown poodle faithfully accompanied me, and was entrusted tomy family for food and entertainment as the only visible property I hadacquired. Nevertheless, my mother and Rosalie succeeded in founding good hopesfor my future career upon the bare fact of my being able to conduct anorchestra. To me, on the other hand, the thought of returning once more to myformer life with my family was very discomfiting. My relation to Minna inparticular spurred me on to resume my interrupted career as speedily aspossible. The great change which had come over me in this respect was moreapparent than ever when Minna spent a few days with me in Leipzig on her wayhome. Her familiar and genial presence proclaimed that my days of parentaldependence were past and gone. We discussed the renewal of my Magdeburgengagement, and I promised her an early visit in Dresden. I obtained permissionfrom my mother and sister to invite her one evening to tea, and in this way Iintroduced her to my family. Rosalie saw at once how matters stood with me, butmade no further use of the discovery than to tease me about being in love. Toher the affair did not appear dangerous; but to me things wore a very differentaspect, for this love-lorn attachment was entirely in keeping with myindependent spirit, and my ambition to win myself a place in the world of art.
My distaste for Leipzig itself was furthermore strengthened by a change whichoccurred there at this time in the realm of music. At the very time that I, inMagdeburg, was attempting to make my reputation as a musical conductor bythoughtless submission to the frivolous taste of the day, Mendelssohn-Bartholdywas conducting the Gewandhaus concerts, and inaugurating a momentous epoch forhimself and the musical taste of Leipzig. His influence had put an end to thesimple ingenuousness with which the Leipzig public had hitherto judged theproductions of its sociable subscription concerts. Through the influence of mygood old friend Pohlenz, who was not yet altogether laid on the shelf, Imanaged to produce my Columbus Overture at a benefit concert given by thefavourite young singer, Livia Gerhart. But, to my amazement, I found that thetaste of the musical public in Leipzig had been given a different bent, whichnot even my rapturously applauded overture, with its brilliant combination ofsix trumpets, could influence. This experience deepened my dislike ofeverything approaching a classical tone, in which sentiment I found myself incomplete accord with honest Pohlenz, who sighed good-naturedly over thedownfall of the good old times.
Arrangements for a musical festival at Dessau, under Friedrich Schneider’sconductorship, offered me a welcome chance of quitting Leipzig. For thisjourney, which could be performed on foot in seven hours, I had to procure apassport for eight days. This document was destined to play an important partin my life for many years to come; for on several occasions and in variousEuropean countries it was the only paper I possessed to prove my identity. Infact, owing to my evasion of military duty in Saxony, I never again succeededin obtaining a regular pass until I was appointed musical conductor in Dresden.I derived very little artistic pleasure or benefit of any kind from thisoccasion; on the contrary, it gave a fresh impetus to my hatred of theclassical. I heard Beethoven’s Symphony in C minor conducted by a man whosephysiognomy, resembling that of a drunken satyr, filled me with unconquerabledisgust. In spite of an interminable row of contrabassi, with which a conductorusually coquettes at musical festivals, his performance was so expressionlessand inane that I turned away in disgust as from an alarming and repulsiveproblem, and desisted from all attempts to explain the impassable gulf which,as I again perceived, yawned between my own vivid and imaginative conception ofthis work and the only living presentations of it which I had ever heard. Butfor the present my tormented spirits were cheered and calmed by hearing theclassical Schneider’s oratorio Absalom rendered as an absolute burlesque.
It was in Dessau that Minna had made her first debut on the stage, and whilethere I heard her spoken of by frivolous young men in the tone usual in suchcircles when discussing young and beautiful actresses. My eagerness incontradicting this chatter and confounding the scandalmongers revealed to memore clearly than ever the strength of the passion which drew me to her.
I therefore returned to Leipzig without calling on my relatives, and thereprocured means for an immediate journey to Dresden. On the way (the journey wasstill performed by express coach) I met Minna, accompanied by one of hersisters, already on the way back to Magdeburg. Promptly procuring a postingticket for the return journey to Leipzig, I actually set off thither with mydear girl; but by the time we reached the next station I had succeeded inpersuading her to turn back with me to Dresden. By this time the mail-coach wasfar ahead of us, and we had to travel by special post-chaise. This livelybustling to and fro seemed to astonish the two girls, and put them into highspirits. The extravagance of my conduct had evidently roused them to theexpectation of adventures, and it now behoved me to fulfil this expectation.Procuring from a Dresden acquaintance the necessary cash, I conducted my twolady friends through the Saxon Alps, where we spent several right merry days ofinnocent and youthful gaiety. Only once was this disturbed by a passing fit ofjealousy on my part, for which, indeed, there was no occasion, but which feditself in my heart on a nervous apprehension of the future, and upon theexperience I had already gained of womenkind. Yet, despite this blot, ourexcursion still lingers in my memory as the sweetest and almost soleremembrance of unalloyed happiness in the whole of my life as a young man. Oneevening in particular stands out in bright relief, during which we sat togetheralmost all night at the watering-place of Schandau in glorious summer weather.Indeed, my subsequent long and anxious connection with Minna, interwoven as itwas with the most painful and bitter vicissitudes, has often appeared to me asa persistently prolonged expiation of the brief and harmless enjoyment of thosefew days.
After accompanying Minna to Leipzig, whence she continued her journey toMagdeburg, I presented myself to my family, but told them nothing of my Dresdenexcursion. I now braced my energies, as though under the stern compulsion of astrange and deep sense of duty, to the task of making such arrangements aswould speedily restore me to my dear one’s side. To this end a fresh engagementhad to be negotiated with Director Bethmann for the coming winter season.Unable to await the conclusion of our contract in Leipzig, I availed myself ofLaube’s presence at the baths in Kosen, near Naumburg, to pay him a visit.Laube had only recently been discharged from the Berlin municipal gaol, after atormenting inquisition of nearly a year’s duration. On giving his parole not toleave the country until the verdict had been given, he had been permitted toretire to Kosen, from which place he, one evening, paid us a secret visit inLeipzig. I can still call his woebegone appearance to mind. He seemedhopelessly resigned, though he spoke cheerfully with regard to all his earlierdreams of better things; and owing to my own worries at that time about thecritical state of my affairs, this impression still remains one of my saddestand most painful recollections. While at Kosen I showed him a good many of theverses for my Liebesverbot, and although he spoke coldly of my presumption inwishing to write my own libretto, I was slightly encouraged by his appreciationof my work.
Meanwhile I impatiently awaited letters from Magdeburg. Not that I had anydoubt as to the renewal of my engagement; on the contrary, I had every reasonto regard myself as a good acquisition for Bethmann; but I felt as thoughnothing which tended to bring me nearer to Minna could move fast enough. Assoon as I received the necessary tidings, I hurried away to make all needfularrangements on the spot for ensuring a magnificent success in the comingMagdeburg operatic season.
Through the tireless munificence of the King of Prussia fresh and finalassistance had been granted to our perennially bankrupt theatrical director.His Majesty had assigned a not inconsiderable sum to a committee consisting ofsubstantial Magdeburg citizens, as a subsidy to be expended on the theatreunder Bethmann’s management. What this meant, and the respect with which Ithereupon regarded the artistic conditions of Magdeburg, may be best imaginedif one remembers the neglected and forlorn surroundings amid which suchprovincial theatres usually drag out their lives. I offered at once toundertake a long journey in search of good operatic singers. I said I wouldfind the means for this at my own risk, and the only guarantee I demanded fromthe management for eventual reimbursement was that they should assign me theproceeds of a future benefit performance. This offer was gladly accepted, andin pompous tones the director furnished me with the necessary powers, andmoreover gave me his parting blessing. During this brief interval I lived oncemore in intimate communion with Minna—who now had her mother with her—and thentook fresh leave of her for my venturesome enterprise.
But when I got to Leipzig I found it by no means easy to procure the funds, soconfidently counted on when in Magdeburg, for the expenses of my projectedjourney. The glamour of the royal protection of Prussia for our theatricalundertaking, which I portrayed in the liveliest colours to my goodbrother-in-law Brockhaus, quite failed to dazzle him, and it was at the cost ofgreat pains and humiliation that I finally got my ship of discovery underweigh.
I was naturally drawn first of all to my old wonderland of Bohemia. There Imerely touched at Prague and, without visiting my lovely lady friends, Ihurried forward so that I might first sample the opera company then playing forthe season at Karlsbad. Impatient to discover as many talents as I could assoon as possible, so as not to exhaust my funds to no purpose, I attended aperformance of La Dame Blanche, sincerely hoping to find the whole performancefirst class. But not until much later did I fully realise how wretched was thequality of all these singers. I selected one of them, a bass named Graf, whowas singing Gaveston. When in due course he made his debut at Magdeburg, heprovoked so much well-founded dissatisfaction, that I could not find a word tosay in reply to the mockery which this acquisition brought upon me.
But the small success with which the real object of my tour was attended wascounterbalanced by the pleasantness of the journey itself. The trip throughEger, over the Fichtel mountains, and the entry into Bayreuth, gloriouslyilluminated by the setting sun, have remained happy memories to this day.
My next goal was Nuremberg, where my sister Clara and her husband were acting,and from whom I might reckon on sound information as to the object of mysearch. It was particularly nice to be hospitably received in my sister’shouse, where I hoped to revive my somewhat exhausted means of travel. In thishope I reckoned chiefly upon the sale of a snuff-box presented to me by afriend, which I had secret reasons to suppose was made of platinum. To this Icould add a gold signet-ring, given me by my friend Apel for composing theoverture to his Columbus. The value of the snuff-box unfortunately proved to beentirely imaginary; but by pawning these two jewels, the only ones I had left,I hoped to provide myself with the bare necessaries for continuing my journeyto Frankfort. It was to this place and the Rhine district that the informationI had gathered led me to direct my steps. Before leaving I persuaded my sisterand brother-in-law to accept engagements in Magdeburg; but I still lacked afirst tenor and a soprano, whom hitherto I had altogether failed to discover.
My stay in Nuremberg was most agreeably prolonged through a renewed meetingwith Schroder-Devrient, who just at that time was fulfilling a short engagementin that town. Meeting her again was like seeing the clouds disperse, which,since our last meeting, had darkened my artistic horizon.
The Nuremberg operatic company had a very limited repertoire. Besides Fideliothey could produce nothing save Die Schweizerfamilie, a fact about which thisgreat singer complained, as this was one of her first parts sung in earlyyouth, for which she was hardly any longer suited, and which, in addition, shehad played ad nauseam. I also looked forward to the performance of DieSchweizerfamilie with misgivings, and even with anxiety, for I feared lest thistame opera and the old-fashioned sentimental part of Emmeline would weaken thegreat impression the public, as well as myself, had formed up to that moment ofthe work of this sublime artist. Imagine, therefore, how deeply moved andastonished I was, on the evening of the performance, to find that it was inthis very part that I first realised the truly transcendental genius of thisextraordinary woman. That anything so great as her interpretation of thecharacter of the Swiss maiden could not be handed down to posterity as amonument for all time can only be looked upon as one of the most sublimesacrifices demanded by dramatic art, and as one of its highest manifestations.When, therefore, such phenomena appear, we cannot hold them in too greatreverence, nor look upon them as too sacred.
Apart from all these new experiences which were to become of so much value tomy whole life and to my artistic development, the impressions I received atNuremberg, though they were apparently trivial in their origin, left suchindelible traces on my mind, that they revived within me later on, though inquite a different and novel form.
My brother-in-law, Wolfram, was a great favourite with the Nuremberg theatricalworld; he was witty and sociable, and as such made himself much liked intheatrical circles. On this occasion I received singularly delightful proofs ofthe spirit of extravagant gaiety manifested on these evenings at the inn, inwhich I also took part. A master carpenter, named Lauermann, a little thick-setman, no longer young, of comical appearance and gifted only with the roughestdialect, was pointed out to me in one of the inns visited by our friends as oneof those oddities who involuntarily contributed most to the amusement of thelocal wags. Lauermann, it seems, imagined himself an excellent singer, and as aresult of this presumption, evinced interest only in those in whom he thoughthe recognised a like talent. In spite of the fact that, owing to this singularpeculiarity, he became the butt of constant jest and scornful mockery, he neverfailed to appear every evening among his laughter-loving persecutors. So oftenhad he been laughed at and hurt by their scorn, that it became very difficultto persuade him to give a display of his artistic skill, and this at last couldonly be effected by artfully devised traps, so laid as to appeal to his vanity.My arrival as an unknown stranger was utilised for a manœuvre of this kind.How poor was the opinion they held of the unfortunate mastersinger’s judgmentwas revealed when, to my great amazement, my brother-in-law introduced me tohim as the great Italian singer, Lablache. To his credit I must confess thatLauermann surveyed me for a long time with incredulous distrust, and commentedwith cautious suspicion on my juvenile appearance, but especially on theevidently tenor character of my voice. But the whole art of these tavernassociates and their principal enjoyment consisted in leading this poorenthusiast to believe the incredible, a task on which they spared neither timenor pains.
My brother-in-law succeeded in making the carpenter believe that I, whilereceiving fabulous sums for my performances, wished by a singular act ofdissimulation, and by visiting public inns, to withdraw from the generalpublic; and that, moreover, when it came to a meeting between ‘Lauermann’ and‘Lablache,’ the only real interest could be to hear Lauermann and not Lablache,seeing that the former had nothing to learn from the latter, but only Lablachefrom him. So singular was the conflict between incredulity, on the one hand,and keenly excited vanity on the other, that finally the poor carpenter becamereally attractive to me. I began to play the role assigned me with all theskill I could command, and after a couple of hours, which were relieved by thestrangest antics, we at last gained our end. The wondrous mortal, whoseflashing eyes had long been fixed on me in the greatest excitement, worked hismuscles in the peculiarly fantastic fashion which we are accustomed toassociate with a music-making automaton, the mechanism of which has been dulywound up: his lips quivered, his teeth gnashed, his eyes rolled convulsively,until finally there broke forth, in a hoarse oily voice, an uncommonly trivialstreet-ballad. Its delivery, accompanied by a regular movement of hisoutstretched thumbs behind the ears, and during which his fat face glowed thebrightest red, was unhappily greeted with a wild burst of laughter from allpresent, which excited the unlucky master to the most furious wrath. Withstudied cruelty this wrath was greeted by those, who until then had shamelesslyflattered him, with the most extravagant mockery, until the poor wretch at lastabsolutely foamed with rage.
As he was leaving the inn amid a hail of curses from his infamous friends, animpulse of genuine pity prompted me to follow him, that I might beg hisforgiveness and seek in some way to pacify him, a task all the more difficultsince he was especially bitter against me as the latest of his enemies, and theone who had so deeply deceived his eager hope of hearing the genuine Lablache.Nevertheless, I succeeded in stopping him on the threshold; and now the riotouscompany silently entered into an extraordinary conspiracy to induce Lauermannto sing again that very evening. How they managed this I can as little rememberas I can call to mind the effect of the spirituous liquors I imbibed. In anycase, I suspect that drink must eventually have been the means of subduingLauermann, just as it also rendered my own recollections of the wonderfulevents of that prolonged evening at the inn extremely vague. After Lauermannhad for the second time suffered the same mockery, the whole company feltitself bound to accompany the unhappy man to his home. They carried him thitherin a wheelbarrow, which they found outside the house, and in this he arrived,in triumph, at his own door, in one of those marvellous narrow alleys peculiarto the old city. Frau Lauermann, who was aroused from slumber to receive herhusband, enabled us, by her torrent of curses, to form some idea of the natureof their marital and domestic relations. Mockery of her husband’s vocal talentswas with her also a familiar theme; but to this she now added the most dreadfulreproaches for the worthless scamps who, by encouraging him in this delusion,kept him from profitably following his trade, and even led him to such scenesas the present one. Thereupon the pride of the suffering mastersingerreasserted itself; for while his wife painfully assisted him to mount thestairs, he harshly denied her right to sit in judgment upon his vocal gifts,and sternly ordered her to be silent. But even now this wonderfulnight-adventure was by no means over. The entire swarm moved once more in thedirection of the inn. Before the house, however, we found a number of fellowscongregated, among them several workmen, against whom, owing to policeregulations as to closing hours, the doors were shut. But the regular guests ofthe house, who were of our party, and who were on terms of old friendship withthe host, thought that it was nevertheless permissible and possible to demandentrance. The host was troubled at having to bar his door against friends,whose voices he recognised; yet it was necessary to prevent the new arrivalsfrom forcing a way in with them. Out of this situation a mighty confusionarose, which, what with shouting and clamour and an inexplicable growth in thenumber of the disputants, soon assumed a truly demoniacal character. It seemedto me as though in a few moments the whole town would break into a tumult, andI thought I should once more have to witness a revolution, the real origin ofwhich no man could comprehend. Then suddenly I heard some one fall, and, asthough by magic, the whole mass scattered in every direction. One of theregular guests, who was familiar with an ancient Nuremberg boxing trick,desiring to put an end to the interminable riot and to cut his way home throughthe crowd, gave one of the noisiest shouters a blow with his fist between theeyes, laying him senseless on the ground, though without seriously injuringhim. And this it was that so speedily broke up the whole throng. Within littlemore than a minute of the most violent uproar of hundreds of human voices, mybrother-in-law and I were able to stroll arm-in-arm through the moonlitstreets, quietly jesting and laughing, on our way home; and then it was that,to my amazement and relief, he informed me that he was accustomed to this sortof life every evening.
At last, however, it became necessary seriously to attend to the purpose of myjourney. Only in passing did I touch at Wurzburg for a day. I remember nothingof the meeting with my relations and acquaintance beyond the melancholy visitto Friederike Galvani already mentioned. On reaching Frankfort I was obliged toseek at once the shelter of a decent hotel, in order to await there the resultof my solicitations for subsidies from the directorate of the Magdeburgtheatre. My hopes of securing the real stars of our operatic undertaking wereformed with a view to a season at Wiesbaden, where, I was told, a good operaticcompany was on the point of dissolution. I found it extremely difficult toarrange the short journey thither; yet I managed to be present at a rehearsalof Robert der Teufel, in which the tenor Freimuller distinguished himself. Iinterviewed him at once, and found him willing to entertain my proposals forMagdeburg. We concluded the necessary agreement, and I then returned with allspeed to my headquarters, the Weidenbusch Hotel in Frankfort. There I had tospend another anxious week, during which I waited in vain for the necessarytravelling expenses to arrive from Magdeburg. To kill time I had recourse,among other things, to a large red pocket-book which I carried about with me inmy portmanteau, and in which I entered, with exact details of dates, etc.,notes for my future biography—the selfsame book which now lies before me tofreshen my memory, and which I have ever since added to at various periods ofmy life, without leaving any gaps. Through the neglect of the Magdeburgmanagers my situation, which was already serious, became literally desperate,when I made an acquisition in Frankfort which gave me almost more pleasure thanI was able to bear. I had been present at a production of the Zauberflote underthe direction of Guhr, then wonderfully renowned as ‘a conductor of genius,’and was agreeably surprised at the truly excellent quality of the company. Itwas, of course, useless to think of luring one of the leading stars into mynet; on the other hand, I saw clearly enough that the youthful FrauleinLimbach, who sang the ‘first boy’s’ part, possessed a desirable talent. Sheaccepted my offer of an engagement, and, indeed, seemed so anxious to be rid ofher Frankfort engagement that she resolved to escape from it surreptitiously.She revealed her plans to me, and begged me to assist her in carrying them out;for, inasmuch as the directors might get wind of the affair, there was no timeto lose. At all events, the young lady assumed that I had abundant credit,supplied for my official business journey by the Magdeburg theatre committee,whose praises I had so diligently sung. But already I had been compelled topledge my scanty travelling gear in order to provide for my own departure. Tothis point I had persuaded the host, but now found him by no means inclined toadvance me the additional funds needed for carrying off a young singer. Tocloak the bad behaviour of my directors I was compelled to invent some tale ofmisfortune, and to leave the astonished and indignant young lady behind.Heartily ashamed of this adventure, I travelled through rain and storm viaLeipzig, where I picked up my brown poodle, and reaching Magdeburg, thereresumed my work as musical director on the 1st of September.
The result of my business labours gave me but little joy. The director, it istrue, proved triumphantly that he had sent five whole golden louis to myaddress in Frankfort, and that my tenor and the youthful lady-singer had alsobeen provided with proper contracts, but not with the fares and advancesdemanded. Neither of them came; only the basso Graf arrived with pedanticpunctuality from Karlsbad, and immediately provoked the chaff of our theatricalwags. He sang at a rehearsal of the Schweizerfamilie with such a schoolmasterlydrone that I completely lost my composure. The arrival of my excellentbrother-in-law Wolfram with my sister Clara was of more advantage for musicalcomedy than for grand opera, and caused me considerable trouble into thebargain; for, being honest folk and used to decent living, they speedilyperceived that, in spite of royal protection, the condition of the theatre wasbut very insecure, as was natural under so unscrupulous a management as that ofBethmann, and recognised with alarm that they had seriously compromised theirfamily position. My courage had already begun to sink when a happy chancebrought us a young woman, Mme. Pollert (nee Zeibig), who was passing throughMagdeburg with her husband, an actor, in order to fulfil a special engagementin that town; she was gifted with a beautiful voice, was a talented singer, andwell suited for the chief roles. Necessity had at last driven the directors toaction, and at the eleventh hour they sent for the tenor Freimuller. But I wasparticularly gratified when the love which had arisen between him and youngLimbach in Frankfort enabled the enterprising tenor to carry away this singer,to whom I had behaved so miserably. Both arrived radiant with joy. Along withthem we engaged Mme. Pollert, who, in spite of her pretentiousness, met withfavour from the public. A well-trained and musically competent baritone, HerrKrug, afterwards the conductor of a choir in Karlsruhe, had also beendiscovered, so that all at once I stood at the head of a really good operaticcompany, among which the basso Graf could be fitted in only with greatdifficulty, by being kept as much as possible in the background. We succeededquickly with a series of operatic performances which were by no means ordinary,and our repertory included everything of this nature that had ever been writtenfor the theatre. I was particularly pleased with the presentation of Spohr’sJessonda, which was truly not without sublimity, and raised us high in theesteem of all cultured lovers of music. I was untiring in my endeavours todiscover some means of elevating our performances above the usual level ofexcellence compatible with the meagre resources of provincial theatres. Ipersistently fell foul of the director Bethmann by strengthening my orchestra,which he had to pay; but, on the other hand, I won his complete goodwill bystrengthening the chorus and the theatre music, which cost him nothing, andwhich lent such splendour to our presentations that subscriptions and audiencesincreased enormously. For instance, I secured the regimental band, and also themilitary singers, who in the Prussian army are admirably organised, and whoassisted in our performances in return for free passes to the gallery grantedto their relatives. Thus I managed to furnish with the utmost completeness thespecially strong orchestral accompaniment demanded by the score of Bellini’sNorma, and was able to dispose of a body of male voices for the impressiveunison portion of the male chorus in the introduction of that work such as eventhe greatest theatres could rarely command. In later years I was able to assureAuber, whom I often met over an ice in Tortoni’s cafe in Paris, that in hisLestocq I had been able to render the part of the mutinous soldiery, whenseduced into conspiracy, with an absolutely full number of voices, a fact forwhich he thanked me with astonishment and delight.
Amid such circumstances of encouragement the composition of my Liebesverbotmade rapid strides towards completion. I intended the presentation of thispiece for the benefit performance which had been promised me as a means ofdefraying my expenses, and I worked hard in the hope of improving myreputation, and at the same time of accomplishing something by no means lessdesirable, and that was the betterment of my financial position. Even the fewhours which I could snatch from business to spend at Minna’s side were devotedwith unexampled zeal to the completion of my score. My diligence moved evenMinna’s mother, who looked with some uneasiness upon our love affair. She hadremained over the summer on a visit to her daughter, and managed the house forher. Owing to her interference a new and urgent anxiety had entered into ourrelations, which pressed for serious settlement. It was natural that we shouldbegin to think of what it was all going to lead to. I must confess that theidea of marriage, especially in view of my youth, filled me with dismay, andwithout indeed reflecting on the matter, or seriously weighing its pros andcons, a naive and instinctive feeling prevented me even from considering thepossibility of a step which would have such serious consequences upon my wholelife. Moreover, our modest circumstances were in so alarming and uncertain astate that even Minna declared that she was more anxious to see these improvedthan to get me to marry her. But she was also driven to think of herself, andthat promptly, for trouble arose with regard to her own position in theMagdeburg theatre. There she had met with a rival in her own speciality, and asthis woman’s husband became chief stage manager, and consequently had supremepower, she grew to be a source of great danger. Seeing, therefore, that at thisvery moment Minna received advantageous offers from the managers of theKonigstadt theatre in Berlin, then doing a splendid business, she seized theopportunity to break off her connection with the Magdeburg theatre, and thusplunged me, whom she did not appear to consider in the matter, into the depthsof despair. I could not hinder Minna from going to Berlin to fulfil a specialengagement there, although this was not in accordance with her agreement, andso she departed, leaving me behind, overcome with grief and doubt as to themeaning of her conduct. At last, mad with passion, I wrote to her urging her toreturn, and the better to move her and not to separate her fate from my own, Iproposed to her in a strictly formal manner, and hinted at the hope of earlymarriage. About the same time my brother-in-law, Wolfram, having quarrelledwith the director Bethmann and cancelled his contract with him, also went tothe Konigstadt theatre to fulfil a special engagement. My good sister Clara,who had remained behind for a while amid the somewhat unpleasant conditions ofMagdeburg, soon perceived the anxious and troubled temper in which herotherwise cheerful brother was rapidly consuming himself. One day she thoughtit advisable to show me a letter from her husband, with news from Berlin, andespecially concerning Minna, in which he earnestly deplored my passion for thisgirl, who was acting quite unworthily of me. As she lodged at his hotel, he wasable to observe that not only the company she kept, but also her own conduct,were perfectly scandalous. The extraordinary impression which this dreadfulcommunication made upon me decided me to abandon the reserve I had hithertoshown towards my relatives with regard to my love affairs. I wrote to mybrother-in-law in Berlin, telling him how matters stood with me, and that myplans greatly depended on Minna, and further, how extremely important it wasfor me to learn from him the indubitable truth concerning her of whom he hadsent so evil an account. From my brother-in-law, usually so dry and given tojoking, I received a reply which filled my heart to overflowing again. Heconfessed that he had accused Minna too hastily, and regretted that he hadallowed idle chatter to influence him in founding a charge, which, oninvestigation, had proved to be altogether groundless and unjust; he declared,moreover, that on nearer acquaintance and conversation with her he had been sofully convinced of the genuineness and uprightness of her character, that hehoped with all his heart that I might see my way to marry her. And now a stormraged in my heart. I implored Minna to return at once, and was glad to learnthat, for her part, she was not inclined to renew her engagement at the Berlintheatre, as she had now acquired a more intimate knowledge of the life there,and found it too frivolous. All that remained, then, was for me to facilitatethe resumption of her Magdeburg engagement. To this end, therefore, at ameeting of the theatre committee, I attacked the director and his detestedstage manager with such energy, and defended Minna against the wrong done herby them both with such passion and fervour, that the other members, astonishedat the frank confession of my affection, yielded to my wishes without anyfurther ado. And now I set off by extra post in the depth of night and indreadful winter weather to meet my returning sweetheart. I greeted her withtears of deepest joy, and led her back in triumph to her cosy Magdeburg home,already become so dear to me.
Meanwhile, as our two lives, thus severed for a while, were being drawn moreand more closely together, I finished the score of my Liebesverbot about NewYear 1836. For the development of my future plans I depended not a little uponthe success of this work; and Minna herself seemed not disinclined to yield tomy hopes in this respect. We had reason to be concerned as to how matters wouldpan out for us at the beginning of the spring, for this season is always a badone in which to start such precarious theatrical enterprises. In spite of royalsupport and the participation of the theatre committee in the generalmanagement of the theatre, our worthy director’s state of perennial bankruptcysuffered no alteration, and it seemed as if his theatrical undertaking couldnot possibly last much longer in any form. Nevertheless, with the help of thereally first-rate company of singers at my disposal, the production of my operawas to mark a complete change in my unsatisfactory circumstances. With the viewof recovering the travelling expenses I had incurred during the previoussummer, I was entitled to a benefit performance. I naturally fixed this for thepresentation of my own work, and did my utmost so that this favour granted meby the directors should prove as inexpensive to them as possible. As they wouldnevertheless be compelled to incur some expense in the production of the newopera, I agreed that the proceeds of the first presentation should be left tothem, while I should claim only those of the second. I did not consider italtogether unsatisfactory that the time for the rehearsals was postponed untilthe very end of the season, for it was reasonable to suppose that our company,which was often greeted with unusual applause, would receive special attentionand favour from the public during its concluding performances. Unfortunately,however, contrary to our expectations, we never reached the proper close ofthis season, which had been fixed for the end of April; for already in March,owing to irregularity in the payment of salaries, the most popular members ofthe company, having found better employment elsewhere, tendered theirresignations to the management, and the director, who was unable to raise thenecessary cash, was compelled to bow to the inevitable. Now, indeed, my spiritssank, for it seemed more than doubtful whether my Liebesverbot would ever beproduced at all. I owed it entirely to the warm affection felt for mepersonally by all members of the opera company, that the singers consented notonly to remain until the end of March, but also to undertake the toil ofstudying and rehearsing my opera, a task which, considering the very limitedtime, promised to be extremely arduous. In the event of our having to give tworepresentations, the time at our disposal was so very short that, for all therehearsals, we had but ten days before us. And since we were concerned not witha light comedy or farce, but with a grand opera, and one which, in spite of thetrifling character of its music, contained numerous and powerful concertedpassages, the undertaking might have been regarded almost as foolhardy.Nevertheless, I built my hopes upon the extraordinary exertions which thesingers so willingly made in order to please me; for they studied continuously,morning, noon, and night. But seeing that, in spite of all this, it was quiteimpossible to attain to perfection, especially in the matter of words, in thecase of every one of these harassed performers, I reckoned further on my ownacquired skill as conductor to achieve the final miracle of success. Thepeculiar ability I possessed of helping the singers and of making them, inspite of much uncertainty, seem to flow smoothly onwards, was clearlydemonstrated in our orchestral rehearsals, in which, by dint of constantprompting, loud singing with the performers and vigorous directions as tonecessary action, I got the whole thing to run so easily that it seemed quitepossible that the performance might be a reasonable success after all.Unfortunately, we did not consider that in front of the public all thesedrastic methods of moving the dramatic and musical machinery would berestricted to the movements of my baton and to my facial expression. As amatter of fact the singers, and especially the men, were so extraordinarilyuncertain that from beginning to end their embarrassment crippled theeffectiveness of every one of their parts. Freimuller, the tenor, whose memorywas most defective, sought to patch up the lively and emotional character ofhis badly learned rule of the madcap Luzio by means of routine work learned inFra Diavolo and Zampa, and especially by the aid of an enormously thick,brightly coloured and fluttering plume of feathers. Consequently, as thedirectors failed to have the book of words printed in time, it was impossibleto blame the public for being in doubt as to the main outlines of the story,seeing that they had only the sung words to guide them. With the exception of afew portions played by the lady singers, which were favourably received, thewhole performance, which I had made to depend largely upon bold, energeticaction and speech, remained but a musical shadow-play, to which the orchestracontributed its own inexplicable effusions, sometimes with exaggerated noise.As characteristic of the treatment of my tone-colour, I may mention that theband-master of a Prussian military band, who, by the bye, had been well pleasedwith the performance, felt it incumbent upon him to give me some well-meanthints for my future guidance, as to the manipulation of the Turkish drum.Before I relate the further history of this wonderful work of my youth, I willpause a moment briefly to describe its character, and especially its poeticalelements.
Shakespeare’s play, which I kept throughout in mind as the foundation of mystory, was worked out in the following manner:—
An unnamed king of Sicily leaves his country, as I suggest, for a journey toNaples, and hands over to the Regent appointed—whom I simply call Friedrich,with the view of making him appear as German as possible—full authority toexercise all the royal power in order to effect a complete reform in the socialhabits of his capital, which had provoked the indignation of the Council. Atthe opening of the play we see the servants of the public authority busilyemployed either in shutting up or in pulling down the houses of popularamusement in a suburb of Palermo, and in carrying off the inmates, includinghosts and servants, as prisoners. The populace oppose this first step, and muchscuffling ensues. In the thickest of the throng the chief of the sbirri,Brighella (basso-buffo), after a preliminary roll of drums for silence, readsout the Regent’s proclamation, according to which the acts just performed aredeclared to be directed towards establishing a higher moral tone in the mannersand customs of the people. A general outburst of scorn and a mocking chorusmeets this announcement. Luzio, a young nobleman and juvenile scape-grace(tenor), seems inclined to thrust himself forward as leader of the mob, and atonce finds an occasion for playing a more active part in the cause of theoppressed people on discovering his friend Claudio (also a tenor) being ledaway to prison. From him he learns that, in pursuance of some musty old lawunearthed by Friedrich, he is to suffer the penalty of death for a certain loveescapade in which he is involved. His sweetheart, union with whom had beenprevented by the enmity of their parents, has borne him a child. Friedrich’spuritanical zeal joins cause with the parents’ hatred; he fears the worst, andsees no way of escape save through mercy, provided his sister Isabella may beable, by her entreaties, to melt the Regent’s hard heart. Claudio implores hisfriend at once to seek out Isabella in the convent of the Sisters of St.Elizabeth, which she has recently entered as novice. There, between the quietwalls of the convent, we first meet this sister, in confidential intercoursewith her friend Marianne, also a novice. Marianne reveals to her friend, fromwhom she has long been parted, the unhappy fate which has brought her to theplace. Under vows of eternal fidelity she had been persuaded to a secretliaison with a man of high rank. But finally, when in extreme need she foundherself not only forsaken, but threatened by her betrayer, she discovered himto be the mightiest man in the state, none other than the King’s Regenthimself. Isabella’s indignation finds vent in impassioned words, and is onlypacified by her determination to forsake a world in which so vile a crime cango unpunished.—When now Luzio brings her tidings of her own brother’s fate, herdisgust at her brother’s misconduct is turned at once to scorn for the villainyof the hypocritical Regent, who presumes so cruelly to punish the comparativelyvenial offence of her brother, which, at least, was not stained by treachery.Her violent outburst imprudently reveals her to Luzio in a seductive aspect;smitten with sudden love, he urges her to quit the convent for ever and toaccept his hand. She contrives to check his boldness, but resolves at once toavail herself of his escort to the Regent’s court of justice.—Here the trialscene is prepared, and I introduce it by a burlesque hearing of several personscharged by the sbirro captain with offences against morality. The earnestnessof the situation becomes more marked when the gloomy form of Friedrich stridesthrough the inrushing and unruly crowd, commanding silence, and he himselfundertakes the hearing of Claudio’s case in the sternest manner possible. Theimplacable judge is already on the point of pronouncing sentence when Isabellaenters, and requests, before them all, a private interview with the Regent. Inthis interview she behaves with noble moderation towards the dreaded, yetdespised man before her, and appeals at first only to his mildness and mercy.His interruptions merely serve to stimulate her ardour: she speaks of herbrother’s offence in melting accents, and implores forgiveness for so human andby no means unpardonable a crime. Seeing the effect of her moving appeal, shecontinues with increasing ardour to plead with the judge’s hard andunresponsive heart, which can certainly not have remained untouched bysentiments such as those which had actuated her brother, and she calls upon hismemory of these to support her desperate plea for pity. At last the ice of hisheart is broken. Friedrich, deeply stirred by Isabella’s beauty, can no longercontain himself, and promises to grant her petition at the price of her ownlove. Scarcely has she become aware of the unexpected effect of her words when,filled with indignation at such incredible villainy, she cries to the peoplethrough doors and windows to come in, that she may unmask the hypocrite beforethe world. The crowd is already rushing tumultuously into the hall of judgment,when, by a few significant hints, Friedrich, with frantic energy, succeeds inmaking Isabella realise the impossibility of her plan. He would simply deny hercharge, boldly pretend that his offer was merely made to test her, and woulddoubtless be readily believed so soon as it became only a question of rebuttinga charge of lightly making love to her. Isabella, ashamed and confounded,recognises the madness of her first step, and gnashes her teeth in silentdespair. While then Friedrich once more announces his stern resolve to thepeople, and pronounces sentence on the prisoner, it suddenly occurs toIsabella, spurred by the painful recollection of Marianne’s fate, that what shehas failed to procure by open means she might possibly obtain by craft. Thisthought suffices to dispel her sorrow, and to fill her with utmost gaiety.Turning to her sorrowing brother, her agitated friends, and the perplexedcrowd, she assures them all that she is ready to provide them with the mostamusing of adventures. She declares that the carnival festivities, which theRegent has just strictly forbidden, are to be celebrated this year with unusuallicence; for this dreaded ruler only pretends to be so cruel, in order the morepleasantly to astonish them by himself taking a merry part in all that he hasjust forbidden. They all believe that she has gone mad, and Friedrich inparticular reproves her incomprehensible folly with passionate severity. But afew words on her part suffice to transport the Regent himself with ecstasy; forin a whisper she promises to grant his desire, and that on the following nightshe will send him such a message as shall ensure his happiness.—And so ends thefirst act in a whirl of excitement.
We learn the nature of the heroine’s hastily formed plan at the beginning ofthe second act, in which she visits her brother in his cell, with the object ofdiscovering whether he is worthy of rescue. She reveals Friedrich’s shamefulproposal to him, and asks if he would wish to save his life at the price of hissister’s dishonour. Then follow Claudio’s fury and fervent declaration of hisreadiness to die; whereupon, bidding farewell to his sister, at least for thislife, he makes her the bearer of the most tender messages to the dear girl whomhe leaves behind. After this, sinking into a softer mood, the unhappy mandeclines from a state of melancholy to one of weakness. Isabella, who hadalready determined to inform him of his rescue, hesitates in dismay when shesees him fall in this way from the heights of noble enthusiasm to a mutteredconfession of a love of life still as strong as ever, and even to a stammeringquery as to whether the suggested price of his salvation is altogetherimpossible. Disgusted, she springs to her feet, thrusts the unworthy man fromher, and declares that to the shame of his death he has further added her mosthearty contempt. After having handed him over again to his gaoler, her moodonce more changes swiftly to one of wanton gaiety. True, she resolves to punishthe waverer by leaving him for a time in uncertainty as to his fate; but standsfirm by her resolve to rid the world of the abominable seducer who dared todictate laws to his fellow-men. She tells Marianne that she must take her placeat the nocturnal rendezvous, at which Friedrich so treacherously expected tomeet her (Isabella), and sends Friedrich an invitation to this meeting. Inorder to entangle the latter even more deeply in ruin, she stipulates that hemust come disguised and masked, and fixes the rendezvous in one of thosepleasure resorts which he has just suppressed. To the madcap Luzio, whom shealso desires to punish for his saucy suggestion to a novice, she relates thestory of Friedrich’s proposal, and her pretended intention of complying, fromsheer necessity, with his desires. This she does in a fashion soincomprehensively light-hearted that the otherwise frivolous man, first dumbwith amazement, ultimately yields to a fit of desperate rage. He swears that,even if the noble maiden herself can endure such shame, he will himself striveby every means in his power to avert it, and would prefer to set all Palermo onfire and in tumult rather than allow such a thing to happen. And, indeed, hearranges things in such a manner that on the appointed evening all his friendsand acquaintances assemble at the end of the Corso, as though for the openingof the prohibited carnival procession. At nightfall, as things are beginning togrow wild and merry, Luzio appears, and sings an extravagant carnival song,with the refrain:
Who joins us not in frolic jestShall have a dagger in his breast;
by which means he seeks to stir the crowd to bloody revolt. When a band ofsbirri approaches, under Brighella’s leadership, to scatter the gay throng, themutinous project seems on the point of being accomplished. But for the presentLuzio prefers to yield, and to scatter about the neighbourhood, as he mustfirst of all win the real leader of their enterprise: for here was the spotwhich Isabella had mischievously revealed to him as the place of her pretendedmeeting with the Regent. For the latter Luzio therefore lies in wait.Recognising him in an elaborate disguise, he blocks his way, and as Friedrichviolently breaks loose, is on the point of following him with shouts and drawnsword, when, on a sign from Isabella, who is hidden among some bushes, he ishimself stopped and led away. Isabella then advances, rejoicing in the thoughtof having restored the betrayed Marianne to her faithless spouse. Believingthat she holds in her hand the promised pardon for her brother, she is just onthe point of abandoning all thought of further vengeance when, breaking theseal, to her intense horror she recognises by the light of a torch that thepaper contains but a still more severe order of execution, which, owing to herdesire not to disclose to her brother the fact of his pardon, a mere chance hadnow delivered into her hand, through the agency of the bribed gaoler. After ahard fight with the tempestuous passion of love, and recognising hishelplessness against this enemy of his peace, Friedrich has in fact alreadyresolved to face his ruin, even though as a criminal, yet still as a man ofhonour. An hour on Isabella’s breast, and then—his own death by the same lawwhose implacable severity shall also claim Claudio’s life. Isabella, perceivingin this conduct only a further proof of the hypocrite’s villainy, breaks outonce more into a tempest of agonised despair. Upon her cry for immediate revoltagainst the scoundrelly tyrant, the people collect together and form a motleyand passionate crowd. Luzio, who also returns, counsels the people withstinging bitterness to pay no heed to the woman’s fury; he points out that sheis only tricking them, as she has already tricked him—for he still believes inher shameless infidelity. Fresh confusion; increased despair of Isabella;suddenly from the background comes the burlesque cry of Brighella for help,who, himself suffering from the pangs of jealousy, has by mistake arrested themasked Regent, and thus led to the latter’s discovery. Friedrich is recognised,and Marianne, trembling on his breast, is also unmasked. Amazement,indignation! Cries of joy burst forth all round; the needful explanations arequickly given, and Friedrich sullenly demands to be set before thejudgment-seat of the returning King. Claudio, released from prison by thejubilant populace, informs him that the sentence of death for crimes of love isnot intended for all times; messengers arrive to announce the unexpectedarrival in harbour of the King; it is resolved to march in full maskedprocession to meet the beloved Prince, and joyously to pay him homage, allbeing convinced that he will heartily rejoice to see how ill the gloomypuritanism of Germany is suited to his hot-blooded Sicily. Of him it is said:
Your merry festals please him moreThan gloomy laws or legal lore.
Friedrich, with his freshly affianced wife, Marianne, must lead the procession,followed by Luzio and the novice, who is for ever lost to the convent.
These spirited and, in many respects, boldly devised scenes I had clothed insuitable language and carefully written verse, which had already been noticedby Laube. The police at first took exception to the title of the work, which,had I not changed it, would have led to the complete failure of my plans forits presentation. It was the week before Easter, and the theatre wasconsequently forbidden to produce jolly, or at least frivolous, plays duringthis period. Luckily the magistrate, with whom I had to treat concerning thematter, did not show any inclination to examine the libretto himself; and whenI assured him that it was modelled upon a very serious play of Shakespeare’s,the authorities contented themselves merely with changing the somewhatstartling title. Die Novize van Palermo, which was the new title, had nothingsuspicious about it, and was therefore approved as correct without furtherscruple. I fared quite otherwise in Leipzig, where I attempted to introducethis work in the place of my Feen, when the latter was withdrawn. The director,Ringelhardt, whom I sought to win over to my cause by assigning the part ofMarianne to his daughter, then making her debut in opera, chose to reject mywork on the apparently very reasonable grounds that the tendency of the themedispleased him. He assured me that, even if the Leipzig magistrates hadconsented to its production—a fact concerning which his high esteem for thatbody led him to have serious doubts—he himself, as a conscientious father,could certainly not permit his daughter to take part in it.
Strange to say, I suffered nothing from the suspicious nature of the librettoof my opera on the occasion of its production in Magdeburg; for, as I havesaid, thanks to the unintelligible manner in which it was produced, the storyremained a complete mystery to the public. This circumstance, and the fact thatno opposition had been raised on the ground of its TENDENCY, made a secondperformance possible, and as nobody seemed to care one way or the other, noobjections were raised. Feeling sure that my opera had made no impression, andhad left the public completely undecided about its merits, I reckoned that, inview of this being the farewell performance of our opera company, we shouldhave good, not to say large, takings. Consequently I did not hesitate to charge‘full’ prices for admittance. I cannot rightly judge whether, up to thecommencement of the overture, any people had taken their places in theauditorium; but about a quarter of an hour before the time fixed for beginning,I saw only Mme. Gottschalk and her husband, and, curiously enough, a Polish Jewin full dress, seated in the stalls. Despite this, I was still hoping for anincrease in the audience, when suddenly the most incredible commotion occurredbehind the scenes. Herr Pollert, the husband of my prima donna (who was actingIsabella), was assaulting Schreiber, the second tenor, a very young andhandsome man taking the part of Claudio, and against whom the injured husbandhad for some time been nursing a secret rancour born of jealousy. It appearedthat the singer’s husband, who had surveyed the theatre from behind thedrop-scene with me, had satisfied himself as to the style of the audience, anddecided that the longed-for hour was at hand when, without injuring theoperatic enterprise, he could wreak vengeance on his wife’s lover. Claudio wasso severely used by him that the unfortunate fellow had to seek refuge in thedressing-room, his face covered with blood. Isabella was told of this, andrushed despairingly to her raging spouse, only to be so soundly cuffed by himthat she went into convulsions. The confusion that ensued amongst the companysoon knew no bounds: they took sides in the quarrel, and little was wanting forit to turn into a general fight, as everybody seemed to regard this unhappyevening as particularly favourable for the paying off of any old scores andsupposed insults. This much was clear, that the couple suffering from theeffects of Herr Pollert’s conjugal resentment were unfit to appear thatevening. The manager was sent before the drop-scene to inform the small andstrangely assorted audience gathered in the theatre that, owing to unforeseencircumstances, the representation would not take place.
This was the end of my career as director and composer in Magdeburg, which inthe beginning had seemed so full of promise and had been started at the cost ofconsiderable sacrifice. The serenity of art now gave way completely before thestern realities of life. My position gave food for meditation, and the outlookwas not a cheerful one. All the hopes that I and Minna had founded upon thesuccess of my work had been utterly destroyed. My creditors, who had beenappeased by the anticipation of the expected harvest, lost faith in my talents,and now counted solely on obtaining bodily possession of me, which theyendeavoured to do by speedily instituting legal proceedings. Now that everytime I came home I found a summons nailed to my door, my little dwelling in theBreiter Weg became unbearable; I avoided going there, especially since my brownpoodle, who had hitherto enlivened this retreat, had vanished, leaving notrace. This I looked upon as a bad sign, indicating my complete downfall.
At this time Minna, with her truly comforting assurance and firmness ofbearing, was a tower of strength to me and the one thing I had left to fallback upon. Always full of resource, she had first of all provided for her ownfuture, and was on the point of signing a not unfavourable contract with thedirectors of the theatre at Königsberg in Prussia. It was now a question offinding me an appointment in the same place as musical conductor; this post wasalready filled. The Königsberg director, however, gathering from ourcorrespondence that Minna’s acceptance of the engagement depended upon thepossibility of my being taken on at the same theatre, held out the prospect ofan approaching vacancy, and expressed his willingness to allow it to be filledby me. On the strength of this assurance it was decided that Minna should go onto Königsberg and pave the way for my arrival there.
Ere these plans could be carried out, we had still to spend a time of dreadfuland acute anxiety, which I shall never forget, within the walls of Magdeburg.It is true I made one more personal attempt in Leipzig to improve my position,on which occasion I entered into the transactions mentioned above with thedirector of the theatre regarding my new opera. But I soon realised that it wasout of the question for me to remain in my native town, and in the disquietingproximity of my family, from which I was restlessly anxious to get away. Myexcitability and depression were noticed by my relations. My mother entreatedme, whatever else I might decide to do, on no account to be drawn into marriagewhile still so young. To this I made no reply. When I took my leave, Rosalieaccompanied me to the head of the stairs. I spoke of returning as soon as I hadattended to certain important business matters, and wanted to wish her ahurried good-bye: she grasped my hand, and gazing into my face, exclaimed, “Godalone knows when I shall see you again!” This cut me to the heart, and I feltconscience-stricken. The fact that she was expressing the presentiment she feltof her early death I only realised when, barely two years later, without havingseen her again, I received the news that she had died very suddenly.
I spent a few more weeks with Minna in the strictest retirement in Magdeburg:she endeavoured to the best of her ability to relieve the embarrassment of myposition. In view of our approaching separation, and the length of time wemight be parted, I hardly left her side, our only relaxation being the walks wetook together round the outskirts of the town. Anxious forebodings weighed uponus; the May sun which lit the sad streets of Magdeburg, as if in mockery of ourforlorn condition, was one day more clouded over than I have ever seen itsince, and filled me with a positive dread. On our way home from one of thesewalks, as we were approaching the bridge crossing the Elbe, we caught sight ofa man flinging himself from it into the water beneath. We ran to the bank,called for help, and persuaded a miller, whose mill was situated on the river,to hold out a rake to the drowning man, who was being swept in his direction bythe current. With indescribable anxiety we waited for the decisive moment—sawthe sinking man stretch out his hands towards the rake, but he failed to graspit, and at the same moment disappeared under the mill, never to be seen again.On the morning that I accompanied Minna to the stage-coach to bid her a mostsorrowful farewell, the whole population was pouring from one of the gatewaysof the town towards a big field, to witness the execution of a man condemned tobe put to death on the wheel ‘from below.’[7] The culprit was a soldier who had murdered hissweetheart in a fit of jealousy. When, later in the day, I sat down to my lastdinner at the inn, I heard the dreadful details of the Prussian mode ofexecution being discussed on all sides. A young magistrate, who was a greatlover of music, told us about a conversation he had had with the executioner,who had been procured from Halle, and with whom he had discussed the mosthumane method of hastening the death of the victim; in telling us about him, herecalled the elegant dress and manners of this ill-omened person with ashudder.
[7]Durch das Rod van unten. The punishment of the wheel was usuallyinflicted upon murderers, incendiaries, highwaymen and church robbers. Therewere two methods of inflicting this: (1) ‘from above downwards’ (von obennach unten), in which the condemned man was despatched instantly owing tohis neck getting broken from the start; and (2) ‘from below upwards’ (vonunten nach oben), which is the method referred to above, and in which allthe limbs of the victim were broken previous to his body being actually twistedthrough the spokes of the wheel.—Editor
These were the last impressions I carried away from the scene of my firstartistic efforts and of my attempts at earning an independent livelihood. Oftensince then on my departure from places where I had expected to find prosperity,and to which I knew I should never return, those impressions have recurred tomy mind with singular persistence. I have always had much the same feelingsupon leaving any place where I had stayed in the hope of improving my position.
Thus I arrived in Berlin for the first time on the 18th May, 1836, and madeacquaintance with the peculiar features of that pretentious royal capital.While my position was an uncertain one, I sought a modest shelter at the CrownPrince in the Königstrasse, where Minna had stayed a few months before. I founda friend on whom I could rely when I came across Laube again, who, whileawaiting his verdict, was busying himself with private and literary work inBerlin. He was much interested in the fate of my work Liebesverbot, and advisedme to turn my present situation to account for the purpose of obtaining theproduction of this opera at the Konigstadt theatre. This theatre was under thedirection of one of the most curious creatures in Berlin: he was called ‘Cerf,’and the title of Commissionsrath had been conferred upon him by the King ofPrussia. To account for the favours bestowed upon him by royalty, many reasonsof a not very edifying nature were circulated. Through this royal patronage hehad succeeded in extending considerably the privileges already enjoyed by thesuburban theatre. The decline of grand opera at the Theatre Royal had broughtlight opera, which was performed with great success at the Konigstadt theatre,into public favour. The director, puffed up by success, openly laboured underthe delusion that he was the right man in the right place, and expressed hisentire agreement with those who declared that one could only expect a theatreto be successfully managed by common and uneducated men, and continued to clingto his blissful and boundless state of ignorance in the most amusing manner.Relying absolutely upon his own insight, he had assumed an entirely dictatorialattitude towards the officially appointed artists of his theatre, and allowedhimself to deal with them according to his likes and dislikes. I seemeddestined to be favoured by this mode of procedure: at my very first visit Cerfexpressed his satisfaction with me, but wished to make use of me as a ‘tenor.’He offered no objection whatever to my request for the production of my opera,but, on the contrary, promised to have it staged immediately. He seemedparticularly anxious to appoint me conductor of the orchestra. As he was on thepoint of changing his operatic company, he foresaw that his present conductor,Glaser, the composer of Adlershorst, would hinder his plans by taking the partof the older singers: he was therefore anxious to have me associated with histheatre, that he might have some one to support him who was favourably disposedtowards the new singers.
All this sounded so plausible, that I could scarcely be blamed for believingthat the wheel of fortune had taken a favourable turn for me, and for feeling asense of lightheartedness at the thought of such rosy prospects. I had scarcelyallowed myself the few modifications in my manner of living which theseimproved circumstances seemed to justify, ere it was made clear to me that myhopes were built upon sand. I was filled with positive dread when I soon fullyrealised how nearly Cerf had come to defrauding me, merely it would seem forhis own amusement. After the manner of despots, he had given his favourspersonally and autocratically; the withdrawal and annulment of his promises,however, he made known to me through his servants and secretaries, thus placinghis strange conduct towards me in the light of the inevitable result of hisdependence upon officialdom.
As Cerf wished to rid himself of me without even offering me compensation, Iwas obliged to try to come to some understanding regarding all that had beendefinitely arranged between us, and this with the very people against whom hehad previously warned me and had wanted me to side with him. The conductor,stage manager, secretary, etc., had to make it clear to me that my wishes couldnot be satisfied, and that the director owed me no compensation whatever forthe time he had made me waste while awaiting the fulfilment of his promises.This unpleasant experience has been a source of pain to me ever since.
Owing to all this my position was very much worse than it had been before.Minna wrote to me frequently from Königsberg, but she had nothing encouragingto tell me with regard to my hopes in that direction. The director of thetheatre there seemed unable to come to any clear understanding with hisconductor, a circumstance which I was afterwards able to understand, but whichat the time appeared to me inexplicable, and made my chance of obtaining thecoveted appointment seem exceedingly remote. It seemed certain, however, thatthe post would be vacant in the autumn, and as I was drifting about aimlesslyin Berlin and refused for a moment to entertain the thought of returning toLeipzig, I snatched at this faint hope, and in imagination soared above theBerlin quicksands to the safety of the harbour on the Baltic.
I only succeeded in doing so, however, after I had struggled through difficultand serious inward conflicts to which my relations with Minna gave rise. Anincomprehensible feature in the character of this otherwise apparentlysimple-minded woman had thrown my young heart into a turmoil. A good-natured,well-to-do tradesman of Jewish extraction, named Schwabe, who till that timehad been established in Magdeburg, made friendly advances to me in Berlin, andI soon discovered that his sympathy was chiefly due to the passionate interestwhich he had conceived for Minna. It afterwards became clear to me that anintimacy had existed between this man and Minna, which in itself could hardlybe considered as a breach of faith towards me, since it had ended in a decidedrepulse of my rival’s courtship in my favour. But the fact of this episodehaving been kept so secret that I had not had the faintest idea of it before,and also the suspicion I could not avoid harbouring that Minna’s comfortablecircumstances were in part due to this man’s friendship, filled me with gloomymisgivings. But as I have said, although I could find no real cause to complainof infidelity, I was distracted and alarmed, and was at last driven to thehalf-desperate resolve of regaining my balance in this respect by obtainingcomplete possession of Minna. It seemed to me as though my stability as acitizen as well as my professional success would be assured by a recognisedunion with Minna. The two years spent in the theatrical world had, in fact,kept me in a constant state of distraction, of which in my heart of hearts Iwas most painfully conscious. I realised vaguely that I was on the wrong path;I longed for peace and quiet, and hoped to find these most effectually bygetting married, and so putting an end to the state of things that had becomethe source of so much anxiety to me.
It was not surprising that Laube noticed by my untidy, passionate, and wastedappearance that something unusual was amiss with me. It was only in hiscompany, which I always found comforting, that I gained the only impressions ofBerlin which compensated me in any way for my misfortunes. The most importantartistic experience I had, came to me through the performance of FerdinandCortez, conducted by Spontini himself, the spirit of which astonished me morethan anything I had ever heard before. Though the actual production, especiallyas regards the chief characters, who as a whole could not be regarded asbelonging to the flower of Berlin opera, left me unmoved, and though the effectnever reached a point that could be even distantly compared to that producedupon me by Schroder-Devrient, yet the exceptional precision, fire, and richlyorganised rendering of the whole was new to me. I gained a fresh insight intothe peculiar dignity of big theatrical representations, which in their severalparts could, by well-accentuated rhythm, be made to attain the highest pinnacleof art. This extraordinarily distinct impression took a drastic hold of me, andabove all served to guide me in my conception of Rienzi, so that, speaking froman artistic point of view, Berlin may be said to have left its traces on mydevelopment.
For the present, however, my chief concern was to extricate myself from myextremely helpless position. I was determined to turn my steps to Königsberg,and communicated my decision, and the hopes founded upon it, to Laube. Thisexcellent friend, without further inquiry, made a point of exerting hisenergies to free me from my present state of despair, and to help me to reachmy next destination, an object which, through the assistance of several of hisfriends, he succeeded in accomplishing. When he said good-bye to me, Laube withsympathetic foresight warned me, should I succeed in my desired career ofmusical conductor, not to allow myself to be entangled in the shallowness ofstage life, and advised me, after fatiguing rehearsals, instead of going to mysweetheart, to take a serious book in hand, in order that my greater giftsmight not go uncultivated. I did not tell him that by taking an early anddecisive step in this direction I intended to protect myself effectuallyagainst the dangers of theatrical intrigues. On the 7th of July, therefore, Istarted on what was at that time an extremely troublesome and fatiguing journeyto the distant town of Königsberg.
It seemed to me as though I were leaving the world, as I travelled on day afterday through the desert marches. Then followed a sad and humiliating impressionof Königsberg, where, in one of the poorest-looking suburbs, Tragheim, near thetheatre, and in a lane such as one would expect to find in a village, I foundthe ugly house in which Minna lodged. The friendly and quiet kindness ofmanner, however, which was peculiar to her, soon made me feel at home. She waspopular at the theatre, and was respected by the managers and actors, a factwhich seemed to augur well for her betrothed, the part I was now openly toassume.
Though as yet there seemed no distinct prospect of my getting the appointment Ihad come for, yet we agreed that I could hold out a little longer, and that thematter would certainly be arranged in the end. This was also the opinion of theeccentric Abraham Möller, a worthy citizen of Königsberg, who was devoted tothe theatre, and who took a very friendly interest in Minna, and finally alsoin me. This man, who was already well advanced in life, belonged to the type oftheatre lovers now probably completely extinct in Germany, but of whom so muchis recorded in the history of actors of earlier times. One could not spend anhour in the company of this man, who at one time had gone in for the mostreckless speculations, without having to listen to his account of the glory ofthe stage in former times, described in most lively terms. As a man of means hehad at one time made the acquaintance of nearly all the great actors andactresses of his day, and had even known how to win their friendship. Throughtoo great a liberality he unfortunately found himself in reduced circumstances,and was now obliged to procure the means to satisfy his craving for the theatreand his desire to protect those belonging to it by entering into all kinds ofstrange business transactions, in which, without running any real risk, he feltthere was something to be gained. He was accordingly only able to afford thetheatre a very meagre support, but one which was quite in keeping with itsdecrepit condition.
This strange man, of whom the theatre director, Anton Hubsch, stood to acertain extent in awe, undertook to procure me my appointment. The onlycircumstance against me was the fact that Louis Schubert, the famous musicianwhom I had known from very early times as the first violoncellist of theMagdeburg orchestra, had come to Königsberg from Riga, where the theatre hadbeen closed for a time, and where he had left his wife, in order to fill thepost of musical conductor here until the new theatre in Riga was opened, and hecould return. The reopening of the Riga theatre, which had already been fixedfor the Easter of this year, had been postponed, and he was now anxious not toleave Königsberg. Since Schubert was a thorough master in his art, and sincehis choosing to remain or go depended entirely on circumstances over which hehad no control, the theatre director found himself in the embarrassing positionof having to secure some one who would be willing to wait to enter upon hisappointment till Schubert’s business called him away. Consequently a youngmusical conductor who was anxious to remain in Königsberg at any price couldbut be heartily welcomed as a reserve and substitute in case of emergency.Indeed, the director declared himself willing to give me a small retaining feetill the time should arrive for my definite entrance upon my duties.
Schubert, on the contrary, was furious at my arrival; there was no longer anynecessity for his speedy return to Riga, since the reopening of the theatrethere had been postponed indefinitely. Moreover, he had a special interest inremaining in Königsberg, as he had conceived a passion for the prima donnathere, which considerably lessened his desire to return to his wife. So at thelast moment he clung to his Königsberg post with great eagerness, regarded meas his deadly enemy, and, spurred on by his instinct of self-preservation, usedevery means in his power to make my stay in Königsberg, and the already painfulposition I occupied while awaiting his departure, a veritable hell to me.
While in Magdeburg I had been on the friendliest footing with both musiciansand singers, and had been shown the greatest consideration by the public, Ihere found I had to defend myself on all sides against the most mortifyingill-will. This hostility towards me, which soon made itself apparent,contributed in no small degree to make me feel as though in coming toKönigsberg I had gone into exile. In spite of my eagerness, I realised thatunder the circumstances my marriage with Minna would prove a hazardousundertaking. At the beginning of August the company went to Memel for a time,to open the summer season there, and I followed Minna a few days later. We wentmost of the way by sea, and crossed the Kurische Haff in a sailing vessel inbad weather with the wind against us—one of the most melancholy crossings Ihave ever experienced. As we passed the thin strip of sand that divides thisbay from the Baltic Sea, the castle of Runsitten, where Hoffmann laid the sceneof one of his most gruesome tales (Das Majorat), was pointed out to me. Thefact that in this desolate neighbourhood, of all places in the world, I shouldafter so long a lapse of time be once more brought in contact with thefantastic impressions of my youth, had a singular and depressing effect on mymind. The unhappy sojourn in Memel, the lamentable role I played there,everything in short, contributed to make me find my only consolation in Minna,who, after all, was the cause of my having placed myself in this unpleasantposition. Our friend Abraham followed us from Königsberg and did all kinds ofqueer things to promote my interests, and was obviously anxious to put thedirector and conductor at variance with each other. One day Schubert, inconsequence of a dispute with Hubsch on the previous night, actually declaredhimself too unwell to attend a rehearsal of Euryanthe, in order to force themanager to summon me suddenly to take his place. In doing this my rivalmaliciously hoped that as I was totally unprepared to conduct this difficultopera, which was seldom played, I would expose my incapacity in a manner mostwelcome to his hostile intentions. Although I had never really had a score ofEuryanthe before me, his wish was so little gratified, that he elected to getwell for the representation in order to conduct it himself, which he would nothave done if it had been found necessary to cancel the performance on accountof my incompetence. In this wretched position, vexed in mind, exposed to thesevere climate, which even on summer evenings struck me as horribly cold, andoccupied merely in warding off the most painful troubles of life, my time, asfar as any professional advancement was concerned, was completely lost. Atlast, on our return to Königsberg, and particularly under the guardianship ofMöller, the question as to what was to be done was more earnestly considered.Finally, Minna and I were offered a fairly good engagement in Danzig, throughthe influence of my brother-in-law Wolfram and his wife, who had gone there.
Möller seized this opportunity to induce the director Hubsch, who was anxiousnot to lose Minna, to sign a contract including us both, and by which it wasunderstood that under any circumstances I should be officially appointed asconductor at his theatre from the following Easter. Moreover, for our wedding,a benefit performance was promised, for which we chose Die Stumme von Portici,to be conducted by me in person. For, as Möller remarked, it was absolutelynecessary for us to get married, and to have a due celebration of the event;there was no getting out of it. Minna made no objection, and all my pastendeavours and resolutions seemed to prove that my one desire was to takeanchor in the haven of matrimony. In spite of this, however, a strange conflictwas going on within me at this time. I had become sufficiently intimate withMinna’s life and character to realise the wide difference between our twonatures as fully as the important step I was about to take necessitated; but mypowers of judgment were not yet sufficiently matured.
My future wife was the child of poor parents, natives of Oederan in theErzgebirge in Saxony. Her father was no ordinary man; he possessed enormousvitality, but in his old age showed traces of some feebleness of mind. In hisyoung days he had been a trumpeter in Saxony, and in this capacity had takenpart in a campaign against the French, and had also been present at the battleof Wagram. He afterwards became a mechanic, and took up the trade ofmanufacturing cards for carding wool, and as he invented an improvement in theprocess of their production, he is said to have made a very good business of itfor some time. A rich manufacturer of Chemnitz once gave him a large order tobe delivered at the end of the year: the children, whose pliable fingers hadalready proved serviceable in this respect, had to work hard day and night, andin return the father promised them an exceptionally happy Christmas, as heexpected to get a large sum of money. When the longed-for time arrived,however, he received the announcement of his client’s bankruptcy. The goodsthat had already been delivered were lost, and the material that remained onhis hands there was no prospect of selling. The family never succeeded inrecovering from the state of confusion into which this misfortune had thrownthem; they went to Dresden, where the father hoped to find remunerativeemployment as a skilled mechanic, especially in the manufacture of pianos, ofwhich he supplied separate parts. He also brought away with him a largequantity of the fine wire which had been destined for the manufacture of thecards, and which he hoped to be able to sell at a profit. The ten-year-oldMinna was commissioned to sell separate lots of it to the milliners for makingflowers. She would set out with a heavy basketful of wire, and had such a giftfor persuading people to buy that she soon disposed of the whole supply to thebest advantage. From this time the desire was awakened in her to be of activeuse to her impoverished family, and to earn her own living as soon as possible,in order not to be a burden on her parents. As she grew up and developed into astrikingly beautiful woman, she attracted the attention of men at a very earlyage. A certain Herr von Einsiedel fell passionately in love with her, and tookadvantage of the inexperienced young girl when she was off her guard. Herfamily was thrown into the utmost consternation, and only her mother and eldersister could be told of the terrible position in which Minna found herself. Herfather, from whose anger the worst consequences were to be feared, was neverinformed that his barely seventeen-year-old daughter had become a mother, andunder conditions that had threatened her life, had given birth to a girl.Minna, who could obtain no redress from her seducer, now felt doubly calledupon to earn her own livelihood and leave her father’s house. Through theinfluence of friends, she had been brought into contact with an amateurtheatrical society: while acting in a performance given there, she attractedthe notice of members of the Royal Court Theatre, and in particular drew theattention of the director of the Dessau Court Theatre, who was present, and whoimmediately offered her an engagement. She gladly caught at this way of escapefrom her trying position, as it opened up the possibility of a brilliant stagecareer, and of some day being able to provide amply for her family. She had notthe slightest passion for the stage, and utterly devoid as she was of anylevity or coquetry, she merely saw in a theatrical career the means of earninga quick, and possibly even a rich, livelihood. Without any artistic training,the theatre merely meant for her the company of actors and actresses. Whethershe pleased or not seemed of importance in her eyes only in so far as itaffected her realisation of a comfortable independence. To use all the means ather disposal to assure this end seemed to her as necessary as it is for atradesman to expose his goods to the best advantage.
The friendship of the director, manager, and favourite members of the theatreshe regarded as indispensable, whilst those frequenters of the theatre who,through their criticism or taste, influenced the public, and thus also hadweight with the management, she recognised as beings upon whom the attainmentof her most fervent desires depended. Never to make enemies of them appeared sonatural and so necessary that, in order to maintain her popularity, she wasprepared to sacrifice even her self-respect. She had in this way created forherself a certain peculiar code of behaviour, that on the one hand prompted herto avoid scandals, but on the other hand found excuses even for making herselfconspicuous as long as she herself knew that she was doing nothing wrong. Hencearose a mixture of inconsistencies, the questionable sense of which she wasincapable of grasping. It was clearly impossible for her not to lose all realsense of delicacy; she showed, however, a sense of the fitness of things, whichmade her have regard to what was considered proper, though she could notunderstand that mere appearances were a mockery when they only served to cloakthe absence of a real sense of delicacy. As she was without idealism, she hadno artistic feeling; neither did she possess any talent for acting, and herpower of pleasing was due entirely to her charming appearance. Whether in timeroutine would have made her become a good actress it is impossible for me tosay. The strange power she exercised over me from the very first was in no wisedue to the fact that I regarded her in any way as the embodiment of my ideal;on the contrary, she attracted me by the soberness and seriousness of hercharacter, which supplemented what I felt to be wanting in my own, and affordedme the support that in my wanderings after the ideal I knew to be necessary forme.
I had soon accustomed myself never to betray my craving after the ideal beforeMinna: unable to account for this even to myself, I always made a point ofavoiding the subject by passing it over with a laugh and a joke; but, on thisaccount, it was all the more natural for me to feel qualms when fears arose inmy mind as to her really possessing the qualities to which I had attributed hersuperiority over me. Her strange tolerance with regard to certain familiaritiesand even importunities on the part of patrons of the theatre, directed evenagainst her person, hurt me considerably; and on my reproaching her for this, Iwas driven to despair by her assuming an injured expression as though I hadinsulted her. It was quite by chance that I came across Schwabe’s letters, andthus gained an astonishing insight into her intimacy with that man, of whichshe had left me in ignorance, and allowed me to gain my first knowledge duringmy stay in Berlin. All my latent jealousy, all my inmost doubts concerningMinna’s character, found vent in my sudden determination to leave the girl atonce. There was a violent scene between us, which was typical of all oursubsequent altercations. I had obviously gone too far in treating a woman whowas not passionately in love with me, as if I had a real right over her; for,after all, she had merely yielded to my importunity, and in no way belonged tome. To add to my perplexity, Minna only needed to remind me that from a worldlypoint of view she had refused very good offers in order to give way to theimpetuosity of a penniless young man, whose talent had not yet been put to anyreal test, and to whom she had nevertheless shown sympathy and kindness.
What she could least forgive in me was the raging vehemence with which I spoke,and by which she felt so insulted, that upon realising to what excesses I hadgone, there was nothing I could do but try and pacify her by owning myself inthe wrong, and begging her forgiveness. Such was the end of this and allsubsequent scenes, outwardly; at least, always to her advantage. But peace wasundermined for ever, and by the frequent recurrence of such quarrels, Minna’scharacter underwent a considerable change. Just as in later times she becameperplexed by what she considered my incomprehensible conception of art and itsproportions, which upset her ideas about everything connected with it, so nowshe grew more and more confused by my greater delicacy in regard to morality,which was very different from hers, especially as in many other respects Idisplayed a freedom of opinion which the could neither comprehend nor approve.
A feeling of passionate resentment was accordingly roused in her otherwisetranquil disposition. It was not surprising that this resentment increased asthe years went on, and manifested itself in a manner characteristic of a girlsprung from the lower middle class, in whom mere superficial polish had takenthe place of any true culture. The real torment of our subsequent life togetherlay in the fact that, owing to her violence, I had lost the last support I hadhitherto found in her exceptionally sweet disposition. At that time I wasfilled only with a dim foreboding of the fateful step I was taking in marryingher. Her agreeable and soothing qualities still had such a beneficial effectupon me, that with the frivolity natural to me, as well as the obstinacy withwhich I met all opposition, I silenced the inner voice that darkly forebodeddisaster.
Since my journey to Königsberg I had broken off all communication with myfamily, that is to say, with my mother and Rosalie, and I told no one of thestep I had decided to take. Under my old friend Möller’s audacious guidance Iovercame all the legal difficulties that stood in the way of our union.According to Prussian law, a man who has reached his majority no longerrequires his parents’ consent to his marriage: but since, according to thissame provision, I was not yet of age, I had recourse to the law of Saxony, towhich country I belonged by birth, and by whose regulations I had alreadyattained my majority at the age of twenty-one. Our banns had to be published atthe place where we had been living during the past year, and this formality wascarried out in Magdeburg without any further objections being raised. AsMinna’s parents had given their consent, the only thing that still remained tobe done to make everything quite in order was for us to go together to theclergyman of the parish of Tragheim. This proved a strange enough visit. Ittook place the morning preceding the performance to be given for our benefit,in which Minna had chosen, the pantomimic role of Fenella; her costume was notready yet, and there was still a great deal to be done. The rainy cold Novemberweather made us feel out of humour, when, to add to our vexation, we were keptstanding in the hall of the vicarage for an unreasonable time. Then analtercation arose between us which speedily led to such bitter vituperationthat we were just on the point of separating and going each our own way, whenthe clergyman opened the door. Not a little embarrassed at having surprised usin the act of quarrelling, he invited us in. We were obliged to put a good faceon the matter, however; and the absurdity of the situation so tickled our senseof humour that we laughed; the parson was appeased, and the wedding fixed foreleven o’clock the next morning.
Another fruitful source of irritation, which often led to the outbreak ofviolent quarrelling between us, was the arrangement of our future home, in theinterior comfort and beauty of which I hoped to find a guarantee of happiness.The economical ideas of my bride filled me with impatience. I was determinedthat the inauguration of a series of prosperous years which I saw before memust be celebrated by a correspondingly comfortable home. Furniture, householdutensils, and all necessaries were obtained on credit, to be paid for byinstalment. There was, of course, no question of a dowry, a wedding outfit, orany of the things that are generally considered indispensable to a well-foundedestablishment. Our witnesses and guests were drawn from the company of actorsaccidentally brought together by their engagement at the Königsberg theatre. Myfriend Möller made us a present of a silver sugar-basin, which was supplementedby a silver cake-basket from another stage friend, a peculiar and, as far as Ican remember, rather interesting young man named Ernst Castell. The benefitperformance of the Die Stumme von Portici, which I conducted with greatenthusiasm, went off well, and brought us in as large a sum as we had countedupon. After spending the rest of the day before our wedding very quietly, as wewere tired out after our return from the theatre, I took up my abode for thefirst time in our new home. Not wishing to use the bridal bed, decorated forthe occasion, I lay down on a hard sofa, without even sufficient covering onme, and froze valiantly while awaiting the happiness of the following day. Iwas pleasantly excited the next morning by the arrival of Minna’s belongings,packed in boxes and baskets. The weather, too, had quite cleared up, and thesun was shining brightly; only our sitting-room refused to get properly warm,which for some time drew down Minna’s reproaches upon my head for my supposedcarelessness in not having seen to the heating arrangements. At last I dressedmyself in my new suit, a dark blue frock-coat with gold buttons. The carriagedrove up, and I set out to fetch my bride. The bright sky had put us all ingood spirits, and in the best of humour I met Minna, who was dressed in asplendid gown chosen by me. She greeted me with sincere cordiality and pleasureshining from her eyes; and taking the fine weather as a good omen, we startedoff for what now seemed to us a most cheerful wedding. We enjoyed thesatisfaction of seeing the church as over-crowded as if a brilliant theatricalrepresentation were being given; it was quite a difficult matter to make ourway to the altar, where a group no less worldly than the rest, consisting ofour witnesses, dressed in all their theatrical finery, were assembled toreceive us. There was not one real friend amongst all those present, for evenour strange old friend Möller was absent, because no suitable partner had beenfound for him. I was not for a single moment insensible to the chillingfrivolity of the congregation, who seemed to impart their tone to the wholeceremony. I listened like one in a dream to the nuptial address of the parson,who, I was afterwards told, had had a share in producing the spirit of bigotrywhich at this time was so prevalent in Königsberg, and which exercised such adisquieting influence on its population.
A few days later I was told that a rumour had got about the town that I hadtaken action against the parson for some gross insults contained in his sermon;I did not quite see what was meant, but supposed that the exaggerated reportarose from a passage in his address which I in my excitement had misunderstood.The preacher, in speaking of the dark days, of which we were to expect ourshare, bade us look to an unknown friend, and I glanced up inquiringly forfurther particulars of this mysterious and influential patron who chose sostrange a way of announcing himself. Reproachfully, and with peculiar emphasis,the pastor then pronounced the name of this unknown friend: Jesus. Now I wasnot in any way insulted by this, as people imagined, but was simplydisappointed; at the same time, I thought that such exhortations were probablyusual in nuptial addresses.
But, on the whole, I was so absent-minded during this ceremony, which wasdouble Dutch to me, that when the parson held out the closed prayer-book for usto place our wedding rings upon, Minna had to nudge me forcibly to make mefollow her example.
At that moment I saw, as clearly as in a vision, my whole being divided intotwo cross-currents that dragged me in different directions; the upper one facedthe sun and carried me onward like a dreamer, whilst the lower one held mynature captive, a prey to some inexplicable fear. The extraordinary levity withwhich I chased away the conviction which kept forcing itself upon me, that Iwas committing a twofold sin, was amply accounted for by the really genuineaffection with which I looked upon the young girl whose truly exceptionalcharacter (so rare in the environment in which she had been placed) led herthus to bind herself to a young man without any means of support. It was eleveno’clock on the morning of the 24th of November, 1836, and I was twenty-threeand a half.
On the way home from church, and afterwards, my good spirits rose superior toall my doubts.
Minna at once took upon herself the duty of receiving and entertaining herguests. The table was spread, and a rich feast, at which Abraham Möller, theenergetic promoter of our marriage, also took part, although he had been ratherput out by his exclusion from the church ceremony, made up for the coldness ofthe room, which for a long time refused to get warm, to the great distress ofthe young hostess.
Everything went off in the usual uneventful way. Nevertheless, I retained mygood spirits till the next morning, when I had to present myself at themagistrate’s court to meet the demands of my creditors, which had beenforwarded to me from Magdeburg to Konigsburg.
My friend Möller, whom I had retained for my defence, had foolishly advised meto meet my creditors’ demands by pleading infancy according to the law ofPrussia, at all events until actual assistance for the settlement of the claimscould be obtained.
The magistrate, to whom I stated this plea as I had been advised, wasastonished, being probably well aware of my marriage on the previous day, whichcould only have taken place on the production of documentary proof of mymajority. I naturally only gained a brief respite by this manœuvre, and thetroubles which beset me for a long time afterwards had their origin on thefirst day of my marriage.
During the period when I held no appointment at the theatre I suffered varioushumiliations. Nevertheless, I thought it wise to make the most of my leisure inthe interests of my art, and I finished a few pieces, among which was a grandoverture on Rule Britannia.
When I was still in Berlin I had written the overture entitled Polonia, whichhas already been mentioned in connection with the Polish festival. RuleBritannia was a further and deliberate step in the direction of mass effects;at the close a strong military band was to be added to the already over-fullorchestra, and I intended to have the whole thing performed at the MusicalFestival in Königsberg in the summer.
To these two overtures I added a supplement—an overture entitled Napoleon. Thepoint to which I devoted my chief attention was the selection of the means forproducing certain effects, and I carefully considered whether I should expressthe annihilating stroke of fate that befell the French Emperor in Russia by abeat on the tom-tom or not. I believe it was to a great extent my scruplesabout the introduction of this beat that prevented me from carrying out my planjust then.
On the other hand, the conclusions which I had reached regarding theill-success of Liebesverbot resulted in an operatic sketch in which the demandsmade on the chorus and the staff of singers should be more in proportion to theknown capacity of the local company, as this small theatre was the only one atmy disposal.
A quaint tale from the Arabian Nights suggested the very subject for a lightwork of this description, the title of which, if I remember rightly, wasMannerlist grosser als Frauenlist (‘Man outwits Woman’).
I transplanted the story from Bagdad to a modern setting. A young goldsmithoffends the pride of a young woman by placing the above motto on the sign overhis shop; deeply veiled, she steps into his shop and asks him, as he displayssuch excellent taste in his work, to express his opinion on her own physicalcharms; he begins with her feet and her hands, and finally, noticing hisconfusion, she removes the veil from her face. The jeweller is carried away byher beauty, whereupon she complains to him that her father, who has always kepther in the strictest seclusion, describes her to all her suitors as an uglymonster, his object being, she imagines, simply to keep her dowry. The youngman swears that he will not be frightened off by these foolish objections,should the father raise them against his suit. No sooner said than done. Thedaughter of this peculiar old gentleman is promised to the unsuspectingjeweller, and is brought to her bridegroom as soon as he has signed thecontract. He then sees that the father has indeed spoken the truth, the realdaughter being a perfect scarecrow. The beautiful lady returns to thebridegroom to gloat over his desperation, and promises to release him from histerrible marriage if he will remove the motto from his signboard. At this pointI departed from the original, and continued as follows: The enraged jeweller ison the point of tearing down his unfortunate signboard when a curiousapparition leads him to pause in the act. He sees a bear-leader in the streetmaking his clumsy beast dance, in whom the luckless lover recognises at aglance his own father, from whom he has been parted by a hard fate.
He suppresses any sign of emotion, for in a flash a scheme occurs to him bywhich he can utilise this discovery to free himself from the hated marriagewith the daughter of the proud old aristocrat.
He instructs the bear-leader to come that evening to the garden where thesolemn betrothal is to take place in the presence of the invited guests.
He then explains to his young enemy that he wishes to leave the signboard upfor the time being, as he still hopes to prove the truth of the motto.
After the marriage contract, in which the young man arrogates to himself allkinds of fictitious titles of nobility, has been read to the assembled company(composed, say, of the elite of the noble immigrants at the time of the FrenchRevolution), there is heard suddenly the pipe of the bear-leader, who entersthe garden with his prancing beast. Angered by this trivial diversion, theastonished company become indignant when the bridegroom, giving free vent tohis feelings, throws himself with tears of joy into the arms of the bear-leaderand loudly proclaims him as his long-lost father. The consternation of thecompany becomes even greater, however, when the bear itself embraces the manthey supposed to be of noble birth, for the beast is no less a person than hisown brother in the flesh who, on the death of the real bear, had donned itsskin, thus enabling the poverty-stricken pair to continue to earn theirlivelihood in the only way left to them. This public disclosure of thebridegroom’s lowly origin at once dissolves the marriage, and the young woman,declaring herself outwitted by man, offers her hand in compensation to thereleased jeweller.
To this unassuming subject I gave the title of the Gluckliche Barenfamilie, andprovided it with a dialogue which afterwards met with Holtei’s highestapproval.
I was about to begin the music for it in a new light French style, but theseriousness of my position, which grew more and more acute, prevented furtherprogress in my work.
In this respect my strained relations with the conductor of the theatre werestill a constant source of trouble. With neither the opportunity nor the meansto defend myself, I had to submit to being maligned and rendered an object ofsuspicion on all sides by my rival, who remained master of the field. Theobject of this was to disgust me with the idea of taking up my appointment asmusical conductor, for which the contract had been signed for Easter. Though Idid not lose my self-confidence, I suffered keenly from the indignity and thedepressing effect of this prolonged strain.
When at last, at the beginning of April, the moment arrived for the musicalconductor Schubert to resign, and for me to take over the whole charge, he hadthe melancholy satisfaction of knowing that not only was the standing of theopera seriously weakened by the departure of the prima donna, but that therewas good reason to doubt whether the theatre could be carried on at all. Thismonth of Lent, which was such a bad time in Germany for all similar theatricalenterprises, decimated the Königsberg audience with the rest. The director tookthe greatest trouble imaginable to fill up the gaps in the staff of the operaby means of engaging strangers temporarily, and by new acquisitions, and inthis my personality and unflagging activity were of real service; I devoted allmy energy to buoying up by word and deed the tattered ship of the theatre, inwhich I now had a hand for the first time.
For a long time I had to try and keep cool under the most violent treatment bya clique of students, among whom my predecessor had raised up enemies for me;and by the unerring certainty of my conducting I had to overcome the initialopposition of the orchestra, which had been set against me.
After laboriously laying the foundation of personal respect, I was now forcedto realise that the business methods of the director, Hubsch, had alreadyinvolved too great a sacrifice to permit the theatre to make its way againstthe unfavourableness of the season, and in May he admitted to me that he hadcome to the point of being obliged to close the theatre.
By summoning up all my eloquence, and by making suggestions which promised ahappy issue, I was able to induce him to persevere; nevertheless, this was onlypossible by making demands on the loyalty of his company, who were asked toforego part of their salaries for a time. This aroused general bitterness onthe part of the uninitiated, and I found myself in the curious position ofbeing forced to place the director in a favourable light to those who were hardhit by these measures, while I myself and my position were affected in such amanner that my situation became daily more unendurable under the accumulationof intolerable difficulties taking their root in my past.
But though I did not even then lose courage, Minna, who as my wife was robbedof all that she had a right to expect, found this turn of fate quiteunbearable. The hidden canker of our married life which, even before ourmarriage, had caused me the most terrible anxiety and led to violent scenes,reached its full growth under these sad conditions. The less I was able tomaintain the standard of comfort due to our position by working and making themost of my talents, the more did Minna, to my insufferable shame, consider itnecessary to take this burden upon herself by making the most of her personalpopularity. The discovery of similar condescensions—as I used to call them—onMinna’s part, had repeatedly led to revolting scenes, and only her peculiarconception of her professional position and the needs it involved had made acharitable interpretation possible.
I was absolutely unable to bring my young wife to see my point of view, or tomake her realise my own wounded feelings on these occasions, while theunrestrained violence of my speech and behaviour made an understanding once andfor all impossible. These scenes frequently sent my wife into convulsions of soalarming a nature that, as will easily be realised, the satisfaction ofreconciling her once more was all that remained to me. Certain it was that ourmutual attitude became more and more incomprehensible and inexplicable to usboth.
These quarrels, which now became more frequent and more distressing, may havegone far to diminish the strength of any affection which Minna was able to giveme, but I had no idea that she was only waiting for a favourable opportunity tocome to a desperate decision.
To fill the place of tenor in our company, I had summoned Friedrich Schmitt toKönigsberg, a friend of my first year in Magdeburg, to whom allusion hasalready been made. He was sincerely devoted to me, and helped me as much aspossible in overcoming the dangers which threatened the prosperity of thetheatre as well as my own position.
The necessity of being on friendly terms with the public made me much lessreserved and cautious in making new acquaintances, especially when in hiscompany.
A rich merchant, of the name of Dietrich, had recently constituted himself apatron of the theatre, and especially of the women. With due deference to themen with whom they were connected, he used to invite the pick of these ladiesto dinner at his house, and affected, on these occasions, the well-to-doEnglishman, which was the beau-ideal for German merchants, especially in themanufacturing towns of the north.
I had shown my annoyance at the acceptance of the invitation, sent to us amongthe rest, at first simply because his looks were repugnant to me. Minnaconsidered this very unjust. Anyhow, I set my face decidedly against continuingour acquaintance with this man, and although Minna did not insist on receivinghim, my conduct towards the intruder was the cause of angry scenes between us.
One day Friedrich Schmitt considered it his duty to inform me that this HerrDietrich had spoken of me at a public dinner in such a manner as to lead everyone to suppose that he had a suspicious intimacy with my wife. I felt obligedto suspect Minna of having, in some way unknown to me, told the fellow about myconduct towards her, as well as about our precarious position.
Accompanied by Schmitt, I called this dangerous person to account on thesubject in his own home. At first this only led to the usual denials.Afterwards, however, he sent secret communications to Minna concerning theinterview, thus providing her with a supposed new grievance against me in theform of my inconsiderate treatment of her.
Our relations now reached a critical stage, and on certain points we preservedsilence.
At the same time—it was towards the end of May, 1837—the business affairs ofthe theatre had reached the crisis above mentioned, when the management wasobliged to fall back on the self-sacrificing co-operation of the staff toassure the continuance of the undertaking. As I have said before, my ownposition at the end of a year so disastrous to my welfare was seriouslyaffected by this; nevertheless, there seemed to be no alternative for me but toface these difficulties patiently, and relying on the faithful FriedrichSchmitt, but ignoring Minna, I began to take the necessary steps for making mypost at Königsberg secure. This, as well as the arduous part I took in thebusiness of the theatre, kept me so busy and so much away from home, that I wasnot able to pay any particular attention to Minna’s silence and reserve.
On the morning of the 31st of May I took leave of Minna, expecting to bedetained till late in the afternoon by rehearsals and business matters. With myentire approval she had for some time been accustomed to have her daughterNathalie, who was supposed by every one to be her youngest sister, to stay withher.
As I was about to wish them my usual quiet good-bye, the two women rushed afterme to the door and embraced me passionately, Minna as well as her daughterbursting into tears. I was alarmed, and asked the meaning of this excitement,but could get no answer from them, and I was obliged to leave them and ponderalone over their peculiar conduct, of the reason for which I had not even thefaintest idea.
I arrived home late in the afternoon, worn out by my exertions and worries,dead-tired, pale and hungry, and was surprised to find the table not laid andMinna not at home, the maid telling me that she had not yet returned from herwalk with Nathalie.
I waited patiently, sinking down exhausted at the work-table, which Iabsent-mindedly opened. To my intense astonishment it was empty. Horror-struck,I sprang up and went to the wardrobe, and realised at once that Minna had leftthe house; her departure had been so cunningly planned that even the maid wasunaware of it.
With death in my soul I dashed out of the house to investigate the cause ofMinna’s disappearance.
Old Möller, by his practical sagacity, very soon found out that Dietrich, hispersonal enemy, had left Königsberg in the direction of Berlin by the specialcoach in the morning.
This horrible fact stood staring me in the face.
I had now to try and overtake the fugitives. With the lavish use of money thismight have been possible, but funds were lacking, and had, in part, to belaboriously collected.
On Möller’s advice I took the silver wedding presents with me in case ofemergency, and after the lapse of a few terrible hours went off, also byspecial coach, with my distressed old friend. We hoped to overtake the ordinarymail-coach, which had started a short time before, as it was probable thatMinna would also continue her journey in this, at a safe distance fromKönigsberg.
This proved impossible, and when next morning at break of day we arrived inElbing, we found our money exhausted by the lavish use of the express coach,and were compelled to return; we discovered, moreover, that even by using theordinary coach we should be obliged to pawn the sugar-basin and cake-dish.
This return journey to Königsberg rightly remains one of the saddest memoriesof my youth. Of course, I did not for a moment entertain the idea of remainingin the place; my one thought was how I could best get away. Hemmed in betweenthe law-suits of my Magdeburg creditors and the Königsberg tradesmen, who hadclaims on me for the payment by instalment of my domestic accounts, mydeparture could only be carried out in secrecy. For this very reason, too, itwas necessary for me to raise money, particularly for the long journey fromKönigsberg to Dresden, whither I determined to go in quest of my wife, andthese matters detained me for two long and terrible days.
I received no news whatever from Minna; from Möller I ascertained that she hadgone to Dresden, and that Dietrich had only accompanied her for a shortdistance on the excuse of helping her in a friendly way.
I succeeded in assuring myself that she really only wished to get away from aposition that filled her with desperation, and for this purpose had acceptedthe assistance of a man who sympathised with her, and that she was for thepresent seeking rest and shelter with her parents. My first indignation at theevent accordingly subsided to such an extent that I gradually acquired moresympathy for her in her despair, and began to reproach myself both for myconduct and for having brought unhappiness on her.
I became so convinced of the correctness of this view during the tediousjourney to Dresden via Berlin, which I eventually undertook on the 3rd of June,that when at last I found Minna at the humble abode of her parents, I wasreally quite unable to express anything but repentence and heartbrokensympathy.
It was quite true that Minna thought herself badly treated by me, and declaredthat she had only been forced to take this desperate step by brooding over ourimpossible position, to which she thought me both blind and deaf. Her parentswere not pleased to see me: the painfully excited condition of their daughterseemed to afford sufficient justification for her complaints against me.Whether my own sufferings, my hasty pursuit, and the heartfelt expression of mygrief made any favourable impression on her, I can really hardly say, as hermanner towards me was very confused and, to a certain extent, incomprehensible.Still she was impressed when I told her that there was a good prospect of myobtaining the post of musical conductor at Riga, where a new theatre was aboutto be opened under the most favourable conditions. I felt that I must not pressfor new resolutions concerning the regulation of our future relations justthen, but must strive the more earnestly to lay a better foundation for them.Consequently, after spending a fearful week with my wife under the most painfulconditions, I went to Berlin, there to sign my agreement with the new directorof the Riga theatre. I obtained the appointment on fairly favourable termswhich, I saw, would enable me to keep house in such a style that Minna couldretire from the theatre altogether. By this means she would be in a position tospare me all humiliation and anxiety.
On returning to Dresden, I found that Minna was ready to lend a willing ear tomy proposed plans, and I succeeded in inducing her to leave her parents’ house,which was very cramped for us, and to establish herself in the country atBlasewitz, near Dresden, to await our removal to Riga. We found modest lodgingsat an inn on the Elbe, in the farm-yard of which I had often played as a child.Here Minna’s frame of mind really seemed to be improving. She had begged me notto press her too hard, and I spared her as much as possible. After a few weeksI thought I might consider the period of uneasiness past, but was surprised tofind the situation growing worse again without any apparent reason. Minna thentold me of some advantageous offers she had received from different theatres,and astonished me one day by announcing her intention of taking a shortpleasure trip with a girl friend and her family. As I felt obliged to avoidputting any restraint upon her, I offered no objection to the execution of thisproject, which entailed a week’s separation, but accompanied her back to herparents myself, promising to await her return quietly at Blasewitz. A few dayslater her eldest sister called to ask me for the written permission required tomake out a passport for my wife. This alarmed me, and I went to Dresden to askher parents what their daughter was about. There, to my surprise, I met with avery unpleasant reception; they reproached me coarsely for my behaviour toMinna, whom they said I could not even manage to support, and when I onlyreplied by asking for information as to the whereabouts of my wife, and abouther plans for the future, I was put off with improbable statements. Tormentedby the sharpest forebodings, and understanding nothing of what had occurred, Iwent back to the village, where I found a letter from Königsberg, from Möller,which poured light on all my misery. Herr Dietrich had gone to Dresden, and Iwas told the name of the hotel at which he was staying. The terribleillumination thrown by this communication upon Minna’s conduct showed me in aflash what to do. I hurried into town to make the necessary inquiries at thehotel mentioned, and found that the man in question had been there, but hadmoved on again. He had vanished, and Minna too! I now knew enough to demand ofthe Fates why, at such an early age, they had sent me this terrible experiencewhich, as it seemed to me, had poisoned my whole existence.
I sought consolation for my boundless grief in the society of my sister Ottilieand her husband, Hermann Brockhaus, an excellent fellow to whom she had beenmarried for some years. They were then living at their pretty summer villa inthe lovely Grosser Garten, near Dresden. I had looked them up at once the firsttime I went to Dresden, but as I had not at that time the slightest idea of howthings were going to turn out, I had told them nothing, and had seen but littleof them. Now I was moved to break my obstinate silence, and unfold to them thecause of my misery, with but few reservations.
For the first time I was in a position gratefully to appreciate the advantagesof family intercourse, and of the direct and disinterested intimacy betweenblood relations. Explanations were hardly necessary, and as brother and sisterwe found ourselves as closely linked now as we had been when we were children.We arrived at a complete understanding without having to explain what we meant;I was unhappy, she was happy; consolation and help followed as a matter ofcourse.
This was the sister to whom I once had read Leubald und Adelaïde in athunderstorm; the sister who had listened, filled with astonishment andsympathy, to that eventful performance of my first overture on Christmas Eve,and whom I now found married to one of the kindest of men, Hermann Brockhaus,who soon earned a reputation for himself as an expert in oriental languages. Hewas the youngest brother of my elder brother-in-law, Friedrich Brockhaus. Theirunion was blessed by two children; their comfortable means favoured a life freefrom care, and when I made my daily pilgrimage from Blasewitz to the famousGrosser Garten, it was like stepping from a desert into paradise to enter theirhouse (one of the popular villas), knowing that I would invariably find awelcome in this happy family circle. Not only was my spirit soothed andbenefited by intercourse with my sister, but my creative instincts, which hadlong lain dormant, were stimulated afresh by the society of my brilliant andlearned brother-in-law. It was brought home to me, without in any way hurtingmy feelings, that my early marriage, excusable as it may have been, was yet anerror to be retrieved, and my mind regained sufficient elasticity to composesome sketches, designed this time not merely to meet the requirements of thetheatre as I knew it. During the last wretched days I had spent with Minna atBlasewitz, I had read Bulwer Lytton’s novel, Rienzi; during my convalescence inthe bosom of my sympathetic family, I now worked out the scheme for a grandopera under the inspiration of this book. Though obliged for the present toreturn to the limitations of a small theatre, I tried from this time onwards toaim at enlarging my sphere of action. I sent my overture, Rule Britannia, tothe Philharmonic Society in London, and tried to get into communication withScribe in Paris about a setting for H. Konig’s novel, Die Hohe Braut, which Ihad sketched out.
Thus I spent the remainder of this summer of ever-happy memory. At the end ofAugust I had to leave for Riga to take up my new appointment. Although I knewthat my sister Rosalie had shortly before married the man of her choice,Professor Oswald Marbach of Leipzig, I avoided that city, probably with thefoolish notion of sparing myself any humiliation, and went straight to Berlin,where I had to receive certain additional instructions from my future director,and also to obtain my passport. There I met a younger sister of Minna’s, AmaliePlaner, a singer with a pretty voice, who had joined our opera company atMagdeburg for a short time. My report of Minna quite overwhelmed thisexceedingly kind-hearted girl. We went to a performance of Fidelia together,during which she, like myself, burst into tears and sobs. Refreshed by thesympathetic impression I had received, I went by way of Schwerin, where I wasdisappointed in my hopes of finding traces of Minna, to Lubeck, to wait for amerchant ship going to Riga. We had set sail for Travemunde when anunfavourable wind set in, and held up our departure for a week: I had to spendthis disagreeable time in a miserable ship’s tavern. Thrown on my own resourcesI tried, amongst other things, to read Till Eulenspiegel, and this popular bookfirst gave me the idea of a real German comic opera. Long afterwards, when Iwas composing the words for my Junger Siegfried, I remember having many vividrecollections of this melancholy sojourn in Travemunde and my reading of TillEulenspiegel. After a voyage of four days we at last reached port at Bolderaa.I was conscious of a peculiar thrill on coming into contact with Russianofficials, whom I had instinctively detested since the days of my sympathy withthe Poles as a boy. It seemed to me as if the harbour police must readenthusiasm for the Poles in my face, and would send me to Siberia on the spot,and I was the more agreeably surprised, on reaching Riga, to find myselfsurrounded by the familiar German element which, above all, pervaded everythingconnected with the theatre.
After my unfortunate experiences in connection with the conditions of smallGerman stages, the way in which this newly opened theatre was run had at firsta calming effect on my mind. A society had been formed by a number ofwell-to-do theatre-goers and rich business men to raise, by voluntarysubscription, sufficient money to provide the sort of management they regardedas ideal with a solid foundation. The director they appointed was Karl vonHoltei, a fairly popular dramatic writer, who enjoyed a certain reputation inthe theatrical world. This man’s ideas about the stage represented a specialtendency, which was at that time on the decline. He possessed, in addition tohis remarkable social gifts, an extraordinary acquaintance with all theprincipal people connected with the theatre during the past twenty years, andbelonged to a society called Die Liebenswurdigen Libertins (‘The AmiableLibertines’). This was a set of young would-be wits, who looked upon the stageas a playground licensed by the public for the display of their mad pranks,from which the middle class held aloof, while people of culture were steadilylosing all interest in the theatre under these hopeless conditions.
Holtei’s wife had in former days been a popular actress at the Konigstadttheatre in Berlin, and it was here, at the time when Henriette Sontag raised itto the height of its fame, that Holtei’s style had been formed. The productionthere of his melodrama Leonore (founded on Burger’s ballad) had in particularearned him a wide reputation as a writer for the stage, besides which heproduced some Liederspiele, and among them one, entitled Der Alte Feldherr,became fairly popular. His invitation to Riga had been particularly welcome, asit bid fair to gratify his craving to absorb himself completely in the life ofthe stage; he hoped, in this out-of-the-way place, to indulge his passionwithout restraint. His peculiar familiarity of manner, his inexhaustible storeof amusing small talk, and his airy way of doing business, gave him aremarkable hold on the tradespeople of Riga, who wished for nothing better thansuch entertainment as he was able to give them. They provided him liberallywith all the necessary means and treated him in every respect with entireconfidence. Under his auspices my own engagement had been very easily secured.Surly old pedants he would have none of, favouring young men on the score oftheir youth alone. As far as I myself was concerned, it was enough for him toknow that I belonged to a family which he knew and liked, and hearing,moreover, of my fervent devotion to modern Italian and French music inparticular, he decided that I was the very man for him. He had the whole shoalof Bellini’s, Donizetti’s, Adam’s, and Auber’s operatic scores copied out, andI was to give the good people of Riga the benefit of them with all possiblespeed.
The first time I visited Holtei I met an old Leipzig acquaintance, HeinrichDorn, my former mentor, who now held the permanent municipal appointment ofchoir-master at the church and music-teacher in the schools. He was pleased tofind his curious pupil transformed into a practical opera conductor ofindependent position, and no less surprised to see the eccentric worshipper ofBeethoven changed into an ardent champion of Bellini and Adam. He took me hometo his summer residence, which was built, according to Riga phraseology, ‘inthe fields,’ that is literally, on the sand. While I was giving him someaccount of the experiences through which I had passed, I grew conscious of thestrangely deserted look of the place. Feeling frightened and homeless, myinitial uneasiness gradually developed into a passionate longing to escape fromall the whirl of theatrical life which had wooed me to such inhospitableregions. This uneasy mood was fast dispelling the flippancy which at Magdeburghad led to my being dragged down to the level of the most worthless stagesociety, and had also conduced to spoil my musical taste. It also contained thegerms of a new tendency which developed during the period of my activity atRiga, brought me more and more out of touch with the theatre, thereby causingDirector Holtei all the annoyance which inevitably attends disappointment.
For some time, however, I found no difficulty in making the best of a badbargain. We were obliged to open the theatre before the company was complete.To make this possible, we gave a performance of a short comic opera by C. Blum,called Marie, Max und Michel. For this work I composed an additional air for asong which Holtei had written for the bass singer, Gunther; it consisted of asentimental introduction and a gay military rondo, and was very muchappreciated. Later on, I introduced another additional song into theSchweizerfamilie, to be sung by another bass singer, Scheibler; it was of adevotional character, and pleased not only the public, but myself, and showedsigns of the upheaval which was gradually taking place in my musicaldevelopment. I was entrusted with the composition of a tune for a National Hymnwritten by Brakel in honour of the Tsar Nicholas’s birthday. I tried to give itas far as possible the right colouring for a despotic patriarchal monarch, andonce again I achieved some fame, for it was sung for several successive yearson that particular day. Holtei tried to persuade me to write a bright, gaycomic opera, or rather a musical play, to be performed by our company just asit stood. I looked up the libretto of my Glucktiche Barenfamilie, and foundHoltei very well disposed towards it (as I have stated elsewhere); but when Iunearthed the little music which I had already composed for it, I was overcomewith disgust at this way of writing; whereupon I made a present of the book tomy clumsy, good-natured friend, Lobmann, my right-hand man in the orchestra,and never gave it another thought from that day to this. I managed, however, toget to work on the libretto of Rienzi, which I had sketched out at Blasewitz. Ideveloped it from every point of view, on so extravagant a scale, that withthis work I deliberately cut off all possibility of being tempted bycircumstances to produce it anywhere but on one of the largest stages inEurope.
But while this helped to strengthen my endeavour to escape from all the pettydegradations of stage life, new complications arose which affected me more andmore seriously, and offered further opposition to my aims. The prima donnaengaged by Holtei had failed us, and we were therefore without a singer forgrand opera. Under the circumstances, Holtei joyfully agreed to my proposal toask Amalie, Minna’s sister (who was glad to accept an engagement that broughther near me), to come to Riga at once. In her answer to me from Dresden, whereshe was then living, she informed me of Minna’s return to her parents, and ofher present miserable condition owing to a severe illness. I naturally tookthis piece of news very coolly, for what I had heard about Minna since she leftme for the last time had forced me to authorise my old friend at Königsberg totake steps to procure a divorce. It was certain that Minna had stayed for sometime at a hotel in Hamburg with that ill-omened man, Herr Dietrich, and thatshe had spread abroad the story of our separation so unreservedly that thetheatrical world in particular had discussed it in a manner that was positivelyinsulting to me. I simply informed Amalie of this, and requested her to spareme any further news of her sister.
Hereupon Minna herself appealed to me, and wrote me a positively heartrendingletter, in which she openly confessed her infidelity. She declared that she hadbeen driven to it by despair, but that the great trouble she had thus broughtupon herself having taught her a lesson, all she now wished was to return tothe right path. Taking everything into account, I concluded that she had beendeceived in the character of her seducer, and the knowledge of her terribleposition had placed her both morally and physically in a most lamentablecondition, in which, now ill and wretched, she turned to me again toacknowledge her guilt, crave my forgiveness, and assure me, in spite of all,that she had now become fully aware of her love for me. Never before had Iheard such sentiments from Minna, nor was I ever to hear the same from heragain, save on one touching occasion many years later, when similar outpouringsmoved and affected me in the same way as this particular letter had done. Inreply I told her that there should never again be any mention between us ofwhat had occurred, for which I took upon myself the chief blame; and I canpride myself on having carried out this resolution to the letter.
When her sister’s engagement was satisfactorily settled, I at once invitedMinna to come to Riga with her. Both gladly accepted my invitation, and arrivedfrom Dresden at my new home on 19th October, wintry weather having already setin. With much regret I perceived that Minna’s health had really suffered, andtherefore did all in my power to provide her with all the domestic comforts andquiet she needed. This presented difficulties, for my modest income as aconductor was all I had at my disposal, and we were both firmly determined notto let Minna go on the stage again. On the other hand, the carrying out of thisresolve, in view of the financial inconvenience it entailed, produced strangecomplications, the nature of which was only revealed to me later, whenstartling developments divulged the real moral character of the manager Holtei.For the present I had to let people think that I was jealous of my wife. I borepatiently with the general belief that I had good reasons to be so, andrejoiced meanwhile at the restoration of our peaceful married life, andespecially at the sight of our humble home, which we made as comfortable as ourmeans would allow, and in the keeping of which Minna’s domestic talents camestrongly to the fore. As we were still childless, and were obliged as a rule toenlist the help of a dog in order to give life to the domestic hearth, we oncelighted upon the eccentric idea of trying our luck with a young wolf which wasbrought into the house as a tiny cub. When we found, however, that thisexperiment did not increase the comfort of our home life, we gave him up afterhe had been with us a few weeks. We fared better with sister Amalie; for she,with her good-nature and simple homely ways, did much to make up for theabsence of children for a time. The two sisters, neither of whom had had anyreal education, often returned playfully to the ways of their childhood. Whenthey sang children’s duets, Minna, though she had had no musical training,always managed very cleverly to sing seconds, and afterwards, as we sat at ourevening meal, eating Russian salad, salt salmon from the Dwina, or freshRussian caviare, we were all three very cheerful and happy far away in ournorthern home.
Amalie’s beautiful voice and real vocal talent at first won for her a veryfavourable reception with the public, a fact which did us all a great deal ofgood. Being, however, very short, and having no very great gift for acting, thescope of her powers was very limited, and as she was soon surpassed by moresuccessful competitors, it was a real stroke of good luck for her that a youngofficer in the Russian army, then Captain, now General, Carl von Meek, fellhead over ears in love with the simple girl, and married her a year later. Theunfortunate part of this engagement, however, was that it caused manydifficulties, and brought the first cloud over our menage a trois. For, after awhile, the two sisters quarrelled bitterly, and I had the very unpleasantexperience of living for a whole year in the same house with two relatives whoneither saw nor spoke to each other.
We spent the winter at the beginning of 1838 in a very small dingy dwelling inthe old town; it was not till the spring that we moved into a pleasanter housein the more salubrious Petersburg suburb, where, in spite of the sisterlybreach before referred to, we led a fairly bright and cheerful life, as we wereoften able to entertain many of our friends and acquaintances in a simplethough pleasant fashion. In addition to members of the stage I knew a fewpeople in the town, and we received and visited the family of Dorn, the musicaldirector, with whom I became quite intimate. But it was the second musicaldirector, Franz Lobmann, a very worthy though not a very gifted man, who becamemost faithfully attached to me. However, I did not cultivate many acquaintancesin wider circles, and they grew fewer as the ruling passion of my life grewsteadily stronger; so that when, later on, I left Riga, after spending nearlytwo years there, I departed almost as a stranger, and with as much indifferenceas I had left Magdeburg and Königsberg. What, however, specially embittered mydeparture was a series of experiences of a particularly disagreeable nature,which firmly determined me to cut myself off entirely from the necessity ofmixing with any people like those I had met with in my previous attempts tocreate a position for myself at the theatre.
Yet it was only gradually that I became quite conscious of all this. At first,under the safe guidance of my renewed wedded happiness, which had for a timebeen so disturbed in its early days, I felt distinctly better than I had beforein all my professional work. The fact that the material position of thetheatrical undertaking was assured exercised a healthy influence on theperformances. The theatre itself was cooped up in a very narrow space; therewas as little room for scenic display on its tiny stage as there wasaccommodation for rich musical effects in the cramped orchestra. In bothdirections the strictest limits were imposed, yet I contrived to introduceconsiderable reinforcements into an orchestra which was really only calculatedfor a string quartette, two first and two second violins, two violas, and one‘cello. These successful exertions of mine were the first cause of the dislikeHoltei evinced towards me later on. After this we were able to get goodconcerted music for the opera. I found the thorough study of Mehul’s opera,Joseph in Aegypten, very stimulating. Its noble and simple style, added to thetouching effect of the music, which quite carries one away, did much towardseffecting a favourable change in my taste, till then warped by my connectionwith the theatre.
It was most gratifying to feel my former serious taste again aroused by reallygood dramatic performances. I specially remember a production of King Lear,which I followed with the greatest interest, not only at the actualperformances, but at all the rehearsals as well. Yet these educativeimpressions tended to make me feel ever more and more dissatisfied with my workat the theatre. On the one hand, the members of the company became graduallymore distasteful to me, and on the other I was growing discontented with themanagement. With regard to the staff of the theatre, I very soon found out thehollowness, vanity, and the impudent selfishness of this uncultured andundisciplined class of people, for I had now lost my former liking for theBohemian life that had such an attraction for me at Magdeburg. Before longthere were but a few members of our company with whom I had not quarrelled,thanks to one or the other of these drawbacks. But my saddest experience was,that in such disputes, into which in fact I was led simply by my zeal for theartistic success of the performances as a whole, not only did I receive nosupport from Holtei, the director, but I actually made him my enemy. He evendeclared publicly that our theatre had become far too respectable for histaste, and tried to convince me that good theatrical performances could not begiven by a strait-laced company.
In his opinion the idea of the dignity of theatrical art was pedantic nonsense,and he thought light serio-comic vaudeville the only class of performance worthconsidering. Serious opera, rich musical ensemble, was his particular aversion,and my demands for this irritated him so that he met them only with scorn andindignant refusals. Of the strange connection between this artistic bias andhis taste in the domain of morality I was also to become aware, to my horror,in due course. For the present I felt so repelled by the declaration of hisartistic antipathies, as to let my dislike for the theatre as a professionsteadily grow upon me. I still took pleasure in some good performances which Iwas able to get up, under favourable circumstances, at the larger theatre atMitau, to where the company went for a time in the early part of the summer.Yet it was while I was there, spending most of my time reading Bulwer Lytton’snovels, that I made a secret resolve to try hard to free myself from allconnection with the only branch of theatrical art which had so far been open tome.
The composition of my Rienzi, the text of which I had finished in the earlydays of my sojourn in Riga, was destined to bridge me over to the gloriousworld for which I had longed so intensely. I had laid aside the completion ofmy Gluckliche Barenfamilie, for the simple reason that the lighter character ofthis piece would have thrown me more into contact with the very theatricalpeople I most despised. My greatest consolation now was to prepare Rienzi withsuch an utter disregard of the means which were available there for itsproduction, that my desire to produce it would force me out of the narrowconfines of this puny theatrical circle to seek a fresh connection with one ofthe larger theatres. It was after our return from Mitau, in the middle of thesummer of 1838, that I set to work on this composition, and by so doing rousedmyself to a state of enthusiasm which, considering my position, was nothingless than desperate dare-devilry. All to whom I confided my plan perceived atonce, on the mere mention of my subject, that I was preparing to break awayfrom my present position, in which there could be no possibility of producingmy work, and I was looked upon as light-headed and fit only for an asylum.
To all my acquaintances my procedure seemed stupid and reckless. Even theformer patron of my peculiar Leipzig overture thought it impracticable andeccentric, seeing that I had again turned my back on light opera. He expressedthis opinion very freely in the Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik, in a report of aconcert I had given towards the end of the previous winter, and openlyridiculed the Magdeburg Columbus Overture and the Rule Britannia Overturepreviously mentioned. I myself had not taken any pleasure in the performance ofeither of these overtures, as my predilection for cornets, strongly marked inboth these overtures, again played me a sorry trick, as I had evidentlyexpected too much of our Riga musicians, and had to endure all kinds ofdisappointment on the occasion of the performance. As a complete contrast to myextravagant setting of Rienzi, this same director, H. Dorn, had set to work towrite an opera in which he had most carefully borne in mind the conditionsobtaining at the Riga theatre. Der Schoffe van Paris, an historical operetta ofthe period of the siege of Paris by Joan of Arc, was practised and performed byus to the complete satisfaction of the composer. However, the success of thiswork gave me no reason for abandoning my project to complete my Rienzi, and Iwas secretly pleased to find that I could regard this success without a traceof envy. Though animated by no feeling of rivalry, I gradually gave upassociating with the Riga artists, confining myself chiefly to the performanceof the duties I had undertaken, and worked away at the two first acts of my bigopera without troubling myself at all whether I should ever get so far as tosee it produced.
The serious and bitter experiences I had had so early in life had done much toguide me towards that intensely earnest side of my nature that had manifesteditself in my earliest youth. The effect of these bitter experiences was now tobe still further emphasised by other sad impressions. Not long after Minna hadrejoined me, I received from home the news of the death of my sister Rosalie.It was the first time in my life that I had experienced the passing away of onenear and dear to me. The death of this sister struck me as a most cruel andsignificant blow of fate; it was out of love and respect for her that I hadturned away so resolutely from my youthful excesses, and it was to gain hersympathy that I had devoted special thought and care to my first great works.When the passions and cares of life had come upon me and driven me away from myhome, it was she who had read deep down into my sorely stricken heart, and whohad bidden me that anxious farewell on my departure from Leipzig. At the timeof my disappearance, when the news of my wilful marriage and of my consequentunfortunate position reached my family, it was she who, as my mother informedme later, never lost her faith in me, but who always cherished the hope that Iwould one day reach the full development of my capabilities and make a genuinesuccess of my life.
Now, at the news of her death, and illuminated by the recollection of that oneimpressive farewell, as by a flash of lightning I saw the immense value myrelations with this sister had been to me, and I did not fully realise theextent of her influence until later on, when, after my first strikingsuccesses, my mother tearfully lamented that Rosalie had not lived to witnessthem. It really did me good to be again in communication with my family. Mymother and sisters had had news of my doings somehow or other, and I was deeplytouched, in the letters which I was now receiving from them, to hear noreproaches anent my headstrong and apparently heartless behaviour, but onlysympathy and heartfelt solicitude. My family had also received favourablereports about my wife’s good qualities, a fact about which I was particularlyglad, as I was thus spared the difficulties of defending her questionablebehaviour to me, which I should have been at pains to excuse. This produced asalutary calm in my soul, which had so recently been a prey to the worstanxieties. All that had driven me with such passionate haste to an improvidentand premature marriage, all that had consequently weighed on me so ruinously,now seemed set at rest, leaving peace in its stead. And although the ordinarycares of life still pressed on me for many years, often in a most vexatious andtroublesome form, yet the anxieties attendant on my ardent youthful wishes werein a manner subdued and calm. From thence forward till the attainment of myprofessional independence, all my life’s struggles could be directed entirelytowards that more ideal aim which, from the time of the conception of myRienzi, was to be my only guide through life.
It was only later that I first realised the real character of my life in Riga,from the utterance of one of its inhabitants, who was astonished to learn ofthe success of a man of whose importance, during the whole of his two years’sojourn in the small capital of Livonia, nothing had been known. Thrownentirely on my own resources, I was a stranger to every one. As I mentionedbefore, I kept aloof from all the theatre folk, in consequence of my increasingdislike of them, and therefore, when at the end of March, 1839, at the close ofmy second winter there, I was given my dismissal by the management, althoughthis occurrence surprised me for other reasons, yet I felt fully reconciled tothis compulsory change in my life. The reasons which led to this dismissalwere, however, of such a nature that I could only regard it as one of the mostdisagreeable experiences of my life. Once, when I was lying dangerously ill, Iheard of Holtei’s real feelings towards me. I had caught a severe cold in thedepth of winter at a theatrical rehearsal, and it at once assumed a seriouscharacter, owing to the fact that my nerves were in a state of constantirritation from the continual annoyance and vexatious worry caused by thecontemptible character of the theatrical management. It was just at the timewhen a special performance of the opera Norma was to be given by our company inMitau. Holtei insisted on my getting up from a sick-bed to make this wintryjourney, and thus to expose myself to the danger of seriously increasing mycold in the icy theatre at Mitau. Typhoid fever was the consequence, and thispulled me down to such an extent that Holtei, who heard of my condition, issaid to have remarked at the theatre that I should probably never conductagain, and that, to all intents and purposes, ‘I was on my last legs.’ It wasto a splendid homoeopathic physician, Dr. Prutzer, that I owed my recovery andmy life. Not long after that Holtei left our theatre and Riga for ever; hisoccupation there, with ‘the far too respectable conditions,’ as he expressedit, had become intolerable to him. In addition, however, circumstances hadarisen in his domestic life (which had been much affected by the death of hiswife) which seemed to make him consider a complete break with Riga eminentlydesirable. But to my astonishment I now first became aware that I too hadunconsciously been a sufferer from the troubles he had brought upon himself.When Holtei’s successor in the management—Joseph Hoffmann the singer—informedme that his predecessor had made it a condition to his taking over the postthat he should enter into the same engagement that Holtei had made with theconductor Dorn for the post which I had hitherto filled, and my reappointmenthad therefore been made an impossibility, my wife met my astonishment at thisnews by giving me the reason, of which for some considerable time past she hadbeen well aware, namely, Holtei’s special dislike of us both. When I wasafterwards informed by Minna of what had happened—she having purposely kept itfrom me all this time, so as not to cause bad feeling between me and mydirector—a ghastly light was thrown upon the whole affair. I did indeedremember perfectly how, soon after Minna’s arrival in Riga, I had beenparticularly pressed by Holtei not to prevent my wife’s engagement at thetheatre. I asked him to talk things quietly over with her, so that he might seethat Minna’s unwillingness rested on a mutual understanding, and not on anyjealousy on my part. I had intentionally given him the time when I was engagedat the theatre on rehearsals for the necessary discussions with my wife. At theend of these meetings I had, on my return, often found Minna in a very excitedcondition, and at length she declared emphatically that under no circumstanceswould she accept the engagement offered by Holtei. I had also noticed inMinna’s demeanour towards me a strange anxiety to know why I was not unwillingto allow Holtei to try to persuade her. Now that the catastrophe had occurred,I learned that Holtei had in fact used these interviews for making improperadvances to my wife, the nature of which I only realised with difficulty onfurther acquaintance with this man’s peculiarities, and after having heard ofother instances of a similar nature. I then discovered that Holtei consideredit an advantage to get himself talked about in connection with pretty women, inorder thus to divert the attention of the public from other conduct even moredisreputable. After this Minna was exceedingly indignant at Holtei, who,finding his own suit rejected, appeared as the medium for another suitor, onwhose behalf he urged that he would think none the worse of her for rejectinghim, a grey-haired and penniless man, but at the same time advocated the suitof Brandenburg, a very wealthy and handsome young merchant. His fierceindignation at this double repulse, his humiliation at having revealed his realnature to no purpose, seems, to judge from Minna’s observations, to have beenexceedingly great. I now understood too well that his frequent and profoundlycontemptuous sallies against respectable actors and actresses had not been merespirited exaggerations, but that he had probably often had to complain of beingput thoroughly to shame on this account.
The fact that the playing of such criminal parts as the one he had had in viewwith my wife was unable to divert the ever-increasing attention of the outsideworld from his vicious and dissolute habits, does not seem to have escaped him;for those behind the scenes told me candidly that it was owing to the fear ofvery unpleasant revelations that he had suddenly decided to give up hisposition at Riga altogether. Even in much later years I heard about Holtei’sbitter dislike of me, a dislike which showed itself, among other things, in hisdenunciation of The Music of the Future,[8] and of its tendency to jeopardise thesimplicity of pure sentiment. I have previously mentioned that he displayed somuch personal animosity against me during the latter part of the time we weretogether in Riga that he vented his hostility upon me in every possible way. Upto that time I had felt inclined to ascribe it to the divergence of ourrespective views on artistic points.
[8]Zukunftsmusik is a pamphlet revealing some of Wagner’s artistic aims andaspirations, written 1860-61.—EDITOR.
To my dismay I now became aware that personal considerations alone were at thebottom of all this, and I blushed to realise that by my former unreservedconfidence in a man whom I thought was absolutely honest, I had based myknowledge of human nature on such very weak foundations. But still greater wasmy disappointment when I discovered the real character of my friend H. Dorn.During the whole time of our intercourse at Riga, he, who formerly treated memore like a good-natured elder brother, had become my most confidential friend.We saw and visited each other almost daily, very frequently in our respectivehomes. I kept not a single secret from him, and the performance of his Schoffevan Paris under my direction was as successful as if it had been under his own.Now, when I heard that my post had been given to him, I felt obliged to ask himabout it, in order to learn whether there was any mistake on his part as to myintention regarding the position I had hitherto held. But from his letter inreply I could clearly see that Dorn had really made use of Holtei’s dislike forme to extract from him, before his departure, an arrangement which was bothbinding on his successor and also in his (Dorn’s) own favour. As my friend heought to have known that he could benefit by this agreement only in the eventof my resigning my appointment in Riga, because in our confidentialconversations, which continued to the end, he always carefully refrained fromtouching on the possibility of my going away or remaining. In fact, he declaredthat Holtei had distinctly told him he would on no account re-engage me, as Icould not get on with the singers. He added that after this one could not takeit amiss if he, who had been inspired with fresh enthusiasm for the theatre bythe success of his Schoffe von Paris, had seized and turned to his ownadvantage the chance offered to him. Moreover, he had gathered from myconfidential communications that I was very awkwardly situated, and that, owingto my small salary having been cut down by Holtei from the very beginning, Iwas in a very precarious position on account of the demands of my creditors inKönigsberg and Magdeburg. It appeared that these people had employed against mea lawyer, who was a friend of Dorn’s, and that, consequently, he had come tothe conclusion that I would not be able to remain in Riga. Therefore, even asmy friend, he had felt his conscience quite clear in accepting Holtei’sproposal.
In order not to leave him in the complacent enjoyment of this self-deception, Iput it clearly before him that he could not be ignorant of the fact that ahigher salary had been promised to me for the third year of my contract; andthat, by the establishment of orchestral concerts, which had already made afavourable start, I now saw my way to getting free from those long-standingdebts, having already overcome the difficulties of the removal and settlingdown. I also asked him how he would act if I saw it was to my own interest toretain my post, and to call on him to resign his agreement with Holtei, who, asa matter of fact, after his departure from Riga, had withdrawn his allegedreason for my dismissal. To this I received no answer, nor have I had one up tothe present day; but, on the other hand, in 1865, I was astonished to see Dornenter my house in Munich unannounced, and when to his joy I recognised him, hestepped up to me with a gesture which clearly showed his intention of embracingme. Although I managed to evade this, yet I soon saw the difficulty ofpreventing him from addressing me with the familiar form of ‘thou,’ as theattempt to do so would have necessitated explanations that would have been auseless addition to all my worries just then; for it was the time when myTristan was being produced.
Such a man was Heinrich Dorn. Although, after the failure of three operas, hehad retired in disgust from the theatre to devote himself exclusively to thecommercial side of music, yet the success of his opera, Der Schoffe von Paris,in Riga helped him back to a permanent place among the dramatic musicians ofGermany. But to this position he was first dragged from obscurity, across thebridge of infidelity to his friend, and by the aid of virtue in the person ofDirector Holtei, thanks to a magnanimous oversight on the part of Franz Listz.The preference of King Friedrich Wilhelm IV. for church scenes contributed tosecure him eventually his important position at the greatest lyric theatre inGermany, the Royal Opera of Berlin. For he was prompted far less by hisdevotion to the dramatic muse than by his desire to secure a good position insome important German city, when, as already hinted, through Liszt’srecommendation he was appointed musical director of Cologne Cathedral. During afete connected with the building of the cathedral he managed, as a musician, soto work upon the Prussian monarch’s religious feelings, that he was appointedto the dignified post of musical conductor at the Royal Theatre, in whichcapacity he long continued to do honour to German dramatic music in conjunctionwith Wilhelm Taubert.
I must give J. Hoffmann, who from this time forward was the manager of the Rigatheatre, the credit of having felt the treachery practised upon me very deeplyindeed. He told me that his contract with Dorn bound him only for one year, andthat the moment the twelve months had elapsed he wished to come to a freshagreement with me. As soon as this was known, my patrons in Riga came forwardwith offers of teaching engagements and arrangements for sundry concerts, byway of compensating me for the year’s salary which I should lose by being awayfrom my work as a conductor. Though I was much gratified by these offers, yet,as I have already pointed out, the longing to break loose from the kind oftheatrical life which I had experienced up to that time so possessed me that Iresolutely seized this chance of abandoning my former vocation for an entirelynew one. Not without some shrewdness, I played upon my wife’s indignation atthe treachery I had suffered, in order to make her fall in with my eccentricnotion of going to Paris. Already in my conception of Rienzi I had dreamed ofthe most magnificent theatrical conditions, but now, without halting at anyintermediate stations, my one desire was to reach the very heart of allEuropean grand opera. While still in Magdeburg I had made H. Konig’s romance,Die Hohe Braut, the subject of a grand opera in five acts, and in the mostluxurious French style. After the scenic draft of this opera, which had beentranslated into French, was completely worked out, I sent it from Königsberg toScribe in Paris. With this manuscript I sent a letter to the famous operaticpoet, in which I suggested that he might make use of my plot, on condition thathe would secure me the composition of the music for the Paris Opera House. Toconvince him of my ability to compose Parisian operatic music, I also sent himthe score of my Liebesverbot. At the same time I wrote to Meyerbeer, informinghim of my plans, and begging him to support me. I was not at all disheartenedat receiving no reply, for I was content to know that now at last ‘I was incommunication with Paris.’ When, therefore, I started out upon my daringjourney from Riga, I seemed to have a comparatively serious object in view, andmy Paris projects no longer struck me as being altogether in the air. Inaddition to this I now heard that my youngest sister, Cecilia, had becomebetrothed to a certain Eduard Avenarius, an employee of the Brockhausbook-selling firm, and that he had undertaken the management of their Parisbranch. To him I applied for news of Scribe, and for an answer to theapplication I had made to that gentleman some years previously. Avenariuscalled on Scribe, and from him received an acknowledgment of the receipt of myearlier communication. Scribe also showed that he had some recollection of thesubject itself; for he said that, so far as he could remember, there was ajoueuse de harpe in the piece, who was ill-treated by her brother. The factthat this merely incidental item had alone remained in his memory led me toconclude that he had not extended his acquaintance with the piece beyond thefirst act, in which the item in question occurs. When, moreover, I heard thathe had nothing to say in regard to my score, except that he had had portions ofit played over to him by a pupil of the Conservatoire, I really could notflatter myself that he had entered into definite and conscious relations withme. And yet I had palpable evidence in a letter of his to Avenarius, which thelatter forwarded to me, that Scribe had actually occupied himself with my work,and that I was indeed in communication with him, and this letter of Scribe’smade such an impression upon my wife, who was by no means inclined to besanguine, that she gradually overcame her apprehensions in regard to the Parisadventure. At last it was fixed and settled that on the expiry of my secondyear’s contract in Riga (that is to say, in the coming summer, 1839), we shouldjourney direct from Riga to Paris, in order that I might try my luck there as acomposer of opera.
The production of my Rienzi now began to assume greater importance. Thecomposition of its second act was finished before we started, and into this Iwove a heroic ballet of extravagant dimensions. It was now imperative that Ishould speedily acquire a knowledge of French, a language which, during myclassical studies at the Grammar School, I had contemptuously laid aside. Asthere were only four weeks in which to recover the time I had lost, I engagedan excellent French master. But as I soon realised that I could achieve butlittle in so short a time, I utilised the hours of the lessons in order toobtain from him, under the pretence of receiving instruction, an idiomatictranslation of my Rienzi libretto. This I wrote with red ink on such parts ofthe score as were finished, so that on reaching Paris I might immediatelysubmit my half-finished opera to French judges of art.
Everything now seemed to be carefully prepared for my departure, and all thatremained to be done was to raise the necessary funds for my undertaking. But inthis respect the outlook was bad. The sale of our modest household furniture,the proceeds of a benefit concert, and my meagre savings only sufficed tosatisfy the importunate demands of my creditors in Magdeburg and Königsberg. Iknew that if I were to devote all my cash to this purpose, there would not be afarthing left. Some way out of the fix must be found, and this our oldKönigsberg friend, Abraham Möller, suggested in his usual flippant and obscuremanner. Just at this critical moment he paid us a second visit to Riga. Iacquainted him with the difficulties of our position, and all the obstacleswhich stood in the way of my resolve to go to Paris. In his habitual laconicalway he counselled me to reserve all my savings for our journey, and to settlewith my creditors when my Parisian successes had provided the necessary means.To help us in carrying out this plan, he offered to convey us in his carriageacross the Russian frontier at top speed to an East Prussian port. We shouldhave to cross the Russian frontier without passports, as these had been alreadyimpounded by our foreign creditors. He assured us that we should find it quitesimple to carry out this very hazardous expedition, and declared that he had afriend on a Prussian estate close to the frontier who would render us veryeffective assistance. My eagerness to escape at any price from my previouscircumstances, and to enter with all possible speed upon the wider field, inwhich I hoped very soon to realise my ambition, blinded me to all theunpleasantnesses which the execution of his proposal must entail. DirectorHoffmann, who considered himself bound to serve me to the utmost of hisability, facilitated my departure by allowing me to leave some months beforethe expiration of my engagement. After continuing to conduct the operaticportion of the Mitau theatrical season through the month of June, we secretlystarted in a special coach hired by Möller and under his protection. The goalof our journey was Paris, but many unheard-of hardships were in store for usbefore we were to reach that city.
The sense of contentment involuntarily aroused by our passage through thefruitful Courland in the luxuriant month of July, and by the sweet illusionthat now at last I had cut myself loose from a hateful existence, to enter upona new and boundless path of fortune, was disturbed from its very outset by themiserable inconveniences occasioned by the presence of a huge Newfoundland dogcalled Robber. This beautiful creature, originally the property of a Rigamerchant, had, contrary to the nature of his race, become devotedly attached tome. After I had left Riga, and during my long stay in Mitau, Robber incessantlybesieged my empty house, and so touched the hearts of my landlord and theneighbours by his fidelity, that they sent the dog after me by the conductor ofthe coach to Mitau, where I greeted him with genuine effusion, and swore that,in spite of all difficulties, I would never part with him again. Whatever mighthappen, the dog must go with us to Paris. And yet, even to get him into thecarriage proved almost impossible. All my endeavours to find him a place in orabout the vehicle were in vain, and, to my great grief, I had to watch the hugenorthern beast, with his shaggy coat, gallop all day long in the blazing sunbeside the carriage. At last, moved to pity by his exhaustion, and unable tobear the sight any longer, I hit upon a most ingenious plan for bringing thegreat animal with us into the carriage, where, in spite of its being full tooverflowing, he was just able to find room.
On the evening of the second day we reached the Russo-Prussian frontier.Möller’s evident anxiety as to whether we should be able to cross it safelyshowed us plainly that the matter was one of some danger. His good friend fromthe other side duly turned up with a small carriage, as arranged, and in thisconveyance drove Minna, myself, and Robber through by paths to a certain point,whence he led us on foot to a house of exceedingly suspicious exterior, where,after handing us over to a guide, he left us. There we had to wait untilsundown, and had ample leisure in which to realise that we were in a smugglers’drinking den, which gradually became filled to suffocation with Polish Jews ofmost forbidding aspect.
At last we were summoned to follow our guide. A few hundred feet away, on theslope of a hill, lay the ditch which runs the whole length of the Russianfrontier, watched continually and at very narrow intervals by Cossacks. Ourchance was to utilise the few moments after the relief of the watch, duringwhich the sentinels were elsewhere engaged. We had, therefore, to run at fullspeed down the hill, scramble through the ditch, and then hurry along until wewere beyond the range of the soldiers’ guns; for the Cossacks were bound incase of discovery to fire upon us even on the other side of the ditch. In spiteof my almost passionate anxiety for Minna, I had observed with singularpleasure the intelligent behaviour of Robber, who, as though conscious of thedanger, silently kept close to our side, and entirely dispelled my fear that hewould give trouble during our dangerous passage. At last our trusted helpmeetreappeared, and was so delighted that he hugged us all in his arms. Then,placing us once more in his carriage, he drove us to the inn of the Prussianfrontier village, where my friend Möller, positively sick with anxiety, leapedsobbing and rejoicing out of bed to greet us.
It was only now that I began to realise the danger to which I had exposed, notonly myself, but also my poor Minna, and the folly of which I had been guiltythrough my ignorance of the terrible difficulties of secretly crossing thefrontier—difficulties concerning which Möller had foolishly allowed me toremain in ignorance.
I was simply at a loss to convey to my poor exhausted wife how extremely Iregretted the whole affair.
And yet the difficulties we had just overcome were but the prelude to thecalamities incidental to this adventurous journey which had such a decisiveinfluence on my life. The following day, when, with courage renewed, we drovethrough the rich plain of Tilsit to Arnau, near Königsberg, we decided, as thenext stage of our journey, to proceed from the Prussian harbour of Pillau bysailing vessel to London. Our principal reason for this was the considerationof the dog we had with us. It was the easiest way to take him. To convey him bycoach from Königsberg to Paris was out of the question, and railways wereunknown. But another consideration was our budget; the whole result of mydesperate efforts amounted to not quite one hundred ducats, which were to covernot only the journey to Paris, but our expenses there until I should haveearned something. Therefore, after a few days’ rest in the inn at Arnau, wedrove to the little seaport town of Pillau, again accompanied by Möller, in oneof the ordinary local conveyances, which was not much better than a wagon. Inorder to avoid Königsberg, we passed through the smaller villages and over badroads. Even this short distance was not to be covered without accident. Theclumsy conveyance upset in a farmyard, and Minna was so severely indisposed bythe accident, owing to an internal shock, that I had to drag her—with thegreatest difficulty, as she was quite helpless—to a peasant’s house. The peoplewere surly and dirty, and the night we spent there was a painful one for thepoor sufferer. A delay of several days occurred before the departure of thePillau vessel, but this was welcome as a respite to allow of Minna’s recovery.Finally, as the captain was to take us without a passport, our going on boardwas accompanied by exceptional difficulties. We had to contrive to slip pastthe harbour watch to our vessel in a small boat before daybreak. Once on board,we still had the troublesome task of hauling Robber up the steep side of thevessel without attracting attention, and after that to conceal ourselves atonce below deck, in order to escape the notice of officials visiting the shipbefore its departure. The anchor was weighed, and at last, as the land fadedgradually out of sight, we thought we could breathe freely and feel at ease.
We were on board a merchant vessel of the smallest type. She was called theThetis; a bust of the nymph was erected in the bows, and she carried a crew ofseven men, including the captain. With good weather, such as was to be expectedin summer, the journey to London was estimated to take eight days. However,before we had left the Baltic, we were delayed by a prolonged calm. I made useof the time to improve my knowledge of French by the study of a novel, LaDerniere Aldini, by George Sand. We also derived some entertainment fromassociating with the crew. There was an elderly and peculiarly taciturn sailornamed Koske, whom we observed carefully because Robber, who was usually sofriendly, had taken an irreconcilable dislike to him. Oddly enough, this factwas to add in some degree to our troubles in the hour of danger. After sevendays’ sailing we were no further than Copenhagen, where, without leaving thevessel, we seized an opportunity of making our very spare diet on board morebearable by various purchases of food and drink. In good spirits we sailed pastthe beautiful castle of Elsinore, the sight of which brought me into immediatetouch with my youthful impressions of Hamlet. We were sailing all unsuspectingthrough the Cattegat to the Skagerack, when the wind, which had at first beenmerely unfavourable, and had forced us to a process of weary tacking, changedon the second day to a violent storm. For twenty-four hours we had to struggleagainst it under disadvantages which were quite new to us. In the captain’spainfully narrow cabin, in which one of us was without a proper berth, we werea prey to sea-sickness and endless alarms. Unfortunately, the brandy cask, atwhich the crew fortified themselves during their strenuous work, was let into ahollow under the seat on which I lay at full length. Now it happened to beKoske who came most frequently in search of the refreshment which was such anuisance to me, and this in spite of the fact that on each occasion he had toencounter Robber in mortal combat. The dog flew at him with renewed rage eachtime he came climbing down the narrow steps. I was thus compelled to makeefforts which, in my state of complete exhaustion from sea-sickness, renderedmy condition every time more critical. At last, on 27th July, the captain wascompelled by the violence of the west wind to seek a harbour on the Norwegiancoast. And how relieved I was to behold that far-reaching rocky coast, towardswhich we were being driven at such speed! A Norwegian pilot came to meet us ina small boat, and, with experienced hand, assumed control of the Thetis,whereupon in a very short time I was to have one of the most marvellous andmost beautiful impressions of my life. What I had taken to be a continuous lineof cliffs turned out on our approach to be a series of separate rocksprojecting from the sea. Having sailed past them, we perceived that we weresurrounded, not only in front and at the sides, but also at our back, by thesereefs, which closed in behind us so near together that they seemed to form asingle chain of rocks. At the same time the hurricane was so broken by therocks in our rear that the further we sailed through this ever-changinglabyrinth of projecting rocks, the calmer the sea became, until at last thevessel’s progress was perfectly smooth and quiet as we entered one of thoselong sea-roads running through a giant ravine—for such the Norwegian fjordsappeared to me.
A feeling of indescribable content came over me when the enormous granite wallsechoed the hail of the crew as they cast anchor and furled the sails. The sharprhythm of this call clung to me like an omen of good cheer, and shaped itselfpresently into the theme of the seamen’s song in my Fliegender Holländer. Theidea of this opera was, even at that time, ever present in my mind, and it nowtook on a definite poetic and musical colour under the influence of my recentimpressions. Well, our next move was to go on shore. I learned that the littlefishing village at which we landed was called Sandwike, and was situated a fewmiles away from the much larger town of Arendal. We were allowed to put up atthe hospitable house of a certain ship’s captain, who was then away at sea, andhere we were able to take the rest we so much needed, as the unabated violenceof the wind in the open detained us there two days. On 31st July the captaininsisted on leaving, despite the pilot’s warning. We had been on board theThetis a few hours, and were in the act of eating a lobster for the first timein our lives, when the captain and the sailors began to swear violently at thepilot, whom I could see at the helm, rigid with fear, striving to avoid areef—barely visible above the water—towards which our ship was being driven.Great was our terror at this violent tumult, for we naturally thought ourselvesin the most extreme danger. The vessel did actually receive a severe shock,which, to my vivid imagination, seemed like the splitting up of the whole ship.Fortunately, however, it transpired that only the side of our vessel had fouledthe reef, and there was no immediate danger. Nevertheless, the captain deemedit necessary to steer for a harbour to have the vessel examined, and wereturned to the coast and anchored at another point. The captain then offeredto take us in a small boat with two sailors to Tromsond, a town of someimportance situated at a few hours’ distance, where he had to invite theharbour officials to examine his ship. This again proved a most attractive andimpressive excursion. The view of one fjord in particular, which extended farinland, worked on my imagination like some unknown, awe-inspiring desert. Thisimpression was intensified, during a long walk from Tromsond up to the plateau,by the terribly depressing effect of the dun moors, bare of tree or shrub,boasting only a covering of scanty moss, which stretch away to the horizon, andmerge imperceptibly into the gloomy sky. It was long after dark when wereturned from this trip in our little boat, and my wife was very anxious. Thenext morning (1st August), reassured as to the condition of the vessel, and thewind favouring us, we were able to go to sea without further hindrance.
After four days’ calm sailing a strong north wind arose, which drove us atuncommon speed in the right direction. We began to think ourselves nearly atthe end of our journey when, on 6th August, the wind changed, and the stormbegan to rage with unheard-of violence. On the 7th, a Wednesday, at half-pasttwo in the afternoon, we thought ourselves in imminent danger of death. It wasnot the terrible force with which the vessel was hurled up and down, entirelyat the mercy of this sea monster, which appeared now as a fathomless abyss, nowas a steep mountain peak, that filled me with mortal dread; my premonition ofsome terrible crisis was aroused by the despondency of the crew, whosemalignant glances seemed superstitiously to point to us as the cause of thethreatening disaster. Ignorant of the trifling occasion for the secrecy of ourjourney, the thought may have occurred to them that our need of escape hadarisen from suspicious or even criminal circumstances. The captain himselfseemed, in his extreme distress, to regret having taken us on board; for we hadevidently brought him ill-luck on this familiar passage—usually a rapid anduncomplicated one, especially in summer. At this particular moment there raged,beside the tempest on the water, a furious thunderstorm overhead, and Minnaexpressed the fervent wish to be struck by lightning with me rather than tosink, living, into the fearful flood. She even begged me to bind her to me, sothat we might not be parted as we sank. Yet another night was spent amid theseincessant terrors, which only our extreme exhaustion helped to mitigate.
The following day the storm had subsided; the wind remained unfavourable, butwas mild. The captain now tried to find our bearings by means of hisastronomical instruments. He complained of the sky, which had been overcast somany days, swore that he would give much for a single glimpse of the sun or thestars, and did not conceal the uneasiness he felt at not being able to indicateour whereabouts with certainty. He consoled himself, however, by following aship which was sailing some knots ahead in the same direction, and whosemovements he observed closely through the telescope. Suddenly he sprang up ingreat alarm, and gave a vehement order to change our course. He had seen theship in front go aground on a sand-bank, from which, he asserted, she could notextricate herself; for he now realised that we were near the most dangerouspart of the belt of sand-banks bordering the Dutch coast for a considerabledistance. By dint of very skilful sailing, we were enabled to keep the oppositecourse towards the English coast, which we in fact sighted on the evening of9th August, in the neighbourhood of Southwold. I felt new life come into mewhen I saw in the far distance the English pilots racing for our ship. Ascompetition is free among pilots on the English coast, they come out as far aspossible to meet incoming vessels, even when the risks are very great.
The winner in our case was a powerful grey-haired man, who, after much vainbattling with the seething waves, which tossed his light boat away from ourship at each attempt, at last succeeded in boarding the Thetis. (Our poor,hardly-used boat still bore the name, although the wooden figure-head of ourpatron nymph had been hurled into the sea during our first storm in theCattegat—an ill-omened incident in the eyes of the crew.) We were filled withpious gratitude when this quiet English sailor, whose hands were torn andbleeding from his repeated efforts to catch the rope thrown to him on hisapproach, took over the rudder. His whole personality impressed us mostagreeably, and he seemed to us the absolute guarantee of a speedy deliverancefrom our terrible afflictions. We rejoiced too soon, however, for we still hadbefore us the perilous passage through the sand-banks off the English coast,where, as I was assured, nearly four hundred ships are wrecked on an averageevery year. We were fully twenty-four hours (from the evening of the 10th tothe 11th of August) amid these sandbanks, fighting a westerly gale, whichhindered our progress so seriously that we only reached the mouth of the Thameson the evening of the 12th of August. My wife had, up to that point, been sonervously affected by the innumerable danger signals, consisting chiefly ofsmall guardships painted bright red and provided with bells on account of thefog, that she could not close her eyes, day or night, for the excitement ofwatching for them and pointing them out to the sailors. I, on the contrary,found these heralds of human proximity and deliverance so consoling that,despite Minna’s reproaches, I indulged in a long refreshing sleep. Now that wewere anchored in the mouth of the Thames, waiting for daybreak, I found myselfin the best of spirits; I dressed, washed, and even shaved myself up on decknear the mast, while Minna and the whole exhausted crew were wrapped in deepslumber. And with deepening interest I watched the growing signs of life inthis famous estuary. Our desire for a complete release from our detestedconfinement led us, after we had sailed a little way up, to hasten our arrivalin London by going on board a passing steamer at Gravesend. As we neared thecapital, our astonishment steadily increased at the number of ships of allsorts that filled the river, the houses, the streets, the famous docks, andother maritime constructions which lined the banks. When at last we reachedLondon Bridge, this incredibly crowded centre of the greatest city in theworld, and set foot on land after our terrible three weeks’ voyage, apleasurable sensation of giddiness overcame us as our legs carried usstaggering through the deafening uproar. Robber seemed to be similarlyaffected, for he whisked round the corners like a mad thing, and threatened toget lost every other minute. But we soon sought safety in a cab, which took us,on our captain’s recommendation, to the Horseshoe Tavern, near the Tower, andhere we had to make our plans for the conquest of this giant metropolis.
The neighbourhood in which we found ourselves was such that we decided to leaveit with all possible haste. A very friendly little hunchbacked Jew from Hamburgsuggested better quarters in the West End, and I remember vividly our drivethere, in one of the tiny narrow cabs then in use, the journey lasting fully anhour. They were built to carry two people, who had to sit facing each other,and we therefore had to lay our big dog crosswise from window to window. Thesights we saw from our whimsical nook surpassed anything we had imagined, andwe arrived at our boarding-house in Old Compton Street agreeably stimulated bythe life and the overwhelming size of the great city. Although at the age oftwelve I had made what I supposed to be a translation of a monologue fromShakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, I found my knowledge of English quiteinadequate when it came to conversing with the landlady of the King’s Arms. Butthe good dame’s social condition as a sea-captain’s widow led her to think shecould talk French to me, and her attempts made me wonder which of us knew leastof that language. And then a most disturbing incident occurred—we missedRobber, who must have run away at the door instead of following us into thehouse. Our distress at having lost our good dog after having brought him allthe way there with such difficulty occupied us exclusively during the first twohours we spent in this new home on land. We kept constant watch at the windowuntil, of a sudden, we joyfully recognised Robber strolling unconcernedlytowards the house from a side street. Afterwards we learned that our truant hadwandered as far as Oxford Street in search of adventures, and I have alwaysconsidered his amazing return to a house which he had not even entered as astrong proof of the absolute certainty of the animal’s instincts in the matterof memory.
We now had time to realise the tiresome after-effects of the voyage. Thecontinuous swaying of the floor and our clumsy efforts to keep from falling wefound fairly entertaining; but when we came to take our well-earned rest in thehuge English double bed, and found that that too rocked up and down, it becamequite unbearable. Every time we closed our eyes we sank into frightful abysses,and, springing up again, cried out for help. It seemed as if that terriblevoyage would go on to the end of our lives. Added to this we felt miserablysick; for, after the atrocious food on board, we had been only too ready topartake, with less discretion than relish, of tastier fare.
We were so exhausted by all these trials that we forgot to consider what was,after all, the vital question—the probable result in hard cash. Indeed, themarvels of the great city proved so fascinating, that we started off in a cab,for all the world as if we were on a pleasure trip, to follow up a plan I hadsketched on my map of London. In our wonder and delight at what we saw, wequite forgot all we had gone through. Costly as it proved, I considered ourweek’s stay justified in view of Minna’s need of rest in the first place, andsecondly, the excellent opportunity it afforded me of making acquaintances inthe musical world. During my last visit to Dresden I had sent Rule Britannia,the overture composed at Königsberg, to Sir John Smart, president of thePhilharmonic Society. It is true he had never acknowledged it, but I felt itthe more incumbent on me to bring him to task about it. I therefore spent somedays trying to find out where he lived, wondering meanwhile in which language Ishould have to make myself understood, but as the result of my inquiries Idiscovered that Smart was not in London at all. I next persuaded myself that itwould be a good thing to look up Bulwer Lytton, and to come to an understandingabout the operatic performance of his novel, Rienzi, which I had dramatised.Having been told, on the continent, that Bulwer was a member of Parliament, Iwent to the House, after a few days, to inquire on the spot. My total ignoranceof the English language stood me in good stead here, and I was treated withunexpected consideration; for, as none of the lower officials in that vastbuilding could make out what I wanted, I was sent, step by step, to one highdignitary after the other, until at last I was introduced to adistinguished-looking man, who came out of a large hall as we passed, as anentirely unintelligible individual. (Minna was with me all the time; onlyRobber. had been left behind at the King’s Arms.) He asked me very civilly whatI wanted, in French, and seemed favourably impressed when I inquired for thecelebrated author. He was obliged to tell me, however, that he was not inLondon. I went on to ask whether I could not be admitted to a debate, but wastold that, in consequence of the old Houses of Parliament having been burntdown, they were using temporary premises where the space was so limited thatonly a few favoured visitors could procure cards of admittance. But on mypressing more urgently he relented, and shortly after opened a door leadingdirect into the strangers’ seats in the House of Lords. It seemed reasonable toconclude from this that our friend was a lord in person. I was immenselyinterested to see and hear the Premier, Lord Melbourne, and Brougham (whoseemed to me to take a very active part in the proceedings, prompting Melbourneseveral times, as I thought), and the Duke of Wellington, who looked socomfortable in his grey beaver hat, with his hands diving deep into histrousers pockets, and who made his speech in so conversational a tone that Ilost my feeling of excessive awe. He had a curious way, too, of accenting hispoints of special emphasis by shaking his whole body, I was also muchinterested in Lord Lyndhurst, Brougham’s particular enemy, and was amazed tosee Brougham go across several times to sit down coolly beside him, apparentlywith a view to prompting even his opponent. The matter in hand was, as Ilearned afterwards from the papers, the discussion of measures to be takenagainst the Portuguese Government to ensure the passing of the Anti-SlaveryBill. The Bishop of London, who was one of the speakers on this occasion, wasthe only one of these gentlemen whose voice and manner seemed to me stiff orunnatural, but possibly I was prejudiced by my dislike of parsons generally.
After this pleasing adventure I imagined I had exhausted the attractions ofLondon for the present, for although I could not gain admittance to the LowerHouse, my untiring friend, whom I came across again as I went out, showed methe room where the Commons sat, explained as much as was necessary, and gave mea sight of the Speaker’s woolsack, and of his mace lying hidden under thetable. He also gave me such careful details of various things that I felt Iknew all there was to know about the capital of Great Britain. I had not thesmallest intention of going to the Italian opera, possibly because I imaginedthe prices to be too ruinous. We thoroughly explored all the principal streets,often tiring ourselves out; we shuddered through a ghastly London Sunday, andwound up with a train trip (our very first) to Gravesend Park, in the companyof the captain of the Thetis. On the 20th of August we crossed over to Franceby steamer, arriving the same evening at Boulogne-sur-mer, where we took leaveof the sea with the fervent desire never to go on it again.
We were both of us secretly convinced that we should meet with disappointmentsin Paris, and it was partly on that account that we decided to spend a fewweeks at or near Boulogne. It was, in any case, too early in the season to findthe various important people whom I proposed to see, in town; on the otherhand, it seemed to me a most fortunate circumstance that Meyerbeer shouldhappen to be at Boulogne. Also, I had the instrumentation of part of the secondact of Rienzi to finish, and was bent on having at least half of the work readyto show on my arrival in the costly French capital. We therefore set out tofind less expensive accommodation in the country round Boulogne. Beginning withthe immediate neighbourhood, our search ended in our taking two practicallyunfurnished rooms in the detached house of a rural wine merchant’s, situated onthe main road to Paris at half an hour’s distance from Boulogne. We nextprovided scanty but adequate furniture, and in bringing our wits to bear uponthis matter Minna particularly distinguished herself. Besides a bed and twochairs, we dug up a table, which, after I had cleared away my Rienzi papers,served for our meals, which we had to prepare at our own fireside.
While we were here I made my first call on Meyerbeer. I had often read in thepapers of his proverbial amiability, and bore him no ill-will for not replyingto my letter. My favourable opinion was soon to be confirmed, however, by hiskind reception of me. The impression he made was good in every respect,particularly as regards his appearance. The years had not yet given hisfeatures the flabby look which sooner or later mars most Jewish faces, and thefine formation of his brow round about the eyes gave him an expression ofcountenance that inspired confidence. He did not seem in the least inclined todepreciate my intention of trying my luck in Paris as a composer of opera; heallowed me to read him my libretto for Rienzi, and really listened up to theend of the third act. He kept the two acts that were complete, saying that hewished to look them over, and assured me, when I again called on him, of hiswhole-hearted interest in my work. Be this as it may, it annoyed me somewhatthat he should again and again fall back on praising my minute handwriting, anaccomplishment he considered especially Saxonian. He promised to give meletters of recommendation to Duponchel, the manager of the Opera House, and toHabeneck, the conductor. I now felt that I had good cause to extol my goodfortune which, after many vicissitudes, had sent me precisely to thisparticular spot in France. What better fortune could have befallen me than tosecure, in so short a time, the sympathetic interest of the most famouscomposer of French opera! Meyerbeer took me to see Moscheles, who was then inBoulogne, and also Fraulein Blahedka, a celebrated virtuoso whose name I hadknown for many years. I spent a few informal musical evenings at both houses,and thus came into close touch with musical celebrities, an experience quitenew to me.
I had written to my future brother-in-law, Avernarius, in Paris, to ask him tofind us suitable accommodations, and we started on our journey thither on 16thSeptember in the diligence, my efforts to hoist Robber on to the top beingattended by the usual difficulties.
My first impression of Paris proved disappointing in view of the greatexpectations I had cherished of that city; after London it seemed to me narrowand confined. I had imagined the famous boulevards to be much vaster, forinstance, and was really annoyed, when the huge coach put us down in the Rue dela Juissienne, to think that I should first set foot on Parisian soil in such awretched little alley. Neither did the Rue Richelieu, where my brother-in-lawhad his book-shop, seem imposing after the streets in the west end of London.As for the chambre garnie, which had been engaged for me in the Rue de laTonnellerie, one of the narrow side-streets which link the Rue St. Honore withthe Marche des Innocents, I felt positively degraded at having to take up myabode there. I needed all the consolation that could be derived from aninscription, placed under a bust of Moliere, which read: maison ou naquitMoliere, to raise my courage after the mean impression the house had first madeupon me. The room, which had been prepared for us on the fourth floor, wassmall but cheerful, decently furnished, and inexpensive. From the windows wecould see the frightful bustle in the market below, which became more and morealarming as we watched it, and I wondered what we were doing in such a quarter.
Shortly after this, Avenarius had to go to Leipzig to bring home his bride, myyoungest sister Cecilia, after the wedding in that city. Before leaving, hegave me an introduction to his only musical acquaintance, a German holding anappointment in the music department of the Bibliotheque Royale, named E. G.Anders, who lost no time in looking us up in Moliere’s house. He was, as I soondiscovered, a man of very unusual character, and, little as he was able to helpme, he left an affecting and ineffaceable impression on my memory. He was abachelor in the fifties, whose reverses had driven him to the sad necessity ofearning a living in Paris entirely without assistance. He had fallen back onthe extraordinary bibliographical knowledge which, especially in reference tomusic, it had been his hobby to acquire in the days of his prosperity. His realname he never told me, wishing to guard the secret of that, as of hismisfortunes, until after his death. For the time being he told me only that hewas known as Anders, was of noble descent, and had held property on the Rhine,but that he had lost everything owing to the villainous betrayal of hisgullibility and good-nature. The only thing he had managed to save was his veryconsiderable library, the size of which I was able to estimate for myself. Itfilled every wall of his small dwelling. Even here in Paris he soon complainedof bitter enemies; for, in spite of having come furnished with an introductionto influential people, he still held the inferior position of an employee inthe library. In spite of his long service there and his great learning, he hadto see really ignorant men promoted over his head. I discovered afterwards thatthe real reason lay in his unbusinesslike methods, and the effeminacyconsequent on the delicate way in which he had been nurtured in early life,which made him incapable of developing the energy necessary for his work. On amiserable pittance of fifteen hundred francs a year, he led a weary existence,full of anxiety. With nothing in view but a lonely old age, and the probabilityof dying in a hospital, it seemed as if our society put new life into him; forthough we were poverty-stricken, we looked forward boldly and hopefully to thefuture. My vivacity and invincible energy filled him with hopes of my success,and from this time forward he took a most tender and unselfish part infurthering my interests. Although he was a contributor to the Gazette Musicale,edited by Moritz Schlesinger, he had never succeeded in making his influencefelt there in the slightest degree. He had none of the versatility of ajournalist, and the editors entrusted him with little besides the preparationof bibliographical notes. Oddly enough, it was with this unworldly and leastresourceful of men that I had to discuss my plan for the conquest of Paris,that is, of musical Paris, which is made up of all the most questionablecharacters imaginable. The result was practically always the same; we merelyencouraged each other in the hope that some unforeseen stroke of luck wouldhelp my cause.
To assist us in these discussions Anders called in his friend and housemateLehrs, a philologist, my acquaintance with whom was soon to develop into one ofthe most beautiful friendships of my life. Lehrs was the younger brother of afamous scholar at Königsberg. He had left there to come to Paris some yearsbefore, with the object of gaining an independent position by his philologicalwork. This he preferred, in spite of the attendant difficulties, to a post asteacher with a salary which only in Germany could be considered sufficient fora scholar’s wants. He soon obtained work from Didot, the bookseller, asassistant editor of a large edition of Greek classics, but the editor traded onhis poverty, and was much more concerned about the success of his enterprisethan about the condition of his poor collaborator. Lehrs had thereforeperpetually to struggle against poverty, but he preserved an even temper, andshowed himself in every way a model of disinterestedness and self-sacrifice. Atfirst he looked upon me only as a man in need of advice, and incidentally afellow-sufferer in Paris; for he had no knowledge of music, and had noparticular interest in it. We soon became so intimate that I had him droppingin nearly every evening with Anders, Lehrs being extremely useful to hisfriend, whose unsteadiness in walking obliged him to use an umbrella and awalking-stick as crutches. He was also nervous in crossing crowdedthorough-fares, and particularly so at night; while he always liked to makeLehrs cross my threshold in front of him to distract the attention of Robber,of whom he stood in obvious terror. Our usually good-natured dog becamepositively suspicious of this visitor, and soon adopted towards him the sameaggressive attitude which he had shown to the sailor Koske on board the Thetis.The two men lived at an hotel garni in Rue de Seine. They complained greatly oftheir landlady, who appropriated so much of their income that they wereentirely in her power. Anders had for years been trying to assert hisindependence by leaving her, without being able to carry out his plan. We soonthrew off mutually every shred of disguise as to the present state of ourfinances, so that, although the two house-holds were actually separated, ourcommon troubles gave us all the intimacy of one united family.
The various ways by which I might obtain recognition in Paris formed the chieftopic of our discussions at that time. Our hopes were at first centred onMeyerbeer’s promised letters of introduction. Duponchel, the director of theOpera, did actually see me at his office, where, fixing a monocle in his righteye, he read through Meyerbeer’s letter without betraying the least emotion,having no doubt opened similar communications from the composer many timesbefore. I went away, and never heard another word from him. The elderlyconductor, Habeneck, on the other hand, took an interest in my work that wasnot merely polite, and acceded to my request to have something of mine playedat one of the orchestral practises at the Conservatoire as soon as he shouldhave leisure. I had, unfortunately, no short instrumental piece that seemedsuitable except my queer Columbus Overture, which I considered the mosteffective of all that had emanated from my pen. It had been received with greatapplause on the occasion of its performance in the theatre at Magdeburg, withthe assistance of the valiant trumpeters from the Prussian garrison. I gaveHabeneck the score and parts, and was able to report to our committee at homethat I had now one enterprise on foot.
I gave up the attempt to try and see Scribe on the mere ground of our havinghad some correspondence, for my friends had made it clear to me, in the lightof their own experience, that it was out of the question to expect thisexceptionally busy author to occupy himself seriously with a young and unknownmusician. Anders was able to introduce me to another acquaintance, however, acertain M. Dumersan. This grey-haired gentleman had written some hundredvaudeville pieces, and would have been glad to see one of them performed as anopera on a larger scale before his death. He had no idea of standing on hisdignity as an author, and was quite willing to undertake the translation of anexisting libretto into French verse. We therefore entrusted him with thewriting of my Liebesverbot, with a view to a performance at the Theatre de laRenaissance, as it was then called. (It was the third existing theatre forlyric drama, the performances being given in the new Salle Ventadour, which hadbeen rebuilt after its destruction by fire.) On the understanding that it wasto be a literal translation, he at once turned the three numbers of my opera,for which I hoped to secure a hearing, into neat French verse. Besides this, heasked me to compose a chorus for a vaudeville entitled La Descente de laCourtille, which was to be played at the Varietes during the carnival.
This was a second opening. My friends now strongly advised me to writesomething small in the way of songs, which I could offer to popular singers forconcert purposes. Both Lehrs and Anders produced words for these. Andersbrought a very innocent Dors, mon enfant, written by a young poet of hisacquaintance; this was the first thing I composed to a French text. It was sosuccessful that, when I had tried it over softly several times on the piano, mywife, who was in bed, called out to me that it was heavenly for sending one tosleep. I also set L’Attente from Hugo’s Orientales, and Ronsard’s song,Mignonne, to music. I have no reason to be ashamed of these small pieces, whichI published subsequently as a musical supplement to Europa (Lewald’spublication) in 1841.
I next stumbled on the idea of writing a grand bass aria with a chorus, forLablache to introduce into his part of Orovist in Bellini’s Norma. Lehrs had tohunt up an Italian political refugee to get the text out of him. This was done,and I produced an effective composition a la Bellini (which still exists amongmy manuscripts), and went off at once to offer it to Lablache.
The friendly Moor, who received me in the great singer’s anteroom, insistedupon admitting me straight into his master’s presence without announcing me. AsI had anticipated some difficulty in getting near such a celebrity, I hadwritten my request, as I thought this would be simpler than explainingverbally.
The black servant’s pleasant manner made me feel very uncomfortable; Ientrusted my score and letter to him to give to Lablache, without taking anynotice of his kindly astonishment at my refusal of his repeated invitation togo into his master’s room and have an interview, and I left the househurriedly, intending to call for my answer in a few days. When I came backLablache received me most kindly, and assured me that my aria was excellent,though it was impossible to introduce it into Bellini’s opera after the latterhad already been performed so very often. My relapse into the domain ofBellini’s style, of which I had been guilty through the writing of this aria,was therefore useless to me, and I soon became convinced of the fruitlessnessof my efforts in that direction. I saw that I should need personalintroductions to various singers in order to ensure the production of one of myother compositions.
When Meyerbeer at last arrived in Paris, therefore, I was delighted. He was notin the least astonished at the lack of success of his letters of introduction;on the contrary, he made use of this opportunity to impress upon me howdifficult it was to get on in Paris, and how necessary it was for me to lookout for less pretentious work. With this object he introduced me to MauriceSchlesinger, and leaving me at the mercy of that monstrous person, went back toGermany.
At first Schlesinger did not know what to do with me; the acquaintances I madethrough him (of whom the chief was the violinist Panofka) led to nothing, and Itherefore returned to my advisory board at home, through whose influence I hadrecently received an order to compose the music to the Two Grenadiers, byHeine, translated by a Parisian professor. I wrote this song for baritone, andwas very pleased with the result; on Ander’s advice I now tried to find singersfor my new compositions. Mme. Pauline Viardot, on whom I first called, wentthrough my songs with me. She was very amiable, and praised them, but did notsee why SHE should sing them. I went through the same experience with a Mme.Widmann, a grand contralto, who sang my Dors, mon enfant with great feeling;all the same she had no further use for my composition. A certain M. Dupont,third tenor at the grand opera, tried my setting of the Ronsard poem, butdeclared that the language in which it was written was no longer palatable tothe Paris public. M. Geraldy, a favourite concert singer and teacher, whoallowed me to call and see him frequently, told me that the Two Grenadiers wasimpossible, for the simple reason that the accompaniment at the end of thesong, which I had modelled upon the Marseillaise, could only be sung in thestreets of Paris to the accompaniment of cannons and gunshots. Habeneck was theonly person who fulfilled his promise to conduct my Columbus Overture at one ofthe rehearsals for the benefit of Anders and myself. As, however, there was noquestion of producing this work even at one of the celebrated Conservatoireconcerts, I saw clearly that the old gentleman was only moved by kindness and adesire to encourage me. It could not lead to anything further, and I myself wasconvinced that this extremely superficial work of my young days could only givethe orchestra a wrong impression of my talents. However, these rehearsals, tomy surprise, made such an unexpected impression on me in other ways that theyexercised a decisive influence in the crisis of my artistic development. Thiswas due to the fact that I listened repeatedly to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony,which, by dint of untiring practice, received such a marvellous interpretationat the hands of this celebrated orchestra, that the picture I had had of it inmy mind in the enthusiastic days of my youth now stood before me almosttangibly in brilliant colours, undimmed, as though it had never been effaced bythe Leipzig orchestra who had slaughtered it under Pohlenz’s baton. Whereformerly I had only seen mystic constellations and weird shapes withoutmeaning, I now found, flowing from innumerable sources, a stream of the mosttouching and heavenly melodies which delighted my heart.
The whole of that period of the deterioration of my musical tastes which dated,practically speaking, from those selfsame confusing ideas about Beethoven, andwhich had grown so much worse through my acquaintance with that dreadfultheatre—all these wrong views now sank down as if into an abyss of shame andremorse.
This inner change had been gradually prepared by many painful experiencesduring the last few years. I owed the recovery of my old vigour and spirits tothe deep impression the rendering of the Ninth Symphony had made on me whenperformed in a way I had never dreamed of. This important event in my life canonly be compared to the upheaval caused within me when, as a youth of sixteen,I saw Schroder-Devrient act in Fidelio.
The direct result of this was my intense longing to compose something thatwould give me a similar feeling of satisfaction, and this desire grew inproportion to my anxiety about my unfortunate position in Paris, which made mealmost despair of success.
In this mood I sketched an overture to Faust which, according to my originalscheme, was only to form the first part of a whole Faust Symphony, as I hadalready got the ‘Gretchen’ idea in my head for the second movement. This is thesame composition that I rewrote in several parts fifteen years later; I hadforgotten all about it, and I owed its reconstruction to the advice of Liszt,who gave me many valuable hints. This composition has been performed many timesunder the title of eine Faust-ouverture, and has met with great appreciation.At the time of which I am speaking, I hoped that the Conservatoire orchestrawould have been willing to give the work a hearing, but I was told they thoughtthey had done enough for me, and hoped to be rid of me for some time.
Having failed everywhere, I now turned to Meyerbeer for more introductions,especially to singers. I was very much surprised when, in consequence of myrequest, Meyerbeer introduced me to a certain M. Gouin, a post-office official,and Meyerbeer’s sole agent in Paris, whom he instructed to do his utmost forme. Meyerbeer specially wished me to know M. Antenor Joly, director of theTheatre de la Renaissance, the musical theatre already mentioned. M. Gouin,with almost suspicious levity, promised me to produce my opera Liebesverbot,which now only required translation. There was a question of having a fewnumbers of my opera sung to the committee of the theatre at a special audience.When I suggested that some of the singers of this very theatre should undertaketo sing three of the numbers which had been already translated by Dumersan, Iwas refused on the plea that all these artists were far too busy. But Gouin sawa way out of the difficulty; on the authority of Maître Meyerbeer, he won overto our cause several singers who were under an obligation to Meyerbeer: Mme.Dorus-Gras, a real primadonna of the Grand Opera, Mme. Widmann and M. Dupont(the two last-named had previously refused to help me) now promised to sing forme at this audience.
This much, then, did I achieve in six months. It was now nearly Easter of theyear 1840. Encouraged by Gouin’s negotiations, which seemed to spell hope, Imade up my mind to move from the obscure Quartier des Innocents to a part ofParis nearer to the musical centre; and in this I was encouraged by Lehrs’foolhardy advice.
What this change meant to me, my readers will learn when they hear under whatcircumstances we had dragged on our existence during our stay in Paris.
Although we were living in the cheapest possible way, dining at a very smallrestaurant for a franc a head, it was impossible to prevent the rest of ourmoney from melting away. Our friend Möller had given us to understand that wecould ask him if we were in need, as he would put aside for us the first moneythat came in from any successful business transaction. There was no alternativebut to apply to him for money; in the meantime we pawned all the trinkets wepossessed that were of any value. As I was too shy to make inquiries about apawnshop, I looked up the French equivalent in the dictionary in order to beable to recognise such a place when I saw it. In my little pocket dictionary Icould not find any other word than ‘Lombard.’ On looking at a map of Paris Ifound, situated in the middle of an inextricable maze of streets, a very smalllane called Rue des Lombards. Thither I wended my way, but my expedition wasfruitless. Often, on reading by the light of the transparent lanterns theinscription ‘Mont de Piété,’ I became very curious to know its meaning, and onconsulting my advisory board at home about this ‘Mount of Piety,’[9] I was told, to my great delight, that itwas precisely there that I should find salvation. To this ‘Mont de Piété’ wenow carried all we possessed in the way of silver, namely, our weddingpresents. After that followed my wife’s trinkets and the rest of her formertheatrical wardrobe, amongst which was a beautiful silver-embroidered bluedress with a court train, once the property of the Duchess of Dessau. Still weheard nothing from our friend Möller, and we were obliged to wait on from dayto day for the sorely needed help from Königsberg, and at last, one dark day,we pledged our wedding rings. When all hope of assistance seemed vain, I heardthat the pawn-tickets themselves were of some value, as they could be sold tobuyers, who thereby acquired the right to redeem the pawned articles. I had toresort even to this, and thus the blue court-dress, for instance, was lost forever. Möller never wrote again. When later on he called on me at the time of myconductorship in Dresden, he admitted that he had been embittered against meowing to humiliating and derogatory remarks we were said to have made about himafter we parted, and had resolved not to have anything further to do with us.We were certain of our innocence in the matter, and very grieved at having,through pure slander, lost the chance of such assistance in our great need.
[9]This is the correct translation of the words Berg der Frömmigkeit usedin the original.—Editor.
At the beginning of our pecuniary difficulties we sustained a loss which welooked upon as providential, in spite of the grief it caused us. This was ourbeautiful dog, which we had managed to bring across to Paris with endlessdifficulty. As he was a very valuable animal, and attracted much attention, hehad probably been stolen. In spite of the terrible state of the traffic inParis, he had always found his way home in the same clever manner in which hehad mastered the difficulties of the London streets. Quite at the beginning ofour stay in Paris he had often gone off by himself to the gardens of the PalaisRoyal, where he used to meet many of his friends, and had returned safe andsound after a brilliant exhibition of swimming and retrieving before anaudience of gutter children. At the Quai du Pont-neuf he generally begged us tolet him bathe; there he used to draw a large crowd of spectators round him, whowere so loud in their enthusiasm about the way in which he dived for andbrought to land various objects of clothing, tools, etc., that the policebegged us to put an end to the obstruction. One morning I let him out for alittle run as usual; he never returned, and in spite of our most strenuousefforts to recover him, no trace of him was to be found. This loss seemed tomany of our friends a piece of luck, for they could not understand how it waspossible for us to feed such a huge animal when we ourselves had not enough toeat. About this time, the second month of our stay in Paris, my sister Louisacame over from Leipzig to join her husband, Friedrich Brockhaus, in Paris,where he had been waiting for her for some time. They intended to go to Italytogether, and Louisa made use of this opportunity to buy all kinds of expensivethings in Paris. I did not expect them to feel any pity for us on account ofour foolish removal to Paris, and its attendant miseries, or that they shouldconsider themselves bound to help us in any way; but although we did not try toconceal our position, we derived no benefit from the visit of our richrelations. Minna was even kind enough to help my sister with her luxuriousshopping, and we were very anxious not to make them think we wanted to rousetheir pity. In return my sister introduced me to an extraordinary friend ofhers, who was destined to take a great interest in me. This was the youngpainter, Ernst Kietz, from Dresden; he was an exceptionally kind-hearted andunaffected young man, whose talent for portrait painting (in a sort of colouredpastel style) had made him such a favourite in his own town, that he had beeninduced by his financial successes to come to Paris for a time to finish hisart studies. He had now been working in Delaroche’s studio for about a year. Hehad a curious and almost childlike disposition, and his lack of all seriouseducation, combined with a certain weakness of character, had made him choose acareer in which he was destined, in spite of all his talent, to failhopelessly. I had every opportunity of recognising this, as I saw a great dealof him. At the time, however, the simple-hearted devotion and kindness of thisyoung man were very welcome both to myself and my wife, who often felt lonely,and his friendship was a real source of help in our darkest hours of adversity.He became almost a member of the family, and joined our home circle everynight, providing a strange contrast to nervous old Anders and the grave-facedLehrs. His good-nature and his quaint remarks soon made him indispensable tous; he amused us tremendously with his French, into which he would launch withthe greatest confidence, although he could not put together two consecutivesentences properly, in spite of having lived in Paris for twenty years. WithDelaroche he studied oil-painting, and had obviously considerable talent inthis direction, although it was the very rock on which he stranded. The mixingof the colours on his palette, and especially the cleaning of his brushes, tookup so much of his time that he rarely came to the actual painting. As the dayswere very short in midwinter, he never had time to do any work after he hadfinished washing his palette and brushes, and, as far as I can remember, henever completed a single portrait. Strangers to whom he had been introduced,and who had given him orders to paint their portraits, were obliged to leaveParis without seeing them even half done, and at last he even complainedbecause some of his sitters died before their portraits were completed. Hislandlord, to whom he was always in debt for rent, was the only creature whosucceeded in getting a portrait of his ugly person from the painter, and, asfar as I know, this is the only finished portrait in existence by Kietz. On theother hand, he was very clever at making little sketches of any subjectsuggested by our conversation during the evening, and in these he displayedboth originality and delicacy of execution. During the winter of that year hecompleted a good pencil portrait of me, which he touched up two yearsafterwards when he knew me more intimately, finishing it off as it now stands.It pleased him to sketch me in the attitude I often assumed during our eveningchats when I was in a cheerful mood. No evening ever passed during which I didnot succeed in shaking off the depression caused by my vain endeavours, and bythe many worries I had gone through during the day, and in regaining my naturalcheerfulness, and Kietz was anxious to represent me to the world as a man who,in spite of the hard times he had to face, had confidence in his success, androse smiling above the troubles of life. Before the end of the year 1839, myyoungest sister Cecilia also arrived in Paris with her husband, EdwardAvenarius. It was only natural that she should feel embarrassed at the idea ofmeeting us in Paris in our extremely straitened circumstances, especially asher husband was not very well off. Consequently, instead of calling on themfrequently, we preferred waiting until they came to see us, which, by the way,took them a long time. On the other hand, the renewal of our acquaintance withHeinrich Laube, who came over to Paris at the beginning of 1840 with his youngwife, Iduna (nee Budaus), was very cheering. She was the widow of a wealthyLeipzig doctor, and Laube had married her under very extraordinarycircumstances, since we last saw him in Berlin; they intended to enjoythemselves for a few months in Paris. During the long period of his detention,while awaiting his trial, this young lady had been so touched by hismisfortunes that without knowing much of him, she had shown great sympathy andinterest in his case. Laube’s sentence was pronounced soon after I left Berlin;it was unexpectedly light, consisting of only one year’s imprisonment in thetown gaol. He was allowed to undergo this term in the prison at Muskau inSilesia, where he had the advantage of being near his friend, Prince Puckler,who in his official capacity, and on account of his influence with the governorof the prison, was permitted to afford the prisoner even the consolation ofpersonal intercourse.
The young widow resolved to marry him at the beginning of his term ofimprisonment, so that she might be near him at Muskau with her lovingassistance. To see my old friend under such favourable conditions was in itselfa pleasure to me; I also experienced the liveliest satisfaction at findingthere was no change in his former sympathetic attitude. We met frequently; ourwives also became friends, and Laube was the first to approve in his kindlyhumorous way of our folly in moving to Paris.
In his house I made the acquaintance of Heinrich Heine, and both of them jokedgood-humouredly over my extraordinary position, making even me laugh. Laubefelt himself compelled to talk seriously to me about my expectations ofsucceeding in Paris, as he saw that I treated my situation, based on suchtrivial hopes, with a humour that charmed him even against his better judgment.He tried to think how he could help me without prejudicing my future. With thisobject he wanted me to make a more or less plausible sketch of my future plans,so that on his approaching visit to our native land he might procure some helpfor me. I happened just at that time to have come to an exceedingly promisingunderstanding with the management of the Theatre de la Renaissance. I thusseemed to have obtained a footing, and I thought it safe to assert, that if Iwere guaranteed the means of livelihood for six months, I could not fail withinthat period to accomplish something. Laube promised to make this provision, andkept his word. He induced one of his wealthy friends in Leipzig, and, followingthis example, my well-to-do relations, to provide me for six months with thenecessary resources, to be paid in monthly instalments through Avenarius.
We therefore decided, as I have said, to leave our furnished apartments andtake a flat for ourselves in the Rue du Helder. My prudent, careful wife hadsuffered greatly on account of the careless and uncertain manner in which I hadhitherto controlled our meagre resources, and in now undertaking theresponsibility, she explained that she understood how to keep house morecheaply than we could do by living in furnished rooms and restaurants. Successjustified the step; the serious part of the question lay in the fact that wehad to start housekeeping without any furniture of our own, and everythingnecessary for domestic purposes had to be procured, though we had not thewherewithal to get it. In this matter Lehrs, who was well versed in thepeculiarities of Parisian life, was able to advise us. In his opinion the onlycompensation for the experiences we had undergone hitherto would be a successequivalent to my daring. As I did not possess the resources to allow of longyears of patient waiting for success in Paris, I must either count onextraordinary luck or renounce all my hopes forthwith. The longed-for successmust come within a year, or I should be ruined. Therefore I must dare all, asbefitted my name, for in my case he was not inclined to derive ‘Wagner’[10] from Fuhrwerk. I was to pay myrent, twelve hundred francs, in quarterly instalments; for the furniture andfittings, he recommended me, through his landlady, to a carpenter who providedeverything that was necessary for what seemed to be a reasonable sum, also tobe paid by instalments, all of which appeared very simple. Lehrs maintainedthat I should do no good in Paris unless I showed the world that I hadconfidence in myself. My trial audience was impending; I felt sure of theTheatre de la Renaissance, and Dumersan was keenly anxious to make a completetranslation of my Liebesverbot into French. So we decided to run the risk. On15th April, to the astonishment of the concierge of the house in the Rue duHelder, we moved with an exceedingly small amount of luggage into ourcomfortable new apartments.
[10]‘Wagner’ in German means one who dares, also a Wagoner; and ‘Fuhrwerk’ means acarriage.—Editor.
The very first visit I received in the rooms I had taken with such high hopeswas from Anders, who came with the tidings that the Theatre de la Renaissancehad just gone bankrupt, and was closed. This news, which came on me like athunder-clap, seemed to portend more than an ordinary stroke of bad luck; itrevealed to me like a flash of lightning the absolute emptiness of myprospects. My friends openly expressed the opinion that Meyerbeer, in sendingme from the Grand Opera to this theatre, probably knew the whole of thecircumstances. I did not pursue the line of thought to which this suppositionmight lead, as I felt cause enough for bitterness when I wondered what I shoulddo with the rooms in which I was so nicely installed.
As my singers had now practised the portions of Liebesverbot intended for thetrial audience, I was anxious at least to have them performed before somepersons of influence. M. Edouard Monnaie, who had been appointed temporarydirector of the Grand Opera after Duponchel’s retirement, was the less disposedto refuse as the singers who were to take part belonged to the institution overwhich he presided; moreover, there was no obligation attached to his presenceat the audience. I also took the trouble to call on Scribe to invite him toattend, and he accepted with the kindest alacrity. At last my three pieces wereperformed before these two gentlemen in the green room of the Grand Opera, andI played the piano accompaniment. They pronounced the music charming, andScribe expressed his willingness to arrange the libretto for me as soon as themanagers of the opera had decided on accepting the piece; all that M. Monnaiehad to reply to this offer was that it was impossible for them to do so atpresent. I did not fail to realise that these were only polite expressions; butat all events I thought it very nice of them, and particularly condescending ofScribe to have got so far as to think me deserving of a little politeness.
But in my heart of hearts I felt really ashamed of having gone back againseriously to that superficial early work from which I had taken these threepieces. Of course I had only done this because I thought I should win successmore rapidly in Paris by adapting myself to its frivolous taste. My aversionfrom this kind of taste, which had been long growing, coincided with myabandonment of all hopes of success in Paris. I was placed in an exceedinglymelancholy situation by the fact that my circumstances had so shaped themselvesthat I dared not express this important change in my feelings to any one,especially to my poor wife. But if I continued to make the best of a badbargain, I had no longer any illusions as to the possibility of success inParis. Face to face with unheard-of misery, I shuddered at the smiling aspectwhich Paris presented in the bright sunshine of May. It was the beginning ofthe slack season for any sort of artistic enterprise in Paris, and from everydoor at which I knocked with feigned hope I was turned away with the wretchedlymonotonous phrase, Monsieur est a la campagne.
On our long walks, when we felt ourselves absolute strangers in the midst ofthe gay throng, I used to romance to my wife about the South American FreeStates, far away from all this sinister life, where opera and music wereunknown, and the foundations of a sensible livelihood could easily be securedby industry. I told Minna, who was quite in the dark as to my meaning, of abook I had just read, Zschokke’s Die Gründung von Maryland, in which I found avery seductive account of the sensation of relief experienced by the Europeansettlers after their former sufferings and persecutions. She, being of a morepractical turn of mind, used to point out to me the necessity of procuringmeans for our continued existence in Paris, for which she had thought out allsorts of economies.
I, for my part, was sketching out the plan of the poem of my FliegenderHolländer, which I kept steadily before me as a possible means of making adebut in Paris. I put together the material for a single act, influenced by theconsideration that I could in this way confine it to the simple dramaticdevelopments between the principal characters, without troubling about thetiresome operatic accessories. From a practical point of view, I thought Icould rely on a better prospect for the acceptance of my proposed work if itwere cast in the form of a one-act opera, such as was frequently given as acurtain raiser before a ballet at the Grand Opera. I wrote about it toMeyerbeer in Berlin, asking for his help. I also resumed the composition ofRienzi, to the completion of which I was now giving my constant attention.
In the meantime our position became more and more gloomy; I was soon compelledto draw in advance on the subsidies obtained by Laube, but in so doing Igradually alienated the sympathy of my brother-in-law Avenarius, to whom ourstay in Paris was incomprehensible.
One morning, when we had been anxiously consulting as to the possibility ofraising our first quarter’s rent, a carrier appeared with a parcel addressed tome from London; I thought it was an intervention of Providence, and broke openthe seal. At the same moment a receipt-book was thrust into my face forsignature, in which I at once saw that I had to pay seven francs for carriage.I recognised, moreover, that the parcel contained my overture Rule Britannia,returned to me from the London Philharmonic Society. In my fury I told thebearer that I would not take in the parcel, whereupon he remonstrated in theliveliest fashion, as I had already opened it. It was no use; I did not possessseven francs, and I told him he should have presented the bill for the carriagebefore I had opened the parcel. So I made him return the only copy of myoverture to Messrs. Laffitte and Gaillard’s firm, to do what they liked withit, and I never cared to inquire what became of that manuscript.
Suddenly Kietz devised a way out of these troubles. He had been commissioned byan old lady of Leipzig, called Fraulein Leplay, a rich and very miserly oldmaid, to find a cheap lodging in Paris for her and for his stepmother, withwhom she intended to travel. As our apartment, though not spacious, was largerthan we actually needed, and had very quickly become a troublesome burden tous, we did not hesitate for a moment to let the larger portion of it to her forthe time of her stay in Paris, which was to last about two months. In addition,my wife provided the guests with breakfast, as though they were in furnishedapartments, and took a great pride in looking at the few pence she earned inthis way. Although we found this amazing example of old-maidishness tryingenough, the arrangement we had made helped us in some degree to tide over theanxious time, and I was able, in spite of this disorganisation of our householdarrangements, to continue working in comparative peace at my Rienzi.
This became more difficult after Fraulein Leplay’s departure, when we let oneof our rooms to a German commercial traveller, who in his leisure hourszealously played the flute. His name was Brix; he was a modest, decent fellow,and had been recommended to us by Pecht the painter, whose acquaintance we hadrecently made. He had been introduced to us by Kietz, who studied with him inDelaroche’s studio. He was the very antithesis of Kietz in every way, andobviously endowed with less talent, yet he grappled with the task of acquiringthe art of oil-painting in the shortest possible time under difficultcircumstances with an industry and earnestness quite out of the common. He was,moreover, well educated, and eagerly assimilated information, and was verystraightforward, earnest, and trustworthy. Without attaining to the same degreeof intimacy with us as our three older friends, he was, nevertheless, one ofthe few who continued to stand by us in our troubles, and habitually spentnearly every evening in our company.
One day I received a fresh surprising proof of Laube’s continued solicitude onour behalf. The secretary of a certain Count Kuscelew called on us, and aftersome inquiry into our affairs, the state of which he had heard from Laube atKarlsbad, informed us in a brief and friendly way that his patron wished to beof use to us, and with that object in view desired to make my acquaintance. Infact, he proposed to engage a small light opera company in Paris, which was tofollow him to his Russian estates. He was therefore looking for a musicaldirector of sufficient experience to assist in recruiting the members in Paris.I gladly went to the hotel where the count was staying, and there found anelderly gentleman of frank and agreeable bearing, who willingly listened to mylittle French compositions. Being a shrewd reader of human nature, he saw at aglance that I was not the man for him, and though he showed me the most politeattention, he went no further into the opera scheme. But that very day he sentme, accompanied by a friendly note, ten golden napoleons, in payment for myservices. What these services were I did not know. I thereupon wrote to him,and asked for more precise details of his wishes, and begged him to commissiona composition, the fee for which I presumed he had sent in advance. As Ireceived no reply, I made more than one effort to approach him again, but invain. From other sources I afterwards learned that the only kind of opera CountKuscelew recognised was Adam’s. As for the operatic company to be engaged tosuit his taste, what he really wanted was more a small harem than a company ofartists.
So far I had not been able to arrange anything with the music publisherSchlesinger. It was impossible to persuade him to publish my little Frenchsongs. In order to do something, however, towards making myself known in thisdirection, I decided to have my Two Grenadiers engraved by him at my ownexpense. Kietz was to lithograph a magnificent title-page for it. Schlesingerended by charging me fifty francs for the cost of production. The story of thispublication is curious from beginning to end; the work bore Schlesinger’s name,and as I had defrayed all expenses, the proceeds were, of course, to be placedto my account. I had afterwards to take the publisher’s word for it that not asingle copy had been sold. Subsequently, when I had made a quick reputation formyself in Dresden through my Rienzi, Schott the publisher in Mainz, who dealtalmost exclusively in works translated from the French, thought it advisable tobring out a German edition of the Two Grenadiers. Below the text of the Frenchtranslation he had the German original by Heine printed; but as the French poemwas a very free paraphrase, in quite a different metre to the original, Heine’swords fitted my composition so badly that I was furious at the insult to mywork, and thought it necessary to protest against Schott’s publication as anentirely unauthorised reprint. Schott then threatened me with an action forlibel, as he said that, according to his agreement, his edition was not areprint (Nachdruck), but a reimpression (Abdruck). In order to be sparedfurther annoyance, I was induced to send him an apology in deference to thedistinction he had drawn, which I did not understand.
In 1848, when I made inquiries of Schlesinger’s successor in Paris (M. Brandus)as to the fate of my little work, I learned from him that a new edition hadbeen published, but he declined to entertain any question of rights on my part.Since I did not care to buy a copy with my own money, I have to this day had todo without my own property. To what extent, in later years, others profited bysimilar transactions relating to the publication of my works, will appear indue course.
For the moment the point was to compensate Schlesinger for the fifty francsagreed upon, and he proposed that I should do this by writing articles for hisGazette Musicale.
As I was not expert enough in the French language for literary purposes, myarticle had to be translated and half the fee had to go to the translator.However, I consoled myself by thinking I should still receive sixty francs persheet for the work. I was soon to learn, when I presented myself to the angrypublisher for payment, what was meant by a sheet. It was measured by anabominable iron instrument, on which the lines of the columns were marked offwith figures; this was applied to the article, and after careful subtraction ofthe spaces left for the title and signature, the lines were added up. Afterthis process had been gone through, it appeared that what I had taken for asheet was only half a sheet.
So far so good. I began to write articles for Schlesinger’s wonderful paper.The first was a long essay, De la musique allemande, in which I expressed withthe enthusiastic exaggeration characteristic of me at that time my appreciationof the sincerity and earnestness of German music. This article led my friendAnders to remark that the state of affairs in Germany must, indeed, be splendidif the conditions were really as I described. I enjoyed what was to me thesurprising satisfaction of seeing this article subsequently reproduced inItalian, in a Milan musical journal, where, to my amusement, I saw myselfdescribed as Dottissimo Musico Tedesco, a mistake which nowadays would beimpossible. My essay attracted favourable comment, and Schlesinger asked me towrite an article in praise of the arrangement made by the Russian General Lwoffof Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater, which I did as superficially as possible. On myown impulse I then wrote an essay in a still more amiable vein called Du metierdu virtuose et de l’independance de la composition.
In the meantime I was surprised in the middle of the summer by the arrival ofMeyerbeer, who happened to come to Paris for a fortnight. He was verysympathetic and obliging. When I told him my idea of writing a one-act opera asa curtain raiser, and asked him to give me an introduction to M. Leon Pillet,the recently appointed manager of the Grand Opera, he at once took me to seehim, and presented me to him. But alas, I had the unpleasant surprise oflearning from the serious conversation which took place between those twogentlemen as to my future, that Meyerbeer thought I had better decide tocompose an act for the ballet in collaboration with another musician. Of courseI could not entertain such an idea for a moment. I succeeded, however, inhanding over to M. Pillet my brief sketch of the subject of the FlyingDutchman..
Things had reached this point when Meyerbeer again left Paris, this time for alonger period of absence.
As I did not hear from M. Pillet for quite a long time, I now began to workdiligently at my composition of Rienzi, though, to my great distress, I hadoften to interrupt this task in order to undertake certain pot-boilinghack-work for Schlesinger.
As my contributions to the Gazette Musicale proved so unremunerative,Schlesinger one day ordered me to work out a method for the Cornet a pistons.When I told him about my embarrassment, in not knowing how to deal with thesubject, he replied by sending me five different published ‘Methods’ for theCornet a pistons, at that time the favourite amateur instrument among theyounger male population of Paris. I had merely to devise a new sixth method outof these five, as all Schlesinger wanted was to publish an edition of his own.I was racking my brains how to start, when Schlesinger, who had just obtained anew complete method, released me from the onerous task. I was, however, told towrite fourteen ‘Suites’ for the Cornet a pistons—that is to say, airs out ofoperas arranged for this instrument. To furnish me with material for this work,Schlesinger sent me no less than sixty complete operas arranged for the piano.I looked them through for suitable airs for my ‘Suites,’ marked the pages inthe volumes with paper strips, and arranged them into a curious-lookingstructure round my work-table, so that I might have the greatest possiblevariety of the melodious material within my reach. When I was in the midst ofthis work, however, to my great relief and to my poor wife’s consternation,Schlesinger told me that M. Schlitz, the first cornet player in Paris, who hadlooked my ‘Etudes’ through, preparatory to their being engraved, had declaredthat I knew absolutely nothing about the instrument, and had generally adoptedkeys that were too high, which Parisians would never be able to use. The partof the work I had already done was, however, accepted, Schlitz having agreed tocorrect it, but on condition that I should share my fee with him. The remainderof the work was then taken off my hands, and the sixty pianoforte arrangementswent back to the curious shop in the Rue Richelieu.
So my exchequer was again in a sorry plight. The distressing poverty of my homegrew more apparent every day, and yet I was now free to give a last touch toRienzi, and by the 19th of November I had completed this most voluminous of allmy operas. I had decided, some time previously, to offer the first productionof this work to the Court Theatre at Dresden, so that, in the event of itsbeing a success, I might thus resume my connection with Germany. I had decidedupon Dresden as I knew that there I should have in Tichatschek the mostsuitable tenor for the leading part. I also reckoned on my acquaintance withSchroder-Devrient, who had always been nice to me and who, though her effortswere ineffectual, had been at great pains, out of regard for my family, to getmy Feen introduced at the Court Theatre, Dresden. In the secretary of thetheatre, Hofrat Winkler (known as Theodor Hell), I also had an old friend of myfamily, besides which I had been introduced to the conductor, Reissiger, withwhom I and my friend Apel had spent a pleasant evening on the occasion of ourexcursion to Bohemia in earlier days. To all these people I now addressed mostrespectful and eloquent appeals, wrote out an official note to the director,Herr von Lüttichau, as well as a formal petition to the King of Saxony, and hadeverything ready to send off.
Meantime, I had not omitted to indicate the exact tempi in my opera by means ofa metronome. As I did not possess such a thing, I had to borrow one, and onemorning I went out to restore the instrument to its owner, carrying it under mythin overcoat. The day when this occurred was one of the strangest in my life,as it showed in a really horrible way the whole misery of my position at thattime. In addition to the fact that I did not know where to look for the fewfrancs wherewith Minna was to provide for our scanty household requirements,some of the bills which, in accordance with the custom in Paris in those days,I had signed for the purpose of fitting up our apartments, had fallen due.Hoping to get help from one source or another, I first tried to get those billsprolonged by the holders. As such documents pass through many hands, I had tocall on all the holders across the length and breadth of the city. That day Iwas to propitiate a cheese-monger who occupied a fifth-floor apartment in theCite. I also intended to ask for help from Heinrich, the brother of mybrother-in-law, Brockhaus, as he was then in Paris; and I was going to call atSchlesinger’s to raise the money to pay for the despatch of my score that dayby the usual mail service.
As I had also to deliver the metronome, I left Minna early in the morning aftera sad good-bye. She knew from experience that as I was on a money-raisingexpedition, she would not see me back till late at night. The streets wereenveloped in a dense fog, and the first thing I recognised on leaving the housewas my dog Robber, who had been stolen from us a year before. At first Ithought it was a ghost, but I called out to him sharply in a shrill voice. Theanimal seemed to recognise me, and approached me cautiously, but my suddenmovement towards him with outstretched arms seemed only to revive memories ofthe few chastisements I had foolishly inflicted on him during the latter partof our association, and this memory prevailed over all others. He drew timidlyaway from me and, as I followed him with some eagerness, he ran, only toaccelerate his speed when he found he was being pursued. I became more and moreconvinced that he had recognised me, because he always looked back anxiouslywhen he reached a corner; but seeing that I was hunting him like a maniac, hestarted off again each time with renewed energy. Thus I followed him through alabyrinth of streets, hardly distinguishable in the thick mist, until Ieventually lost sight of him altogether, never to see him again. It was nearthe church of St. Roch, and I, wet with perspiration and quite breathless, wasstill bearing the metronome. For a while I stood motionless, glaring into themist, and wondered what the ghostly reappearance of the companion of mytravelling adventures on this day might portend! The fact that he had fled fromhis old master with the terror of a wild beast filled my heart with a strangebitterness and seemed to me a horrible omen. Sadly shaken, I set out again,with trembling limbs, upon my weary errand.
Heinrich Brockhaus told me he could not help me, and I left him. I was sorelyashamed, but made a strong effort to conceal the painfulness of my situation.My other undertakings turned out equally hopeless, and after having been keptwaiting for hours at Schlesinger’s, listening to my employer’s very trivialconversations with his callers—conversations which he seemed purposely toprotract—I reappeared under the windows of my home long after dark, utterlyunsuccessful. I saw Minna looking anxiously from one of the windows. Halfexpecting my misfortune she had, in the meantime, succeeded in borrowing asmall sum of our lodger and boarder, Brix, the flute-player, whom we toleratedpatiently, though at some inconvenience to ourselves, as he was a good-naturedfellow. So she was able to offer me at least a comfortable meal. Further helpwas to come to me subsequently, though at the cost of great sacrifices on mypart, owing to the success of one of Donizetti’s operas, La Favorita, a verypoor work of the Italian maestro’s, but welcomed with great enthusiasm by theParisian public, already so much degenerated. This opera, the success of whichwas due mainly to two lively little songs, had been acquired by Schlesinger,who had lost heavily over Halevy’s last operas.
Taking advantage of my helpless situation, of which he was well aware, herushed into our rooms one morning, beaming all over with amusing good-humour,called for pen and ink, and began to work out a calculation of the enormousfees which he had arranged for me! He put down: ‘La Favorita, completearrangement for pianoforte, arrangement without words, for solo; ditto, forduet; complete arrangement for quartette; the same for two violins; ditto for aCornet a piston. Total fee, frcs. 1100. Immediate advance in cash, frcs. 500.’I could see at a glance what an enormous amount of trouble this work wouldinvolve, but I did not hesitate a moment to undertake it.
Curiously enough, when I brought home these five hundred francs in hard shiningfive-franc pieces, and piled them up on the table for our edification, mysister Cecilia Avenarius happened to drop in to see us. The sight of thisabundance of wealth seemed to produce a good effect on her, as she had hithertobeen rather chary of coming to see us; and after that we used to see rathermore of her, and were often invited to dine with them on Sundays. But I nolonger cared for any amusements. I was so deeply impressed by my pastexperiences that I made up my mind to work through this humiliating, albeitprofitable task, with untiring energy, as though it were a penance imposed onme for the expiation of my bygone sins. To save fuel, we limited ourselves tothe use of the bedroom, making it serve as a drawing-room, dining-room, andstudy, as well as dormitory. It was only a step from my bed to my work-table;to be seated at the dining-table, all I had to do was to turn my chair round,and I left my seat altogether only late at night when I wanted to go to bedagain. Every fourth day I allowed myself a short constitutional. Thispenitential process lasted almost all through the winter, and sowed the seedsof those gastric disorders which were to be more or less of a trouble to me forthe rest of my life.
In return for the minute and almost interminable work of correcting the scoreof Donizetti’s opera, I managed to get three hundred francs from Schlesinger,as he could not get any one else to do it. Besides this, I had to find the timeto copy out the orchestra parts of my overture to Faust, which I was stillhoping to hear at the Conservatoire; and by the way of counteracting thedepression produced by this humiliating occupation, I wrote a short story, EinePilgerfahrt zu Beethoven (A Pilgrimage to Beethoven), which appeared in theGazette Musicale, under the title Une Visite a Beethoven. Schlesinger told mecandidly that this little work had created quite a sensation, and had beenreceived with very marked approval; and, indeed, it was actually reproduced,either complete or in parts, in a good many fireside journals.
He persuaded me to write some more of the same kind; and in a sequel entitledDas Ende eines Musikers in Paris (Un Musicien etranger a Paris) I avengedmyself for all the misfortunes I had had to endure. Schlesinger was not quiteso pleased with this as with my first effort, but it received touching signs ofapproval from his poor assistant; while Heinrich Heine praised it by sayingthat ‘Hoffmann would have been incapable of writing such a thing.’ Even Berliozwas touched by it, and spoke of the story very favourably in one of hisarticles in the Journal des Debats. He also gave me signs of his sympathy,though only during a conversation, after the appearance of another of mymusical articles entitled Ueber die Ouverture (Concerning Overtures), mainlybecause I had illustrated my principle by pointing to Gluck’s overture toIphigenia in Aulis as a model for compositions of this class.
Encouraged by these signs of sympathy, I felt anxious to become more intimatelyacquainted with Berlioz. I had been introduced to him some time previously atSchlesinger’s office, where we used to meet occasionally. I had presented himwith a copy of my Two Grenadiers, but could, however, never learn any more fromhim concerning what he really thought of it than the fact that as he could onlystrum a little on the guitar, he was unable to play the music of my compositionto himself on the piano. During the previous winter I had often heard his grandinstrumental pieces played under his own direction, and had been mostfavourably impressed by them. During that winter (1839-40) he conducted threeperformances of his new symphony, Romeo and Juliet, at one of which I waspresent.
All this, to be sure, was quite a new world to me, and I was desirous ofgaining some unprejudiced knowledge of it. At first the grandeur and masterlyexecution of the orchestral part almost overwhelmed me. It was beyond anythingI could have conceived. The fantastic daring, the sharp precision with whichthe boldest combinations—almost tangible in their clearness—impressed me, droveback my own ideas of the poetry of music with brutal violence into the verydepths of my soul. I was simply all ears for things of which till then I hadnever dreamt, and which I felt I must try to realise. True, I found a greatdeal that was empty and shallow in his Romeo and Juliet, a work that lost muchby its length and form of combination; and this was the more painful to meseeing that, on the other hand, I felt overpowered by many really bewitchingpassages which quite overcame any objections on my part.
During the same winter Berlioz produced his Sinfonie Fantastique and his Harald(‘Harold en Italie’). I was also much impressed by these works; the musicalgenre-pictures woven into the first-named symphony were particularly pleasing,while Harald delighted me in almost every respect..
It was, however, the latest work of this wonderful master, his Trauer-Symphoniefur die Opfer der Juli-Revolution (Grande Symphonie Funebre et Triomphale),most skilfully composed for massed military bands during the summer of 1840 forthe anniversary of the obsequies of the July heroes, and conducted by him underthe column of the Place de la Bastille, which had at last thoroughly convincedme of the greatness and enterprise of this incomparable artist. But whileadmiring this genius, absolutely unique in his methods, I could never quiteshake off a certain peculiar feeling of anxiety. His works left me with asensation as of something strange, something with which I felt I should neverbe able to be familiar, and I was often puzzled at the strange fact that,though ravished by his compositions, I was at the same time repelled and evenwearied by them. It was only much later that I succeeded in clearly graspingand solving this problem, which for years exercised such a painful spell overme.
It is a fact that at that time I felt almost like a little school-boy by theside of Berlioz. Consequently I was really embarrassed when Schlesinger,determined to make good use of the success of my short story, told me he wasanxious to produce some of my orchestral compositions at a concert arranged bythe editor of the Gazette Musicale. I realised that none of my available workswould in any way be suitable for such an occasion. I was not quite confident asto my Faust Overture because of its zephyr-like ending, which I presumed couldonly be appreciated by an audience already familiar with my methods. When,moreover, I learned that I should have only a second-rate orchestra—theValentino from the Casino, Rue St. Honore—and, moreover, that there could beonly one rehearsal, my only alternative lay between declining altogether, ormaking another trial with my Columbus Overture, the work composed in my earlydays at Magdeburg. I adopted the latter course.
When I went to fetch the score of this composition from Ilabeneck, who had itstored among the archives of the Conservatoire, he warned me somewhat dryly,though not without kindness, of the danger of presenting this work to theParisian public, as, to use his own words, it was too ‘vague.’ One greatobjection was the difficulty of finding capable musicians for the six cornetsrequired, as the music for this instrument, so skilfully played in Germany,could hardly, if ever, be satisfactorily executed in Paris. Herr Schlitz, thecorrector of my ‘Suites’ for Cornet a piston, offered his assistance. I wascompelled to reduce my six cornets to four, and he told me that only two ofthese could be relied on.
As a matter of fact, the attempts made at the rehearsal to produce those verypassages on which the effect of my work chiefly depended were verydiscouraging. Not once were the soft high notes played but they were flat oraltogether wrong. In addition to this, as I was not going to be allowed toconduct the work myself, I had to rely upon a conductor who, as I was wellaware, had fully convinced himself that my composition was the most utterrubbish—an opinion that seemed to be shared by the whole orchestra. Berlioz,who was present at the rehearsal, remained silent throughout. He gave me noencouragement, though he did not dissuade me. He merely said afterwards, with aweary smile, ‘that it was very difficult to get on in Paris.’
On the night of the performance (4th February 1841) the audience, which waslargely composed of subscribers to the Gazette Musicale, and to whom,therefore, my literary successes were not unknown, seemed rather favourablydisposed towards me. I was told later on that my overture, however wearisome ithad been, would certainly have been applauded if those unfortunate cornetplayers, by continually failing to produce the effective passages, had notexcited the public almost to the point of hostility; for Parisians, for themost part, care only for the skilful parts of performances, as, for instance,for the faultless production of difficult tones. I was clearly conscious of mycomplete failure. After this misfortune Paris no longer existed for me, and allI had to do was to go back to my miserable bedroom and resume my work ofarranging Donizetti’s operas.
So great was my renunciation of the world that, like a penitent, I no longershaved, and to my wife’s annoyance, for the first and only time in my lifeallowed my beard to grow quite long. I tried to bear everything patiently, andthe only thing that threatened really to drive me to despair was a pianist inthe room adjoining ours who during the livelong day practised Liszt’s fantasyon Lucia di Lammermoor. I had to put a stop to this torture, so, to give him anidea of what he made us endure, one day I moved our own piano, which wasterribly out of tune, close up to the party wall. Then Brix with hispiccolo-flute played the piano-and-violin (or flute) arrangement of theFavorita Overture I had just completed, while I accompanied him on the piano.The effect on our neighbour, a young piano-teacher, must have been appalling.The concierge told me the next day that the poor fellow was leaving, and, afterall, I felt rather sorry.
The wife of our concierge had entered into a sort of arrangement with us. Atfirst we had occasionally availed ourselves of her services, especially in thekitchen, also for brushing clothes, cleaning boots, and so on; but even theslight outlay that this involved was eventually too heavy for us, and afterhaving dispensed with her services, Minna had to suffer the humiliation ofdoing the whole work of the household, even the most menial part of it,herself. As we did not like to mention this to Brix, Minna was obliged, notonly to do all the cooking and washing up, but even to clean our lodger’s bootsas well. What we felt most, however, was the thought of what the concierge andhis wife would think of us; but we were mistaken, for they only respected usthe more, though of course we could not avoid a little familiarity at times,Now and then, therefore, the man would have a chat with me on politics. Whenthe Quadruple Alliance against France had been concluded, and the situationunder Thiers’ ministry was regarded as very critical, my concierge tried toreassure me one day by saying: ‘Monsieur, il y a quatre hommes en Europe quis’appellent: le roi Louis Philippe, l’empereur d’Autriche, l’empereur deRussie, le roi de Prusse; eh bien, ces quatre sont des c…; et nous n’aurons pasla guerre.’
Of an evening I very seldom lacked entertainment; but the few faithful friendswho came to see me had to put up with my going on scribbling music till late inthe night. Once they prepared a touching surprise for me in the form of alittle party which they arranged for New Year’s Eve (1840). Lehrs arrived atdusk, rang the bell, and brought a leg of veal; Kietz brought some rum, sugar,and a lemon; Pecht supplied a goose; and Anders two bottles of the champagnewith which he had been presented by a musical instrument-maker in return for aflattering article he had written about his pianos. Bottles from that stockwere produced only on very great occasions. I soon threw the confoundedFavorita aside, therefore, and entered enthusiastically into the fun.
We all had to assist in the preparations, to light the fire in the salon, givea hand to my wife in the kitchen, and get what was wanted from the grocer. Thesupper developed into a dithyrambic orgy. When the champagne was drunk, and thepunch began to produce its effects, I delivered a fiery speech which soprovoked the hilarity of the company that it seemed as though it would neverend. I became so excited that I first mounted a chair, and then, by way ofheightening the effect, at last stood on the table, thence to preach themaddest gospel of the contempt of life together with a eulogy on the SouthAmerican Free States. My charmed listeners eventually broke into such fits ofsobs and laughter, and were so overcome, that we had to give them all shelterfor the night—their condition making it impossible for them to reach their ownhomes in safety. On New Year’s Day (1841) I was again busy with my Favorita.
I remember another similar though far less boisterous feast, on the occasion ofa visit paid us by the famous violinist Vieux-temps, an old schoolfellow ofKietz’s. We had the great pleasure of hearing the young virtuoso, who was thengreatly feted in Paris, play to us charmingly for a whole evening—a performancewhich lent my little salon an unusual touch of ‘fashion.’ Kietz rewarded himfor his kindness by carrying him on his shoulders to his hotel close by.
We were hard hit in the early part of this year by a mistake I made owing to myignorance of Paris customs. It seemed to us quite a matter of course that weshould wait until the proper quarter-day to give notice to our landlady. So Icalled on the proprietress of the house, a rich young widow living in one ofher own houses in the Marias quarter. She received me, but seemed muchembarrassed, and said she would speak to her agent about the matter, andeventually referred me to him. The next day I was informed by letter that mynotice would have been valid had it been given two days earlier. By thisomission I had rendered myself liable, according to the agreement, for anotheryear’s rent. Horrified by this news, I went to see the agent himself, and afterhaving been kept waiting for a long time—as a matter of fact they would not letme in at all—I found an elderly gentleman, apparently crippled by some verypainful malady, lying motionless before me. I frankly told him my position, andbegged him most earnestly to release me from my agreement, but I was merelytold that the fault was mine, and not his, that I had given notice a day toolate, and consequently that I must find the rent for the next year. Myconcierge, to whom, with some emotion, I related the story of this occurrence,tried to soothe me by saying: ‘J’aurais pu vous dire cela, car voyez, monsieur,cet homme ne vaut pas l’eau qu’il boit.’
This entirely unforeseen misfortune destroyed our last hopes of getting out ofour disastrous position. We consoled ourselves for awhile with the hope offinding another lodger, but the fates were once more against us. Easter came,the new term began, and our prospects were as hopeless as ever. At last ourconcierge recommended us to a family who were willing to take the whole of ourapartment, furniture included, off our hands for a few months. We gladlyaccepted this offer; for, at any rate, it ensured the payment of the rent forthe ensuing quarter. We thought if only we could get away from this unfortunateplace we should find some way of getting rid of it altogether. We thereforedecided to find a cheap summer residence for ourselves in the outskirts ofParis.
Meudon had been mentioned to us as an inexpensive summer resort, and weselected an apartment in the avenue which joins Meudon to the neighbouringvillage of Bellevue. We left full authority with our concierge as to our roomsin Rue du Helder, and settled down in our new temporary abode as well as wecould. Old Brix, the good-natured flutist, had to stay with us again, for,owing to the fact that his usual receipts had been delayed, he would have beenin great straits had we refused to give him shelter. The removal of our scantypossessions took place on the 29th of April, and was, after all, no more than aflight from the impossible into the unknown, for how we were going to liveduring the following summer we had not the faintest idea. Schlesinger had nowork for me, and no other sources were available.
The only help we could hope for seemed to lie in journalistic work which,though rather unremunerative, had indeed given me the opportunity of making alittle success. During the previous winter I had written a long article onWeber’s Freischutz for the Gazette Musicale. This was intended to prepare theway for the forthcoming first performance of this opera, after recitatives fromthe pen of Berlioz had been added to it. The latter was apparently far frompleased at my article. In the article I could not help referring to Berlioz’sabsurd idea of polishing up this old-fashioned musical work by addingingredients that spoiled its original characteristics, merely in order to giveit an appearance suited to the luxurious repertoire of Opera House. The factthat the result fully justified my forecasts did not in the least tend todiminish the ill-feeling I had roused among all those concerned in theproduction; but I had the satisfaction of hearing that the famous George Sandhad noticed my article. She commenced the introduction to a legendary story ofFrench provincial life by repudiating certain doubts as to the ability of theFrench people to understand the mystic, fabulous element which, as I had shown,was displayed in such a masterly manner in Freischutz, and she pointed to myarticle as clearly explaining the characteristics of that opera.
Another journalistic opportunity arose out of my endeavours to secure theacceptance of my Rienzi by the Court Theatre at Dresden. Herr Winkler, thesecretary of that theatre, whom I have already mentioned, regularly reportedprogress; but as editor of the Abendzeitung, a paper then rather on the wane,he seized the opportunity presented by our negotiations in order to ask me tosend him frequent and gratuitous contributions. The consequence was, thatwhenever I wanted to know anything concerning the fate of my opera, I had tooblige him by enclosing an article for his paper. Now, as these negotiationswith the Court Theatre lasted a very long time, and involved a large number ofcontributions from me, I often got into the most extraordinary fixes simplyowing to the fact that I was now once more a prisoner in my room, and had beenso for some time, and therefore knew nothing of what was going on in Paris.
I had serious reasons for thus withdrawing from the artistic and social life ofParis. My own painful experiences and my disgust at all the mockery of thatkind of life, once so attractive to me and yet so alien to my education, hadquickly driven me away from everything connected with it. It is true that theproduction of the Huguenots, for instance, which I then heard for the firsttime, dazzled me very much indeed. Its beautiful orchestral execution, and theextremely careful and effective mise en scene, gave me a grand idea of thegreat possibilities of such perfect and definite artistic means. But, strangeto say, I never felt inclined to hear the same opera again. I soon became tiredof the extravagant execution of the vocalists, and I often amused my friendsexceedingly by imitating the latest Parisian methods and the vulgarexaggerations with which the performances teemed. Those composers, moreover,who aimed at achieving success by adopting the style which was then in vogue,could not help, either, incurring my sarcastic criticism. The last shred ofesteem which I still tried to retain for the ‘first lyrical theatre in theworld’ was at last rudely destroyed when I saw how such an empty, altogetherun-French work as Donizetti’s Favorita could secure so long and important a runat this theatre.
During the whole time of my stay in Paris I do not think I went to the operamore than four times. The cold productions at the Opera Comique, and thedegenerate quality of the music produced there, had repelled me from the start;and the same lack of enthusiasm displayed by the singers also drove me fromItalian opera. The names, often very famous ones, of these artists who sang thesame four operas for years could not compensate me for the complete absence ofsentiment which characterised their performance, so unlike that ofSchroder-Devrient, which I so thoroughly enjoyed. I clearly saw that everythingwas on the down grade, and yet I cherished no hope or desire to see this stateof decline superseded by a period of newer and fresher life. I preferred thesmall theatres, where French talent was shown in its true light; and yet, asthe result of my own longings, I was too intent upon finding points ofrelationship in them which would excite my sympathy, for it to be possible forme to realise those peculiar excellences in them which did not happen tointerest me at all. Besides, from the very beginning my own troubles had provedso trying, and the consciousness of the failure of my Paris schemes had becomeso cruelly apparent, that, either out of indifference or annoyance, I declinedall invitations to the theatres. Again and again, much to Minna’s regret, Ireturned tickets for performances in which Rachel was to appear at the TheatreFrancais, and, in fact, saw that famous theatre only once, when, some timelater, I had to go there on business for my Dresden patron, who wanted somemore articles.
I adopted the most shameful means for filling the columns of the Abendzeitung;I just strung together whatever I happened to hear in the evening from Andersand Lehrs. But as they had no very exciting adventures either, they simply toldme all they had picked up from papers and table-talk, and this I tried torender with as much piquancy as possible in accordance with the journalisticstyle created by Heine, which was all the rage at the time. My one fear waslest old Hofrath Winkler should some day discover the secret of my wideknowledge of Paris. Among other things which I sent to his declining paper wasa long account of the production of Freischutz, He was particularly interestedin it, as he was the guardian of Weber’s children; and when in one of hisletters he assured me that he would not rest until he had got the definiteassurance that Rienzi had been accepted, I sent him, with my most profusethanks, the German manuscript of my ‘Beethoven’ story for his paper. The 1841edition of this gazette, then published by Arnold, but now no longer inexistence, contains the only print of this manuscript.
My occasional journalistic work was increased by a request from Lewald, theeditor of Europa, a literary monthly, asking me to write something for him.This man was the first who, from time to time, had mentioned my name to thepublic. As he used to publish musical supplements to his elegant and ratherwidely read magazine, I sent him two of my compositions from Königsberg forpublication. One of these was the music I had set to a melancholy poem byScheuerlin, entitled Der Knabe und der Tannenbaum (a work of which even to-dayI am still proud), and my beautiful Carnevals Lied out of Liebesverbot.
When I wanted to publish my little French compositions—Dors, mon enfant, andthe music to Hugo’s Attente and Ronsard’s Mignonne—Lewald not only sent me asmall fee—the first I had ever received for a composition—but commissioned somelong articles on my Paris impressions, which he begged me to write asentertainingly as possible. For his paper I wrote Pariser Amusements andPariser Fatalitaten, in which I gave vent in a humorous style, a la Heine, toall my disappointing experiences in Paris, and to all my contempt for the lifeled by its inhabitants. In the second I described the existence of a certainHermann Pfau, a strange good-for-nothing with whom, during my early Leipzigdays, I had become more intimately acquainted than was desirable. This man hadbeen wandering about Paris like a vagrant ever since the beginning of theprevious winter, and the meagre income I derived from arrangements of LaFavorita was often partly consumed in helping this completely broken-downfellow. So it was only fair that I should get back a few francs of the moneyspent on him in Paris by turning his adventures to some account in Lewald’snewspapers.
When I came into contact with Leon Pillet, the manager of the Opera, myliterary work took yet another direction. After numerous inquiries I eventuallydiscovered that he had taken a fancy to my draft of the Fliegender Holländer.He informed me of this, and asked me to sell him the plot, as he was undercontract to supply various composers with subjects for operettas. I tried toexplain to Pillet, both verbally and in writing, that he could hardly expectthat the plot would be properly treated except by myself, as this draft was infact my own idea, and that it had only come to his knowledge by my havingsubmitted it to him. But it was all to no purpose. He was obliged to admitquite frankly that the expectations I had cherished as to the result ofMeyerbeer’s recommendation to him would not come to anything. He said there wasno likelihood of my getting a commission for a composition, even of a lightopera, for the next seven years, as his already existing contracts extendedover that period. He asked me to be sensible, and to sell him the draft for asmall amount, so that he might have the music written by an author to beselected by him; and he added that if I still wished to try my luck at theOpera House, I had better see the ‘ballet-master,’ as he might want some musicfor a certain dance. Seeing that I contemptuously refused this proposal, heleft me to my own devices.
After endless and unsuccessful attempts at getting the matter settled, I atlast begged Edouard Monnaie, the Commissaire for the Royal Theatres, who wasnot only a friend of mine, but also editor of the Gazette Musicale, to act asmediator. He candidly confessed that he could not understand Pillet’s likingfor my plot, which he also was acquainted with; but as Pillet seemed to likeit—though he would probably lose it—he advised me to accept anything for it, asMonsieur Paul Faucher, a brother-in-law of Victor Hugo’s, had had an offer towork out the scheme for a similar libretto. This gentleman had, moreover,declared that there was nothing new in my plot, as the story of the VaisseauFantome was well known in France. I now saw how I stood, and, in a conversationwith Pillet, at which M. Faucher was present, I said I would come to anarrangement. My plot was generously estimated by Pillet at five hundred francs,and I received that amount from the cash office at the theatre, to besubsequently deducted from the author’s rights of the future poet.
Our summer residence in the Avenue de Meudon now assumed quite a definitecharacter. These five hundred francs had to help me to work out the words andmusic of my Fliegender Holländer for Germany, while I abandoned the FrenchVaisseau Fantome to its fate.
The state of my affairs, which was getting ever worse and worse, was slightlyimproved by the settlement of this matter. May and June had gone by, and duringthese months our troubles had grown steadily more serious. The lovely season ofthe year, the stimulating country air, and the sensation of freedom followingupon my deliverance from the wretchedly paid musical hack-work I had had to doall the winter, wrought their beneficial effects on me, and I was inspired towrite a small story entitled Ein glucklicher Abend. This was translated andpublished in French in the Gazette Musicale. Soon, however, our lack of fundsbegan to make itself felt with a severity that was very discouraging. We feltthis all the more keenly when my sister Cecilia and her husband, following ourexample, moved to a place quite close to us. Though not wealthy, they werefairly well-to-do. They came to see us every day, but we never thought itdesirable to let them know how terribly hard-up we were. One day it came to aclimax. Being absolutely without money, I started out, early one morning, towalk to Paris—for I had not even enough to pay the railway fare thither—and Iresolved to wander about the whole day, trudging from street to street, evenuntil late in the afternoon, in the hope of raising a five-franc piece; but myerrand proved absolutely vain, and I had to walk all the way back to Meudonagain, utterly penniless.
When I told Minna, who came to meet me, of my failure, she informed me indespair that Hermann Pfau, whom I have mentioned before, had also come to us inthe most pitiful plight, and actually in want of food, and that she had had togive him the last of the bread delivered by the baker that morning. The onlyhope that now remained was that, at any rate, my lodger Brix, who by a singularfate was now our companion in misfortune, would return with some success fromthe expedition to Paris which he also had made that morning. At last he, too,returned bathed in perspiration and exhausted, driven home by the craving for ameal, which he had been unable to procure in the town, as he could not find anyof the acquaintances he went to see. He begged most piteously for a piece ofbread. This climax to the situation at last inspired my wife with heroicresolution; for she felt it her duty to exert herself to appease at least thehunger of her menfolk. For the first time during her stay on French soil, shepersuaded the baker, the butcher, and wine-merchant, by plausible arguments, tosupply her with the necessaries of life without immediate cash payment, andMinna’s eyes beamed when, an hour later, she was able to put before us anexcellent meal, during which, as it happened, we were surprised by theAvenarius family, who were evidently relieved at finding us so well providedfor.
This extreme distress was relieved for a time, at the beginning of July, by thesale of my Vaisseau Fantome, which meant my final renunciation of my success inParis. As long as the five hundred francs lasted, I had an interval of respitefor carrying on my work. The first object on which I spent my money was on thehire of a piano, a thing of which I had been entirely deprived for months. Mychief intention in so doing was to revive my faith in myself as a musician, as,ever since the autumn of the previous year, I had exercised my talents as ajournalist and adapter of operas only. The libretto of the FliegenderHolländer, which I had hurriedly written during the recent period of distress,aroused considerable interest in Lehrs; he actually declared I would neverwrite anything better, and that the Fliegender Holländer would be my Don Juan;the only thing now was to find the music for it. As towards the end of theprevious winter I still entertained the hopes of being permitted to treat thissubject for the French Opera, I had already finished some of the words andmusic of the lyric parts, and had had the libretto translated by EmileDeschamps, intending it for a trial performance, which, alas, never took place.These parts were the ballad of Senta, the song of the Norwegian sailors, andthe ‘Spectre Song’ of the crew of the Fliegender Holländer. Since that time Ihad been so violently torn away from the music that, when the piano arrived atmy rustic retreat, I did not dare to touch it for a whole day. I was terriblyafraid lest I should discover that my inspiration had left me—when suddenly Iwas seized with the idea that I had forgotten to write out the song of thehelmsman in the first act, although, as a matter of fact, I could not rememberhaving composed it at all, as I had in reality only just written the lyrics. Isucceeded, and was pleased with the result. The same thing occurred with the‘Spinner’s Song,’ and when I had written out these two pieces, and, on furtherreflection, could not help admitting that they had really only taken shape inmy mind at that moment, I was quite delirious with joy at the discovery. Inseven weeks the whole of the music of the Fliegender Holländer, except theorchestration, was finished.
Thereupon followed a general revival in our circle; my exuberant good spiritsastonished every one, and my Avenarius relations in particular thought I mustreally be prospering, as I was such good company. I resumed my long walks inthe woods of Meudon, frequently even consenting to help Minna gather mushrooms,which, unfortunately, were for her the chief charm of our woodland retreat,though it filled our landlord with terror when he saw us returning with ourspoils, as he felt sure we should be poisoned if we ate them.
My destiny, which almost invariably led me into strange adventures, here oncemore introduced me to the most eccentric character to be found not only in theneighbourhood of Meudon, but even in Paris. This was M. Jadin, who, though hewas old enough to be able to say that he remembered seeing Madame de Pompadourat Versailles, was still vigorous beyond belief. It appeared to be his aim tokeep the world in a constant state of conjecture as to his real age; he madeeverything for himself with his own hands, including even a quantity of wigs ofevery shade, ranging in the most comic variety from youthful flaxen to the mostvenerable white, with intermediate shades of grey; these he wore alternately,as the fancy pleased him. He dabbled in everything, and I was pleased to findhe had a particular fancy for painting. The fact that all the walls of hisrooms were hung with the most childish caricatures of animal life, and that hehad even embellished the outside of his blinds with the most ridiculouspaintings, did not disconcert me in the least; on the contrary, it confirmed mybelief that he did not dabble in music, until, to my horror, I discovered thatthe strangely discordant sounds of a harp which kept reaching my ears from someunknown region were actually proceeding from his basement, where he had twoharpsichords of his own invention. He informed me that he had unfortunatelyneglected playing them for a long time, but that he now meant to beginpractising again assiduously in order to give me pleasure. I succeeded indissuading him from this, by assuring him that the doctor had forbidden me tolisten to the harp, as it was bad for my nerves. His figure as I saw him forthe last time remains impressed on my memory, like an apparition from the worldof Hoffmann’s fairy-tales. In the late autumn, when we were going back toParis, he asked us to take with us on our furniture van an enormous stove-pipe,of which he promised to relieve us shortly. One very cold day Jadin actuallypresented himself at our new abode in Paris, in a most preposterous costume ofhis own manufacture, consisting of very thin light-yellow trousers, a veryshort pale-green dress-coat with conspicuously long tails, projecting laceshirt frills and cuffs, a very fair wig, and a hat so small that it wasconstantly dropping off; he wore in addition a quantity of imitationjewellery—and all this on the undisguised assumption that he could not go aboutin fashionable Paris dressed as simply as in the country. He had come for thestove-pipe; we asked him where the men to carry it were; in reply he simplysmiled, and expressed his surprise at our helplessness; and thereupon took theenormous stove-pipe under his arm and absolutely refused to accept our helpwhen we offered to assist him in carrying it down the stairs, though thisoperation, notwithstanding his vaunted skill, occupied him quite half an hour.Every one in the house assembled to witness this removal, but he was by nomeans disconcerted, and managed to get the pipe through the street door, andthen tripped gracefully along the pavement with it, and disappeared from oursight.
For this short though eventful period, during which I was quite free to givefull scope to my inmost thoughts, I indulged in the consolation of purelyartistic creations. I can only say that, when it came to an end, I had madesuch progress that I could look forward with cheerful composure to the muchlonger period of trouble and distress I felt was in store for me. This, infact, duly set in, for I had only just completed the last scene when I foundthat my five hundred francs were coming to an end, and what was left was notsufficient to secure me the necessary peace and freedom from worry forcomposing the overture; I had to postpone this until my luck should takeanother favourable turn, and meanwhile I was forced to engage in the strugglefor a bare subsistence, making efforts of all kinds that left me neitherleisure nor peace of mind. The concierge from the Rue du Helder brought us thenews that the mysterious family to whom we had let our rooms had left, and thatwe were now once more responsible for the rent. I had to tell him that I wouldnot under any circumstances trouble about the rooms any more, and that thelandlord might recoup himself by the sale of the furniture we had left there.This was done at a very heavy loss, and the furniture, the greater part ofwhich was still unpaid for, was sacrificed to pay the rent of a dwelling whichwe no longer occupied.
Under the stress of the most terrible privations I still endeavoured to securesufficient leisure for working out the orchestration of the score of theFliegender Holländer. The rough autumn weather set in at an exceptionally earlydate; people were all leaving their country houses for Paris, and, among them,the Avenarius family. We, however, could not dream of doing so, for we couldnot even raise the funds for the journey. When M. Jadin expressed his surpriseat this, I pretended to be so pressed with work that I could not interrupt it,although I felt the cold that penetrated through the thin walls of the housevery severely.
So I waited for help from Ernst Castel, one of my old Königsberg friends, awell-to-do young merchant, who a short time before had called on us in Meudonand treated us to a luxurious repast in Paris, promising at the same time torelieve our necessities as soon as possible by an advance, which we knew was aneasy matter to him.
By way of cheering us up, Kietz came over to us one day, with a large portfolioand a pillow under his arm; he intended to amuse us by working at a largecaricature representing myself and my unfortunate adventures in Paris, and thepillow was to enable him, after his labours, to get some rest on our hardcouch, which he had noticed had no pillows at the head. Knowing that we had adifficulty in procuring fuel, he brought with him some bottles of rum, to‘warm’ us with punch during the cold evenings; under these circumstances I readHoffmann’s Tales to him and my wife.
At last I had news from Königsberg, but it only opened my eyes to the fact thatthe gay young dog had not meant his promise seriously. We now looked forwardalmost with despair to the chilly mists of approaching winter, but Kietz,declaring that it was his place to find help, packed up his portfolio, placedit under his arm with the pillow, and went off to Paris. On the next day hereturned with two hundred francs, that he had managed to procure by means ofgenerous self-sacrifice. We at once set off for Paris, and took a smallapartment near our friends, in the back part of No. 14 Rue Jacob. I afterwardsheard that shortly after we left it was occupied by Proudhon.
We got back to town on 30th October. Our home was exceedingly small and cold,and its chilliness in particular made it very bad for our health. We furnishedit scantily with the little we had saved from the wreck of the Rue du Holder,and awaited the results of my efforts towards getting my works accepted andproduced in Germany. The first necessity was at all costs to secure peace andquietness for myself for the short time which I should have to devote to theoverture of the Fliegender Holländer; I told Kietz that he would have toprocure the money necessary for my household expenses until this work wasfinished and the full score of the opera sent off. With the aid of a pedanticuncle, who had lived in Paris a long time and who was also a painter, hesucceeded in providing me with the necessary assistance, in instalments of fiveor ten francs at a time. During this period I often pointed with cheerful prideto my boots, which became mere travesties of footgear, as the soles eventuallydisappeared altogether.
As long as I was engaged on the Dutchman, and Kietz was looking after me, thismade no difference, for I never went out: but when I had despatched mycompleted score to the management of the Berlin Court Theatre at the beginningof December, the bitterness of the position could no longer be disguised. Itwas necessary for me to buckle to and look for help myself.
What this meant in Paris I learned just about this time from the hapless fateof the worthy Lehrs. Driven by need such as I myself had had to surmount a yearbefore at about the same time, he had been compelled on a broiling hot day inthe previous summer to scour the various quarters of the city breathlessly, toget grace for bills he had accepted, and which had fallen due. He foolishlytook an iced drink, which he hoped would refresh him in his distressingcondition, but it immediately made him lose his voice, and from that day he wasthe victim of a hoarseness which with terrific rapidity ripened the seeds ofconsumption, doubtless latent in him, and developed that incurable disease. Formonths he had been growing weaker and weaker, filling us at last with thegloomiest anxiety: he alone believed the supposed chill would be cured, if hecould heat his room better for a time. One day I sought him out in his lodging,where I found him in the icy-cold room, huddled up at his writing-table, andcomplaining of the difficulty of his work for Didot, which was all the moredistressing as his employer was pressing him for advances he had made.
He declared that if he had not had the consolation in those doleful hours ofknowing that I had, at any rate, got my Dutchman finished, and that a prospectof success was thus opened to the little circle of friends, his misery wouldhave been hard indeed to bear. Despite my own great trouble, I begged him toshare our fire and work in my room. He smiled at my courage in trying to helpothers, especially as my quarters offered barely space enough for myself and mywife. However, one evening he came to us and silently showed me a letter he hadreceived from Villemain, the Minister of Education at that time, in which thelatter expressed in the warmest terms his great regret at having only justlearned that so distinguished a scholar, whose able and extensive collaborationin Didot’s issue of the Greek classics had made him participator in a work thatwas the glory of the nation, should be in such bad health and straitenedcircumstances. Unfortunately, the amount of public money which he had at hisdisposal at that moment for subsidising literature only allowed of his offeringhim the sum of five hundred francs, which he enclosed with apologies, askinghim to accept it as a recognition of his merits on the part of the FrenchGovernment, and adding that it was his intention to give earnest considerationas to how he might materially improve his position.
This filled us with the utmost thankfulness on poor Lehrs’ account, and welooked on the incident almost as a miracle. We could not help assuming,however, that M. Villemain had been influenced by Didot, who had been promptedby his own guilty conscience for his despicable exploitation of Lehrs, and bythe prospect of thus relieving himself of the responsibility of helping him. Atthe same time, from similar cases within our knowledge, which were fullyconfirmed by my own subsequent experience, we were driven to the conclusionthat such prompt and considerate sympathy on the part of a minister would havebeen impossible in Germany. Lehrs would now have a fire to work by, but alas!our fears as to his declining health could not be allayed. When we left Parisin the following spring, it was the certainty that we should never see our dearfriend again that made our parting so painful.
In my own great distress I was again exposed to the annoyance of having towrite numerous unpaid articles for the Abendzeitung, as my patron, HofrathWinkler, was still unable to give me any satisfactory account of the fate of myRienzi in Dresden. In these circumstances I was obliged to consider it a goodthing that Halevy’s latest opera was at last a success. Schlesinger came to usradiant with joy at the success of La Reine de Chypre, and promised me eternalbliss for the piano score and various other arrangements I had made of thisnewest rage in the sphere of opera. So I was again forced to pay the penaltyfor composing my own Fliegender Holländer by having to sit down and write outarrangements of Halevy’s opera. Yet this task no longer weighed on me soheavily. Apart from the wellfounded hope of being at last recalled from myexile in Paris, and thus being able, as I thought, to regard this last strugglewith poverty as the decisive one, the arrangement of Halevy’s score was far andaway a more interesting piece of hack-work than the shameful labour I had spenton Donizetti’s Favorita.
I paid another visit, the last for a long time to come, to the Grand Opera tohear this Reine de Chypre. There was, indeed, much for me to smile at. My eyeswere no longer shut to the extreme weakness of this class of work, and thecaricature of it that was often produced by the method of rendering it. I wassincerely rejoiced to see the better side of Halevy again. I had taken a greatfancy to him from the time of his La Juive, and had a very high opinion of hismasterly talent.
At the request of Schlesinger I also willingly consented to write for his papera long article on Halevy’s latest work. In it I laid particular stress on myhope that the French school might not again allow the benefits obtained bystudying the German style to be lost by relapsing into the shallowest Italianmethods. On that occasion I ventured, by way of encouraging the French school,to point to the peculiar significance of Auber, and particularly to his Stummevon Portici, drawing attention, on the other hand, to the overloaded melodiesof Rossini, which often resembled sol-fa exercises. In reading over the proofof my article I saw that this passage about Rossini had been left out, and M.Edouard Monnaie admitted to me that, in his capacity as editor of a musicalpaper, he had felt himself bound to suppress it. He considered that if I hadany adverse criticism to pass on the composer, I could easily get it publishedin any other kind of paper, but not in one devoted to the interests of music,simply because such a passage could not be printed there without seemingabsurd. It also annoyed him that I had spoken in such high terms of Auber, buthe let it stand. I had to listen to much from that quarter which enlightened mefor ever with regard to the decay of operatic music in particular, and artistictaste in general, among Frenchmen of the present day.
I also wrote a longer article on the same opera for my precious friend Winklerat Dresden, who was still hesitating about accepting my Rienzi. In doing so Iintentionally made merry over a mishap that had befallen Lachner the conductor.Küstner, who was theatrical director at Munich at the time, with a view togiving his friend another chance, ordered a libretto to be written for him bySt. Georges in Paris, so that, through his paternal care, the highest blisswhich a German composer could dream of might be assured to his protege. Well,it turned out that when Halevy’s Reine de Chypre appeared, it treated the samesubject as Lachner’s presumably original work, which had been composed in themeantime. It mattered very little that the libretto was a really good one, thevalue of the bargain lay in the fact that it was to be glorified by Lachner’smusic. It appeared, however, that St. Georges had, as a matter of fact, to someextent altered the book sent to Munich, but only by the omission of severalinteresting features. The fury of the Munich manager was great, whereupon St.Georges declared his astonishment that the latter could have imagined he wouldsupply a libretto intended solely for the German stage at the paltry priceoffered by his German customer. As I had formed my own private opinion as toprocuring French librettos for operas, and as nothing in the world would haveinduced me to set to music even the most effective piece of writing by Scribeor St. Georges, this occurrence delighted me immensely, and in the best ofspirits I let myself go on the point for the benefit of the readers of theAbendzeitung, who, it is to be hoped, did not include my future ‘friend’Lachner.
In addition, my work on Halevy’s opera (Reine de Chypre) brought me into closercontact with that composer, and was the means of procuring me many anenlivening talk with that peculiarly good-hearted and really unassuming man,whose talent, alas, declined all too soon. Schlesinger, in fact, wasexasperated at his incorrigible laziness. Halevy, who had looked through mypiano score, contemplated several changes with a view to making it easier, buthe did not proceed with them: Schlesinger could not get the proof-sheets back;the publication was consequently delayed, and he feared that the popularity ofthe opera would be over before the work was ready for the public. He urged meto get firm hold of Halevy very early in the morning in his rooms, and compelhim to set to work at the alterations in my company.
The first time I reached his house at about ten in the morning, I found himjust out of bed, and he informed me that he really must have breakfast first. Iaccepted his invitation, and sat down with him to a somewhat luxurious meal; myconversation seemed to appeal to him, but friends came in, and at lastSchlesinger among the number, who burst into a fury at not finding him at workon the proofs he regarded as so important. Halevy, however, remained quiteunmoved. In the best of good tempers he merely complained of his latestsuccess, because he had never had more peace than of late, when his operas,almost without exception, had been failures, and he had not had anything to dowith them after the first production. Moreover, he feigned not to understandwhy this Reine de Chypre in particular should have been a success; he declaredthat Schlesinger had engineered it on purpose to worry him. When he spoke a fewwords to me in German, one of the visitors was astonished, whereuponSchlesinger said that all Jews could speak German. Thereupon Schlesinger wasasked if he also was a Jew. He answered that he had been, but had become aChristian for his wife’s sake. This freedom of speech was a pleasant surpriseto me, because in Germany in such cases we always studiously avoided the point,as discourteous to the person referred to. But as we never got to the proofcorrecting, Schlesinger made me promise to give Halevy no peace until we haddone them.
The secret of his indifference to success became clear to me in the course offurther conversation, as I learned that he was on the point of making a wealthymarriage. At first I was inclined to think that Halevy was simply a man whoseyouthful talent was only stimulated to achieve one great success with theobject of becoming rich; in his case, however, this was not the only reason, ashe was very modest in regard to his own capacity, and had no great opinion ofthe works of those more fortunate composers who were writing for the Frenchstage at that time. In him I thus, for the first time, met with the franklyexpressed admission of disbelief in the value of all our modern creations inthis dubious field of art. I have since come to the conclusion that thisincredulity, often expressed with much less modesty, justifies theparticipation of all Jews in our artistic concerns. Only once did Halevy speakto me with real candour, when, on my tardy departure for Germany, he wished methe success he thought my works deserved.
In the year 1860 I saw him again. I had learned that, while the Parisiancritics were giving vent to the bitterest condemnation of the concerts I wasgiving at that time, he had expressed his approval, and this determined me tovisit him at the Palais de l’Institut, of which he had for some time beenpermanent secretary. He seemed particularly eager to learn from my own lipswhat my new theory about music really was, of which he had heard such wildrumours. For his own part, he said, he had never found anything but music in mymusic, but with this difference, that mine had generally seemed very good. Thisgave rise to a lively discussion on my part, to which he good-humouredlyagreed, once more wishing me success in Paris. This time, however, he did sowith less conviction than when he bade me good-bye for Germany, which I thoughtwas because he doubted whether I could succeed in Paris. From this final visitI carried away a depressing sense of the enervation, both moral and aesthetic,which had overcome one of the last great French musicians, while, on the otherhand, I could not help feeling that a tendency to a hypocritical or franklyimpudent exploitation of the universal degeneracy marked all who could bedesignated as Halevy’s successors.
Throughout this period of constant hack-work my thoughts were entirely bent onmy return to Germany, which now presented itself to my mind in a wholly new andideal light. I endeavoured in various ways to secure all that seemed mostattractive about the project, or which filled my soul with longing. Myintercourse with Lehrs had, on the whole, given a decided spur to my formertendency to grapple seriously with my subjects, a tendency which had beencounteracted by closer contact with the theatre. This desire now furnished abasis for closer study of philosophical questions. I had been astonished attimes to hear even the grave and virtuous Lehrs, openly and quite as a matterof course, give expression to grave doubts concerning our individual survivalafter death. He declared that in many great men this doubt, even though onlytacitly held, had been the real incitement to noble deeds. The natural resultof such a belief speedily dawned on me without, however, causing me any seriousalarm. On the contrary, I found a fascinating stimulus in the fact thatboundless regions of meditation and knowledge were thereby opened up whichhitherto I had merely skimmed in light-hearted levity.
In my renewed attempts to study the Greek classics in the original, I receivedno encouragement from Lehrs. He dissuaded me from doing so with the well-meantconsolation, that as I could only be born once, and that with music in me, Ishould learn to understand this branch of knowledge without the help of grammaror lexicon; whereas if Greek were to be studied with real enjoyment, it was nojoke, and would not suffer being relegated to a secondary place.
On the other hand, I felt strongly drawn to gain a closer acquaintance ofGerman history than I had secured at school. I had Raumer’s History of theHohenstaufen within easy reach to start upon. All the great figures in thisbook lived vividly before my eyes. I was particularly captivated by thepersonality of that gifted Emperor Frederick II., whose fortunes aroused mysympathy so keenly that I vainly sought for a fitting artistic setting forthem. The fate of his son Manfred, on the other hand, provoked in me an equallywell-grounded, but more easily combated, feeling of opposition.
I accordingly made a plan of a great five-act dramatic poem, which should alsobe perfectly adapted to a musical setting. My impulse to embellish the storywith the central figure of romantic significance was prompted by the fact ofManfred’s enthusiastic reception in Luceria by the Saracens, who supported himand carried him on from victory to victory till he reached his final triumph,and this, too, in spite of the fact that he had come to them betrayed on everyhand, banned by the Church, and deserted by all his followers during his flightthrough Apulia and the Abruzzi.
Even at this time it delighted me to find in the German mind the capacity ofappreciating beyond the narrow bounds of nationality all purely humanqualities, in however strange a garb they might be presented. For in this Irecognised how nearly akin it is to the mind of Greece. In Frederick II. I sawthis quality in full flower. A fair-haired German of ancient Swabian stock,heir to the Norman realm of Sicily and Naples, who gave the Italian languageits first development, and laid a basis for the evolution of knowledge and artwhere hitherto ecclesiastical fanaticism and feudal brutality had alonecontended for power, a monarch who gathered at his court the poets and sages ofeastern lands, and surrounded himself with the living products of Arabian andPersian grace and spirit—this man I beheld betrayed by the Roman clergy to theinfidel foe, yet ending his crusade, to their bitter disappointment, by a pactof peace with the Sultan, from whom he obtained a grant of privileges toChristians in Palestine such as the bloodiest victory could scarcely havesecured.
In this wonderful Emperor, who finally, under the ban of that same Church,struggled hopelessly and in vain against the savage bigotry of his age, Ibeheld the German ideal in its highest embodiment. My poem was concerned withthe fate of his favourite son Manfred. On the death of an elder brother,Frederick’s empire had entirely fallen to pieces, and the young Manfred wasleft, under papal suzerainty, in nominal possession of the throne of Apulia. Wefind him at Capua, in surroundings, and attended by a court, in which thespirit of his great father survives, in a state of almost effeminatedegeneration. In despair of ever restoring the imperial power of theHohenstaufen, he seeks to forget his sadness in romance and song. There nowappears upon the scene a young Saracen lady, just arrived from the East, who,by appealing to the alliance between East and West concluded by Manfred’s noblefather, conjures the desponding son to maintain his imperial heritage. She actsthe part of an inspired prophetess, and though the prince is quickly filledwith love for her, she succeeds in keeping him at a respectful distance. By askilfully contrived flight she snatches him, not only from the pursuit ofrebellious Apulian nobles, but also from the papal ban which is threatening todepose him from his throne. Accompanied only by a few faithful followers, sheguides him through mountain fastnesses, where one night the wearied son beholdsthe spirit of Frederick II. passing with feudal array through the Abruzzi, andbeckoning him on to Luceria.
To this district, situated in the Papal States, Frederick had, by a peacefulcompact, transplanted the remnant of his Saracen retainers, who had previouslybeen wreaking terrible havoc in the mountains of Sicily. To the great annoyanceof the Pope, he had handed the town over to them in fee-simple, thus securingfor himself a band of faithful allies in the heart of an ever-treacherous andhostile country.
Fatima, as my heroine is called, has prepared, through the instrumentality oftrusty friends, a reception for Manfred in this place. When the papal governorhas been expelled by a revolution, he slips through the gateway into the town,is recognised by the whole population as the son of their beloved Emperor, and,amid wildest enthusiasm, is placed at their head, to lead them against theenemies of their departed benefactor. In the meantime, while Manfred ismarching on from victory to victory in his reconquest of the whole kingdom ofApulia, the tragic centre of my action still continues to be the unvoicedlonging of the lovelorn victor for the marvellous heroine.
She is the child of the great Emperor’s love for a noble Saracen maiden. Hermother, on her deathbed, had sent her to Manfred, foretelling that she wouldwork wonders for his glory provided she never yielded to his passion. WhetherFatima was to know that she was his sister I left undecided in framing my plot.Meanwhile she is careful to show herself to him only at critical moments, andthen always in such a way as to remain unapproachable. When at last shewitnesses the completion of her task in his coronation at Naples, shedetermines, in obedience to her vow, to slip away secretly from the newlyanointed king, that she may meditate in the solitude of her distant home uponthe success of her enterprise.
The Saracen Nurreddin, who had been a companion of her youth, and to whose helpshe had chiefly owed her success in rescuing Manfred, is to be the sole partnerof her flight. To this man, who loves her with passionate ardour, she had beenpromised in her childhood. Before her secret departure she pays a last visit tothe slumbering king. This rouses her lover’s furious jealousy, as he construesher act into a proof of unfaithfulness on the part of his betrothed. The lastlook of farewell which Fatima casts from a distance at the young monarch, onhis return from his coronation, inflames the jealous lover to wreak instantvengeance for the supposed outrage upon his honour. He strikes the prophetessto the earth, whereupon she thanks him with a smile for having delivered herfrom an unbearable existence. At the sight of her body Manfred realises thathenceforth happiness has deserted him for ever.
This theme I had adorned with many gorgeous scenes and complicated situations,so that when I had worked it out I could regard it as a fairly suitable,interesting, and effective whole, especially when compared with otherwell-known subjects of a similar nature. Yet I could never rouse myself tosufficient enthusiasm over it to give my serious attention to its elaboration,especially as another theme now laid its grip upon me. This was suggested to meby a pamphlet on the ‘Venusberg,’ which accidentally fell into my hands.
If all that I regarded as essentially German had hitherto drawn me withever-increasing force, and compelled me to its eager pursuit, I here found itsuddenly presented to me in the simple outlines of a legend, based upon the oldand well-known ballad of ‘Tannhäuser.’ True, its elements were already familiarto me from Tieck’s version in his Phantasus. But his conception of the subjecthad flung me back into the fantastic regions created in my mind at an earlierperiod by Hoffmann, and I should certainly never have been tempted to extractthe framework of a dramatic work from his elaborate story. The point in thispopular pamphlet which had so much weight with me was that it brought‘Tannhäuser,’ if only by a passing hint, into touch with ‘The Minstrel’s War onthe Wartburg.’ I had some knowledge of this also from Hoffmann’s account in hisSerapionsbrudern. But I felt that the writer had only grasped the old legend ina distorted form, and therefore endeavoured to gain a closer acquaintance withthe true aspect of this attractive story. At this juncture Lehrs brought me theannual report of the proceedings of the Königsberg German Society, in which the‘Wartburg contest’ was criticised with a fair amount of detail by Lukas. Here Ialso found the original text. Although I could utilise but little of the realsetting for my own purpose, yet the picture it gave me of Germany in the MiddleAges was so suggestive that I found I had not previously had the smallestconception of what it was like.
As a sequel to the Wartburg poem, I also found in the same copy a criticalstudy, ‘Lohengrin,’ which gave in full detail the main contents of thatwidespread epic.
Thus a whole new world was opened to me, and though as yet I had not found theform in which I might cope with Lohengrin, yet this image also livedimperishably within me. When, therefore, I afterwards made a close acquaintancewith the intricacies of this legend, I could visualise the figure of the herowith a distinctness equal to that of my conception of Tannhäuser at this time.
Under these influences my longing for a speedy return to Germany grew ever moreintense, for there I hoped to earn a new home for myself where I could enjoyleisure for creative work. But it was not yet possible even to think ofoccupying myself with such grateful tasks. The sordid necessities of life stillbound me to Paris. While thus employed, I found an opportunity of exertingmyself in a way more congenial to my desires. When I was a young man at Prague,I had made the acquaintance of a Jewish musician and composer called Dessauer—aman who was not devoid of talent, who in fact achieved a certain reputation,but was chiefly known among his intimates on account of his hypochondria. Thisman, who was now in flourishing circumstances, was so far patronised bySchlesinger that the latter seriously proposed to help him to a commission forGrand Opera. Dessauer had come across my poem of the Fliegender Holländer, andnow insisted that I should draft a similar plot for him, as M. Leon Pillet’sVaisseau Fantome had already been given to M. Dietsch, the letter’s musicalconductor, to set to music. From this same conductor Dessauer obtained thepromise of a like commission, and he now offered me two hundred francs toprovide him with a similar plot, and one congenial to his hypochondriacaltemperament.
To meet this wish I ransacked my brain for recollections of Hoffmann, andquickly decided to work up his Bergwerke von Falun. The moulding of thisfascinating and marvellous material succeeded as admirably as I could wish.Dessauer also felt convinced that the topic was worth his while to set tomusic. His dismay was accordingly all the greater when Pillet rejected our ploton the ground that the staging would be too difficult, and that the second actespecially would entail insurmountable obstacles for the ballet, which had tobe given each time. In place of this Dessauer wished me to compose him anoratorio on ‘Mary Magdalene.’ As on the day that he expressed this wish heappeared to be suffering from acute melancholia, so much so that he declared hehad that morning seen his own head lying beside his bed, I thought well not torefuse his request. I asked him, therefore, to give me time, and I regret tosay that ever since that day I have continued to take it..
It was amid such distractions as these that this winter at length drew to anend, while my prospects of getting to Germany gradually grew more hopeful,though with a slowness that sorely tried my patience. I had kept up acontinuous correspondence with Dresden respecting Rienzi, and in the worthychorus-master Fischer I at last found an honest man who was favourably disposedto me. He sent me reliable and reassuring reports as to the state of myaffairs.
After receiving news, early in January, 1842, of renewed delay, I at last heardthat by the end of February the work would be ready for performance. I wasseriously uneasy at this, as I was afraid of not being able to accomplish thejourney by that date. But this news also was soon contradicted, and the honestFischer informed me that my opera had had to be postponed till the autumn ofthat year. I realised fully that it would never be performed if I could not bepresent in person at Dresden. When eventually in March Count Redern, thedirector of the Theatre Royal in Berlin, told me that my Fliegender Holländerhad been accepted for the opera there, I thought I had sufficient reason toreturn to Germany at all costs as soon as possible.
I had already had various experiences as to the views of German managers onthis work. Relying on the plot, which had pleased the manager of the ParisOpera so much, I had sent the libretto in the first instance to my oldacquaintance Ringelhardt, the director of the Leipzig theatre. But the man hadcherished an undisguised aversion for me since my Liebesverbot. As he could notthis time possibly object to any levity in my subject, he now found fault withits gloomy solemnity and refused to accept it. As I had met Councillor Küstner,at that time manager of the Munich Court Theatre, when he was makingarrangements about La Reine de Chypre in Paris, I now sent him the text of theDutchman with a similar request. He, too, returned it, with the assurance thatit was not suited to German stage conditions, or to the taste of the Germanpublic. As he had ordered a French libretto for Munich, I knew what he meant.When the score was finished, I sent it to Meyerbeer in Berlin, with a letterfor Count Redern, and begged him, as he had been unable to help me to anythingin Paris, in spite of his desire to do so, to be kind enough to use hisinfluence in Berlin in favour of my composition. I was genuinely astonished atthe truly prompt acceptance of my work two months later, which was accompaniedby very gratifying assurances from the Count, and I was delighted to see in ita proof of Meyerbeer’s sincere and energetic intervention in my favour. Strangeto say, on my return to Germany soon afterwards, I was destined to learn thatCount Redern had long since retired from the management of the Berlin OperaHouse, and that Küstner of Munich had already been appointed his successor; theupshot of this was that Count Redern’s consent, though very courteous, couldnot by any means be taken seriously, as the realisation of it depended not onhim but on his successor. What the result was remains to be seen.
A circumstance that eventually facilitated my long-desired return to Germany,which was now justified by my good prospects, was the tardily awakened interesttaken in my position by the wealthy members of my family. If Didot had hadreasons of his own for applying to the Minister Villemain for support forLehrs, so also Avenarius, my brother-in-law in Paris, when he heard how I wasstruggling against poverty, one day took it into his head to surprise me withsome quite unexpected help secured by his appeal to my sister Louisa. On 26thDecember of the fast-waning year 1841 I went home to Minna carrying a gooseunder my arm, and in the beak of the bird we found a five-hundred-franc note.This note had been given me by Avenarius as the result of a request on mybehalf made by my sister Louisa to a friend of hers, a wealthy merchant namedSchletter. This welcome addition to our extremely straitened resources mightnot in itself have been sufficient to put me in an exceedingly good-humour, hadI not clearly seen in it the prospect of escaping altogether from my positionin Paris. As the leading German managers had now consented to the performanceof two of my compositions, I thought I might seriously reproach mybrother-in-law, Friedrich Brockhaus, who had repulsed me the year before when Iapplied to him in great distress, on the ground that he ‘disapproved of myprofession.’ This time I might be more successful in securing the wherewithalfor my return. I was not mistaken, and when the time came I was supplied fromthis source with the necessary travelling expenses.
With these prospects, and my position thus improved, I found myself spendingthe second half of the winter 1841-42 in high spirits, and affording constantentertainment to the small circle of friends which my relationship to Avenariushad created around me. Minna and I frequently spent our evenings with thisfamily and others, amongst whom I have pleasant recollections of a certain HerrKuhne, the head of a private school, and his wife. I contributed so greatly tothe success of their little soirees, and was always so willing to improvisedances on the piano for them to dance to, that I soon ran the risk of enjoyingan almost burdensome popularity.
At length the hour struck for my deliverance; the day came on which, as Idevoutly hoped, I might turn my back on Paris for ever. It was the 7th ofApril, and Paris was already gay with the first luxuriant buddings of spring.In front of our windows, which all the winter had looked upon a bleak anddesolate garden, the trees were burgeoning, and the birds sang. Our emotion atparting from our dear friends Anders, Lehrs, and Kietz, however, was great,almost overwhelming. The first seemed already doomed to an early death, for hishealth was exceedingly bad, and he was advanced in years. About Lehrs’condition, as I have already said, there could no longer be any doubt, and itwas dreadful, after so short an experience as the two and a half years which Ihad spent in Paris, to see the ravages that want had wrought among good, noble,and sometimes even distinguished men. Kietz, for whose future I was concerned,less on grounds of health than of morals, touched our hearts once more by hisboundless and almost childlike good-nature. Fancying, for instance, that Imight not have enough money for the journey, he forced me, in spite of allresistance, to accept another five-franc piece, which was about all thatremained of his own fortune at the moment: he also stuffed a packet of goodFrench snuff for me into the pocket of the coach, in which we at last rumbledthrough the boulevards to the barriers, which we passed but were unable to seethis time, because our eyes were blinded with tears.
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PART II 1842-1850
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The journey from Paris to Dresden at that time took five days and nights. Onthe German frontier, near Forbach, we met with stormy weather and snow, agreeting which seemed inhospitable after the spring we had already enjoyed inParis. And, indeed, as we continued our journey through our native land oncemore, we found much to dishearten us, and I could not help thinking that theFrenchmen who on leaving Germany breathed more freely on reaching French soil,and unbuttoned their coats, as though passing from winter into summer, were notso very foolish after all, seeing that we, for our part, were now compelled toseek protection against this conspicuous change of temperature by being verycareful to put on sufficient clothing. The unkindness of the elements becameperfect torture when, later on, between Frankfort and Leipzig, we were sweptinto the stream of visitors to the Great Easter Fair.
The pressure on the mail-coaches was so great, that for two days and a night,amid ceaseless storm, snow and rain, we were continually changing from onewretched ‘substitute’ to another, thus turning our journey into an adventure ofalmost the same type as our former voyage at sea.
One solitary flash of brightness was afforded by our view of the Wartburg,which we passed during the only sunlit hour of this journey. The sight of thismountain fastness, which, from the Fulda side, is clearly visible for a longtime, affected me deeply. A neighbouring ridge further on I at once christenedthe Horselberg, and as we drove through the valley, pictured to myself thescenery for the third act of my Tannhäuser. This scene remained so vividly inmy mind, that long afterwards I was able to give Desplechin, the Parisianscene-painter, exact details when he was working out the scenery under mydirection. If I had already been impressed by the significance of the fact thatmy first journey through the German Rhine district, so famous in legend, shouldhave been made on my way home from Paris, it seemed an even more ominouscoincidence that my first sight of Wartburg, which was so rich in historicaland mythical associations, should come just at this moment. The view so warmedmy heart against wind and weather, Jews and the Leipzig Fair, that in the end Iarrived, on 12th April, 1842, safe and sound, with my poor, battered,half-frozen wife, in that selfsame city of Dresden which I had last seen on theoccasion of my sad separation from my Minna, and my departure for my northernplace of exile.
We put up at the ‘Stadt Gotha’ inn. The city, in which such momentous years ofmy childhood and boyhood had been spent, seemed cold and dead beneath theinfluences of the wild, gloomy weather. Indeed, everything there that couldremind me of my youth seemed dead. No hospitable house received us. We found mywife’s parents living in cramped and dingy lodgings in very straitenedcircumstances, and were obliged at once to look about for a small abode forourselves. This we found in the Topfergasse for twenty-one marks a month. Afterpaying the necessary business visits in connection with Rienzi, and makingarrangements for Minna during my brief absence, I set out on 15th April directfor Leipzig, where I saw my mother and family for the first time in six years.
During this period, which had been so eventful for my own life, my mother hadundergone a great change in her domestic position through the death of Rosalie.She was living in a pleasant roomy flat near the Brockhaus family, where shewas free from all those household cares to which, owing to her large family,she had devoted so many years of anxious thought. Her bustling energy, whichhad almost amounted to hardness, had entirely given place to a naturalcheerfulness and interest in the family prosperity of her married daughters.For the blissful calm of this happy old age she was mainly indebted to theaffectionate care of her son-in-law, Friedrich Brockhaus, to whom I expressedmy heartfelt thanks for his goodness. She was exceedingly astonished andpleased to see me unexpectedly enter her room. Any bitterness that ever existedbetween us had utterly vanished, and her only complaint was that she could notput me up in her house, instead of my brother Julius, the unfortunategoldsmith, who had none of the qualities that could make him a suitablecompanion for her. She was full of hope for the success of my undertaking, andfelt this confidence strengthened by the favourable prophecy which our dearRosalie had made about me shortly before her sad death.
For the present, however, I only stayed a few days in Leipzig, as I had firstto visit Berlin in order to make definite arrangements with Count Redern forthe performance of the Fliegender Holländer. As I have already observed, I washere at once destined to learn that the Count was on the point of retiring fromthe directorship, and he accordingly referred me for all further decisions tothe new director, Küstner, who had not yet arrived in Berlin. I now suddenlyrealised what this strange circumstance meant, and knew that, so far as theBerlin negotiations went, I might as well have remained in Paris. Thisimpression was in the main confirmed by a visit to Meyerbeer, who, I found,regarded my coming to Berlin as over hasty. Nevertheless, he behaved in a kindand friendly manner, only regretting that he was just on the point of ‘goingaway,’ a state in which I always found him whenever I visited him again inBerlin.
Mendelssohn was also in the capital about this time, having been appointed oneof the General Musical Directors to the King of Prussia. I also sought him out,having been previously introduced to him in Leipzig. He informed me that he didnot believe his work would prosper in Berlin, and that he would rather go backto Leipzig. I made no inquiry about the fate of the score of my great symphonyperformed at Leipzig in earlier days, which I had more or less forced upon himso many years ago. On the other hand, he did not betray to me any signs ofremembering that strange offering. In the midst of the lavish comforts of hishome he struck me as cold, yet it was not so much that he repelled me as that Irecoiled from him. I also paid a visit to Rellstab, to whom I had a letter ofintroduction from his trusty publisher, my brother-in-law Brockhaus. Here itwas not so much smug ease that I encountered; I doubtless felt repulsed more bythe fact that he showed no inclination whatever to interest himself in myaffairs.
I grew very low spirited in Berlin. I could almost have wished CommissionerCerf back again. Miserable as had been the time I had spent here years before,I had then, at any rate, met one man, who, for all the bluntness of hisexterior, had treated me with true friendliness and consideration. In vain didI try to call to mind the Berlin through whose streets I had walked, with allthe ardour of youth, by the side of Laube. After my acquaintance with London,and still more with Paris, this city, with its sordid spaces and pretensions togreatness, depressed me deeply, and I breathed a hope that, should no luckcrown my life, it might at least be spent in Paris rather than in Berlin.
On my return from this wholly fruitless expedition, I first went to Leipzig fora few days, where, on this occasion, I stayed with my brother-in-law, HermannBrockhaus, who was now Professor of Oriental Languages at the University. Hisfamily had been increased by the birth of two daughters, and the atmosphere ofunruffled content, illuminated by mental activity and a quiet but vividinterest in all things relating to the higher aspects of life, greatly moved myhomeless and vagabond soul. One evening, after my sister had seen to herchildren, whom she had brought up very well, and had sent them with gentlewords to bed, we gathered in the large richly stocked library for our eveningmeal and a long confidential chat. Here I broke out into a violent fit ofweeping, and it seemed as though the tender sister, who five years before hadknown me during the bitterest straits of my early married life in Dresden, nowreally understood me. At the express suggestion of my brother-in-law Hermann,my family tendered me a loan, to help me to tide over the time of waiting forthe performance of my Rienzi in Dresden. This, they said, they regarded merelyas a duty, and assured me that I need have no hesitation whatever in acceptingit. It consisted of a sum of six hundred marks, which was to be paid me inmonthly instalments for six months. As I had no prospect of being able to replyon any other source of income, there was every chance of Minna’s talent formanagement being put severely to the test, if this were to carry us through; itcould be done, however, and I was able to return to Dresden with a great senseof relief.
While I was staying with my relatives I played and sang them the FliegenderHolländer for the first time connectedly, and seemed to arouse considerableinterest by my performance, for when, later on, my sister Louisa heard theopera in Dresden, she complained that much of the effect previously produced bymy rendering did not come back to her. I also sought out my old friend Apelagain. The poor man had gone stone blind, but he astonished me by hischeeriness and contentment, and thereby once and for all deprived me of anyreason for pitying him. As he declared that he knew the blue coat I was wearingvery well, though it was really a brown one, I thought it best not to argue thepoint, and I left Leipzig in a state of wonder at finding every one there sohappy and contented.
When I reached Dresden, on 26th April, I found occasion to grapple morevigorously with my lot. Here I was enlivened by closer intercourse with thepeople on whom I had to rely for a successful production of Rienzi. It is truethat the results of my interviews with Lüttichau, the general manager, andReissiger, the musical conductor, left me cold and incredulous. Both weresincerely astonished at my arrival in Dresden; and the same might even be saidof my frequent correspondent and patron, Hofrath Winkler, who also would havepreferred my remaining in Paris. But, as has been my constant experience bothbefore and since, help and encouragement have always come to me from humblerand never from the more exalted ranks of life.
So in this case, too, I met my first agreeable sensation in the overwhelminglycordial reception I received from the old chorus-master, Wilhelm Fischer. I hadhad no previous acquaintance with him, yet he was the only person who had takenthe trouble to read my score carefully, and had not only conceived serioushopes for the success of my opera, but had worked energetically to secure itsbeing accepted and practised. The moment I entered his room and told him myname, he rushed to embrace me with a loud cry, and in a second I was translatedto an atmosphere of hope. Besides this man, I met in the actor Ferdinand Heineand his family another sure foundation for hearty and, indeed, deep-rootedfriendship. It is true that I had known him from childhood, for at that time hewas one of the few young people whom my stepfather Geyer liked to see abouthim. In addition to a fairly decided talent for drawing, it was chiefly hispleasant social gifts that had won him an entrance into our more intimatefamily circle. As he was very small and slight, my stepfather nicknamed himDavidCHEN, and under this appellation he used to take part with greataffability and good-humour in our little festivities, and above all in ourfriendly excursions into the neighbouring country, in which, as I mentioned inits place, even Carl Maria von Weber used to join. Belonging to the good oldschool, he had become a useful, if not prominent, member of the Dresden stage.He possessed all the knowledge and qualities for a good stage manager, butnever succeeded in inducing the committee to give him that appointment. It wasonly as a designer of costumes that he found further scope for his talents, andin this capacity he was included in the consultations over the staging ofRienzi.
Thus it came about that he had the opportunity of busying himself with the workof a member, now grown to man’s estate, of the very family with whom he hadspent such pleasant days in his youth. He greeted me at once as a child of thehouse, and we two homeless creatures found in our memories of this long-losthome the first common basis to our friendship. We generally spent our eveningswith old Fischer at Heine’s, where, amid hopeful conversation, we regaledourselves on potatoes and herrings, of which the meal chiefly consisted.Schroder-Devrient was away on a holiday; Tichatschek, who was also on the pointof going away, I had just time to see, and with him I went quickly through apart of his role in Rienzi. His brisk and lively nature, his glorious voice andgreat musical talent, gave special weight to his encouraging assurance that hedelighted in the role of Rienzi. Heine also told me that the mere prospect ofhaving many new costumes, and especially new silver armour, had inspiredTichatschek with the liveliest desire to play this part, so that I might relyon him under any circumstances. Thus I could at once give closer attention tothe preparations for practice, which was fixed to begin in the late summer,after the principal singers had returned from their holiday.
I had to make special efforts to pacify my friend Fischer by my readiness toabbreviate the score, which was excessively lengthy. His intentions in thematter were so honest that I gladly sat down with him to the wearisome task. Iplayed and sang my score to the astonished man on an old grand piano in therehearsing-room of the Court Theatre, with such frantic vigour that, althoughhe did not mind if the instrument came to grief, he grew concerned about mychest. Finally, amid hearty laughter, he ceased to argue about cutting downpassages, as precisely where he thought something might be omitted I proved tohim with headlong eloquence that it was precisely here that the main point lay.He plunged with me head over heels into the vast chaos of sound, against whichhe could raise no objection, beyond the testimony of his watch, whosecorrectness I also ended by disputing. As sops I light-heartedly flung him thebig pantomime and most of the ballet in the second act, whereby I reckoned wemight save a whole half-hour. Thus, thank goodness, the whole monster was atlast handed over to the clerks to make a fair copy of, and the rest was leftfor time to accomplish.
We next discussed what we should do in the summer, and I decided upon a stay ofseveral months at Toplitz, the scene of my first youthful flights, whose fineair and baths, I hoped, would also benefit Minna’s health. But before we couldcarry out this intention I had to pay several more visits to Leipzig to settlethe fate of my Dutchman. On 5th May I proceeded thither to have an interviewwith Küstner, the new director of the Berlin Opera, who I had been told hadjust arrived there. He was now placed in the awkward position of being about toproduce in Berlin the very opera which he had before declined in Munich, as ithad been accepted by his predecessor in office. He promised me to consider whatsteps he would take in this predicament. In order to learn the result ofKüstner’s deliberations, I determined, on 2nd June, to seek him out, and thistime in Berlin itself. But at Leipzig I found a letter in which he begged me towait patiently a little longer for his final verdict. I took advantage of beingin the neighbourhood of Halle to pay a visit to my eldest brother Albert. I wasvery much grieved and depressed to find the poor fellow, whom I must give thecredit of having the greatest perseverance and a quite remarkable talent fordramatic song, living in the unworthy and mean circumstances which the HalleTheatre offered to him and his family. The realisation of conditions into whichI myself had once nearly sunk now filled me with indescribable abhorrence.Still more harrowing was it to hear my brother speak of this state in toneswhich showed, alas, only too plainly, the hopeless submission with which he hadalready resigned himself to its horrors. The only consolation I could find wasthe personality and childlike nature of his step-daughter Johanna, who was thenfifteen, and who sang me Spohr’s Rose, wie bist du so schon with greatexpression and in a voice of an extraordinarily beautiful quality.
Then I returned to Dresden, and at last, in wonderful weather, undertook thepleasant journey to Toplitz with Minna and one of her sisters, reaching thatplace on 9th June, where we took up our quarters at a second-class inn, theEiche, at Schonau. Here we were soon joined by my mother, who paid her usualyearly visit to the warm baths all the more gladly this time because she knewshe would find me there. If she had before had any prejudice against Minnabecause of my premature marriage to her, a closer acquaintance with herdomestic gifts soon changed it into respect, and she quickly learned to lovethe partner of my doleful days in Paris. Although my mother’s vagaries demandedno small consideration, yet what particularly delighted me about her was theastonishing vivacity of her almost childlike imagination, a faculty sheretained to such a degree that one morning she complained that my relation ofthe Tannhäuser legend on the previous evening had given her a whole night ofpleasant but most tiring sleeplessness.
By dint of appealing letters to Schletter, a wealthy patron of art in Leipzig,I managed to do something for Kietz, who, had remained behind in misery inParis, and also to provide Minna with medical treatment. I also succeeded to acertain extent in ameliorating my own woeful financial position. Scarcely werethese tasks accomplished, when I started off in my old boyish way on a rambleof several days on foot through the Bohemian mountains, in order that I mightmentally work out my plan of the ‘Venusberg’ amid the pleasant associations ofsuch a trip. Here I took the fancy of engaging quarters in Aussig on theromantic Schreckenstein, where for several days I occupied the little publicroom, in which straw was laid down for me to sleep on at night. I foundrecreation in daily ascents of the Wostrai, the highest peak in theneighbourhood, and so keenly did the fantastic solitude quicken my youthfulspirit, that I clambered about the ruins of the Schreckenstein the whole of onemoonlit night, wrapped only in a blanket, in order myself to provide the ghostthat was lacking, and delighted myself with the hope of scaring some passingwayfarer.
Here I drew up in my pocket-book the detailed plan of a three-act opera on the‘Venusberg,’ and subsequently carried out the composition of this work instrict accordance with the sketch I then made.
One day, when climbing the Wostrai, I was astonished, on turning the corner ofa valley, to hear a merry dance tune whistled by a goatherd perched up on acrag. I seemed immediately to stand among the chorus of pilgrims filing pastthe goatherd in the valley; but I could not afterwards recall the goatherd’stune, so I was obliged to help myself out of the matter in the usual way.
Enriched by these spoils, I returned to Toplitz in a wonderfully cheerful frameof mind and robust health, but on receiving the interesting news thatTichatschek and Schroder-Devrient were on the point of returning, I wasimpelled to set off once more for Dresden. I took this step, not so much toavoid missing any of the early rehearsals of Rienzi, as because I wanted toprevent the management replacing it by something else. I left Minna for a timewith my mother, and reached Dresden on 18th July.
I hired a small lodging in a queer house, since pulled down, facing theMaximilian Avenue, and entered into a fairly lively intercourse with ouroperatic stars who had just returned. My old enthusiasm for Schroder-Devrientrevived when I saw her again more frequently in opera. Strange was the effectproduced upon me when I heard her for the first time in Gretry’s Blaubart, forI could not help remembering that this was the first opera I had ever seen. Ihad been taken to it as a boy of five (also in Dresden), and I still retainedmy wondrous first impressions of it. All my earliest childish memories wererevived, and I recollected how frequently and with what emphasis I had myselfsung Bluebeard’s song: Ha, die Falsche! Die Thure offen! to the amusement ofthe whole house, with a paper helmet of my own making on my head. My friendHeine still remembered it well.
In other respects the operatic performances were not such as to impress me veryfavourably: I particularly missed the rolling sound of the fully equippedParisian orchestra of string instruments. I also noticed that, when opening thefine new theatre, they had quite forgotten to increase the number of theseinstruments in proportion to the enlarged space. In this, as well as in thegeneral equipment of the stage, which was materially deficient in manyrespects, I was impressed by the sense of a certain meanness about theatricalenterprise in Germany, which became most noticeable when reproductions weregiven, often with wretched translations of the text, of the Paris operarepertoire. If even in Paris my dissatisfaction with this treatment of operahad been great, the feeling which once drove me thither from the Germantheatres now returned with redoubled energy. I actually felt degraded again,and nourished within my breast a contempt so deep that for a time I couldhardly endure the thought of signing a lasting contract, even with one of themost up-to-date of German opera houses, but sadly wondered what steps I couldtake to hold my ground between disgust and desire in this strange world.
Nothing but the sympathy inspired by communion with persons endowed withexceptional gifts enabled me to triumph over my scruples. This statementapplies above all to my great ideal, Schroder-Devrient, in whose artistictriumphs it had once been my most burning desire to be associated. It is truethat many years had elapsed since my first youthful impressions of her wereformed. As regards her looks, the verdict which, in the following winter, wassent to Paris by Berlioz during his stay in Dresden, was so far correct thather somewhat ‘maternal’ stoutness was unsuited to youthful parts, especially inmale attire, which, as in Rienzi, made too great a demand upon the imagination.Her voice, which in point of quality had never been an exceptionally goodmedium for song, often landed her in difficulties, and in particular she wasforced, when singing, to drag the time a little all through. But herachievements were less hampered now by these material hindrances than by thefact that her repertoire consisted of a limited number of leading parts, whichshe had sung so frequently that a certain monotony in the conscious calculationof effect often developed into a mannerism which, from her tendency toexaggeration, was at times almost painful.
Although these defects could not escape me, yet I, more than any one, wasespecially qualified to overlook such minor weaknesses, and realise withenthusiasm the incomparable greatness of her performances. Indeed, it onlyneeded the stimulus of excitement, which this actress’s exceptionally eventfullife still procured, fully to restore the creative power of her prime, a factof which I was subsequently to receive striking demonstrations. But I wasseriously troubled and depressed at seeing how strong was the disintegratingeffect of theatrical life upon the character of this singer, who had originallybeen endowed with such great and noble qualities. From the very mouth throughwhich the great actress’s inspired musical utterances reached me, I wascompelled to hear at other times very similar language to that in which, withbut few exceptions, nearly all heroines of the stage indulge. The possession ofa naturally fine voice, or even mere physical advantages, which might place herrivals on the same footing as herself in public favour, was more than she couldendure; and so far was she from acquiring the dignified resignation worthy of agreat artist, that her jealousy increased to a painful extent as years went on.I noticed this all the more because I had reason to suffer from it. A factwhich caused me even greater trouble, however, was that she did not grasp musiceasily, and the study of a new part involved difficulties which meant many apainful hour for the composer who had to make her master his work. Herdifficulty in learning new parts, and particularly that of Adriano in Rienzi,entailed disappointments for her which caused me a good deal of trouble.
If, in her case, I had to handle a great and sensitive nature very tenderly, Ihad, on the other hand, a very easy task with Tichatschek, with his childishlimitations and superficial, but exceptionally brilliant, talents. He did nottrouble to learn his parts by heart, as he was so musical that he could singthe most difficult music at sight, and thought all further study needless,whereas with most other singers the work consisted in mastering the score.Hence, if he sang through a part at rehearsals often enough to impress it onhis memory, the rest, that is to say, everything pertaining to vocal art anddramatic delivery, would follow naturally. In this way he picked up anyclerical errors there might be in the libretto, and that with such incorrigiblepertinacity, that he uttered the wrong words with just the same expression asif they were correct. He waved aside good-humouredly any expostulations orhints as to the sense with the remark, ‘Ah! that will be all right soon.’ And,in fact, I very soon resigned myself and quite gave up trying to get the singerto use his intelligence in the interpretation of the part of the hero, forwhich I was very agreeably compensated by the light-hearted enthusiasm withwhich he flung himself into his congenial role, and the irresistible effect ofhis brilliant voice.
With the exception of these two actors who played the leading parts, I had onlyvery moderate material at my disposal. But there was plenty of goodwill, and Ihad recourse to an ingenious device to induce Reissiger the conductor to holdfrequent piano rehearsals. He had complained to me of the difficulty he hadalways found in securing a well-written libretto, and thought it was verysensible of me to have acquired the habit of writing my own. In his youth hehad unfortunately neglected to do this for himself, and yet this was all helacked to make a successful dramatic composer. I feel bound to confess that hepossessed ‘a good deal of melody’; but this, he added, did not seem sufficientto inspire the singers with the requisite enthusiasm. His experience was thatSchroder-Devrient, in his Adele de Foix, would render very indifferently thesame final passage with which, in Bellini’s Romeo and Juliet, she would put theaudience into an ecstasy. The reason for this, he presumed, must lie in thesubject-matter. I at once promised him that I would supply him with a librettoin which he would be able to introduce these and similar melodies to thegreatest advantage. To this he gladly agreed, and I therefore set aside forversification, as a suitable text for Reissiger, my Hohe Braut, founded onKonig’s romance, which I had once before submitted to Scribe. I promised tobring Reissiger a page of verse for every piano rehearsal, and this Ifaithfully did until the whole book was done. I was much surprised to learnsome time later that Reissiger had had a new libretto written for him by anactor named Kriethe. This was called the Wreck of the Medusa. I then learnedthat the wife of the conductor, who was a suspicious woman, had been filledwith the greatest concern at my readiness to give up a libretto to her husband.They both thought the book was good and full of striking effects, but theysuspected some sort of trap in the background, to escape from which they mustcertainly exercise the greatest caution. The result was that I regainedpossession of my libretto and was able, later on, to help my old friend Kittlwith it in Prague; he set it to music of his own, and entitled it Die Franzosenvor Nizza. I heard that it was frequently performed in Prague with greatsuccess, though I never saw it myself; and I was also told at the same time bya local critic that this text was a proof of my real aptitude as a librettist,and that it was a mistake for me to devote myself to composition. As regards myTannhäuser, on the other hand, Laube used to declare it was a misfortune that Ihad not got an experienced dramatist to supply me with a decent text for mymusic.
For the time being, however, this work of versification had the desired result,and Reissiger kept steadily to the study of Rienzi. But what encouraged himeven more than my verses was the growing interest of the singers, and above allthe genuine enthusiasm of Tichatschek. This man, who had been so ready to leavethe delights of the theatre piano for a shooting party, now looked upon therehearsals of Rienzi as a genuine treat. He always attended them with radianteyes and boisterous good-humour. I soon felt myself in a state of constantexhilaration: favourite passages were greeted with acclamation by the singersat every rehearsal, and a concerted number of the third finale, whichunfortunately had afterwards to be omitted owing to its length, actually becameon that occasion a source of profit to me. For Tichatschek maintained that thisB minor was so lovely that something ought to be paid for it every time, and heput down a silver penny, inviting the others to do the same, to which they allresponded merrily. From that day forward, whenever we came to this passage atrehearsals, the cry was raised, ‘Here comes the silver penny part,’ andSchroder-Devrient, as she took out her purse, remarked that these rehearsalswould ruin her. This gratuity was conscientiously handed to me each time, andno one suspected that these contributions, which were given as a joke, wereoften a very welcome help towards defraying the cost of our daily food. ForMinna had returned from Toplitz, at the beginning of August, accompanied by mymother.
We lived very frugally in chilly lodgings, hopefully awaiting the tardy day ofour deliverance. The months of August and September passed, in preparation formy work, amid frequent disturbances caused by the fluctuating and scantyrepertoire of a German opera house, and not until October did the combinedrehearsals assume such a character as to promise the certainty of a speedyproduction. From the very beginning of the general rehearsals with theorchestra we all shared the conviction that the opera would, without doubt, bea great success. Finally, the full dress rehearsals produced a perfectlyintoxicating effect. When we tried the first scene of the second act with thescenery complete, and the messengers of peace entered, there was a generaloutburst of emotion, and even Schroder-Devrient, who was bitterly prejudicedagainst her part, as it was not the role of the heroine, could only answer myquestions in a voice stifled with tears. I believe the whole theatrical body,down to its humblest officials, loved me as though I were a real prodigy, and Iam probably not far wrong in saying that much of this arose from sympathy andlively fellow-feeling for a young man, whose exceptional difficulties were notunknown to them, and who now suddenly stepped out of perfect obscurity intosplendour. During the interval at the full dress rehearsal, while other membershad dispersed to revive their jaded nerves with lunch, I remained seated on apile of boards on the stage, in order that no one might realise that I was inthe quandary of being unable to obtain similar refreshment. An invalid Italiansinger, who was taking a small part in the opera, seemed to notice this, andkindly brought me a glass of wine and a piece of bread. I was sorry that I wasobliged to deprive him of even his small part in the course of the year, forits loss provoked such ill-treatment from his wife, that by conjugal tyranny hewas driven into the ranks of my enemies. When, after my flight from Dresden in1849, I learned that I had been denounced to the police by this same singer forsupposed complicity in the rising which took place in that town, I bethought meof this breakfast during the Rienzi rehearsal, and felt I was being punishedfor my ingratitude, for I knew I was guilty of having brought him into troublewith his wife.
The frame of mind in which I looked forward to the first performance of my workwas a unique experience which I have never felt either before or since. My kindsister Clara fully shared my feelings. She had been living a wretchedmiddle-class life at Chemnitz, which, just about this time, she had left tocome and share my fate in Dresden. The poor woman, whose undoubted artisticgifts had faded so early, was laboriously dragging out a commonplace bourgeoisexistence as a wife and mother; but now, under the influence of my growingsuccess, she began joyously to breathe a new life. She and I and the worthychorus-master Fischer used to spend our evenings with the Heine family, stillover potatoes and herrings, and often in a wonderfully elated frame of mind.The evening before our first performance I was able to crown our happiness bymyself ladling out a bowl of punch. With mingled tears and laughter we skippedabout like happy children, and then in sleep prepared ourselves for thetriumphant day to which we looked forward with such confidence..
Although on the morning of 20th October, 1842 I had resolved not to disturb anyof my singers by a visit, yet I happened to come across one of them, a stiffPhilistine called Risse, who was playing a minor bass part in a dull butrespectable way. The day was rather cool, but wonderfully bright and sunshiny,after the gloomy weather we had just been having. Without a word this curiouscreature saluted me and then remained standing, as though bewitched. He simplygazed into my face with wonder and rapture, in order to find out, so he at lastmanaged to tell me in strange confusion, how a man looked who that very day wasto face such an exceptional fate. I smiled and reflected that it was indeed aday of crisis, and promised him that I would soon drink a glass with him, atthe Stadt Hamburg inn, of the excellent wine he had recommended to me with somuch agitation.
No subsequent experience of mine can be compared with the sensations whichmarked the day of the first production of Rienzi. At all the first performancesof my works in later days, I have been so absorbed by an only too well-foundedanxiety as to their success, that I could neither enjoy the opera nor form anyreal estimate of its reception by the public. As for my subsequent experiencesat the general rehearsal of Tristan und Isolde, this took place under suchexceptional circumstances, and its effect upon me differed so fundamentallyfrom that produced by the first performance of Rienzi, that no comparison canpossibly be drawn between the two.
The immediate success of Rienzi was no doubt assured beforehand. But theemphatic way in which the audience declared their appreciation was thus farexceptional, that in cities like Dresden the spectators are never in a positionto decide conclusively upon a work of importance on the first night, andconsequently assume an attitude of chilling restraint towards the works ofunknown authors. But this was, in the nature of things, an exceptional case,for the numerous staff of the theatre and the body of musicians had inundatedthe city beforehand with such glowing reports of my opera, that the wholepopulation awaited the promised miracle in feverish expectation. I sat withMinna, my sister Clara, and the Heine family in a pit-box, and when I try torecall my condition during that evening, I can only picture it with all theparaphernalia of a dream. Of real pleasure or agitation I felt none at all: Iseemed to stand quite aloof from my work; whereas the sight of the thicklycrowded auditorium agitated me so much, that I was unable even to glance at thebody of the audience, whose presence merely affected me like some naturalphenomenon—something like a continuous downpour of rain—from which I soughtshelter in the farthest corner of my box as under a protecting roof. I wasquite unconscious of applause, and when at the end of the acts I wastempestuously called for, I had every time to be forcibly reminded by Heine anddriven on to the stage. On the other hand, one great anxiety filled me withgrowing alarm: I noticed that the first two acts had taken as long as the wholeof Freischutz, for instance. On account of its warlike calls to arms the thirdact begins with an exceptional uproar, and when at its close the clock pointedto ten, which meant that the performance had already lasted full four hours, Ibecame perfectly desperate. The fact that after this act, also, I was againloudly called, I regarded merely as a final courtesy on the part of theaudience, who wished to signify that they had had quite enough for one evening,and would now leave the house in a body. As we had still two acts before us, Ithought it settled that we should not be able to finish the piece, andapologised for my lack of wisdom in not having previously effected thenecessary curtailments. Now, thanks to my folly, I found myself in theunheard-of predicament of being unable to finish an opera, otherwise extremelywell received, simply because it was absurdly long. I could only explain theundiminished zeal of the singers, and particularly of Tichatschek, who seemedto grow lustier and cheerier the longer it lasted, as an amiable trick toconceal from me the inevitable catastrophe. But my astonishment at finding theaudience still there in full muster, even in the last act—towardsmidnight—filled me with imbounded perplexity. I could no longer trust my eyesor ears, and regarded the whole events of the evening as a nightmare. It waspast midnight when, for the last time, I had to obey the thunderous calls ofthe audience, side by side with my trusty singers.
My feeling of desperation at the unparalleled length of my opera was augmentedby the temper of my relatives, whom I saw for a short time after theperformance. Friedrich Brockhaus and his family had come over with some friendsfrom Leipzig, and had invited us to the inn, hoping to celebrate an agreeablesuccess over a pleasant supper, and possibly to drink my health. But onarriving, kitchen and cellar were closed, and every one was so worn out thatnothing was to be heard but outcries at the unparalleled case of an operalasting from six o’clock till past twelve. No further remarks were exchanged,and we stole away feeling quite stupefied.
About eight the next morning I put in an appearance at the clerks’ office, inorder that in case there should be a second performance I might arrange thenecessary curtailment of the parts. If, during the previous summer, I hadcontested every beat with the faithful chorus-master Fischer, and proved themall to be indispensable, I was now possessed by a blind rage for striking out.There was not a single part of my score which seemed any longer necessary—whatthe audience had been made to swallow the previous evening now appeared but achaos of sheer impossibilities, each and all of which might be omitted withoutthe slightest damage or risk of being unintelligible. My one thought now washow to reduce my convolution of monstrosities to decent limits. By dint ofunsparing and ruthless abbreviations handed over to the copyist, I hoped toavert a catastrophe, for I expected nothing less than that the general manager,together with the city and the theatre, would that very day give me tounderstand that such a thing as the performance of my Last of the Tribunesmight perhaps be permitted once as a curiosity, but not oftener. All day long,therefore, I carefully avoided going near the theatre, so as to give time formy heroic abbreviations to do their salutary work, and for news of them tospread through the city. But at midday I looked in again upon the copyists, toassure myself that all had been duly performed as I had ordered. I then learnedthat Tichatschek had also been there, and, after inspecting the omissions thatI had arranged, had forbidden their being carried out. Fischer, thechorus-master, also wished to speak to me about them: work was suspended, and Iforesaw great confusion. I could not understand what it all meant, and fearedmischief if the arduous task were delayed. At length, towards evening, I soughtout Tichatschek at the theatre. Without giving him a chance to speak, Ibrusquely asked him why he had interrupted the copyists’ work. In a half-chokedvoice he curtly and defiantly rejoined, ‘I will have none of my part cut out—itis too heavenly.’ I stared at him blankly, and then felt as though I had beensuddenly bewitched: such an unheard-of testimony to my success could not butshake me out of my strange anxiety. Others joined him, Fischer radiant withdelight and bubbling with laughter. Every one spoke of the enthusiastic emotionwhich thrilled the whole city. Next came a letter of thanks from theCommissioner acknowledging my splendid work. Nothing now remained for me but toembrace Tichatschek and Fischer, and go on my way to inform Minna and Clara howmatters stood.
After a few days’ rest for the actors, the second performance took place on26th October, but with various curtailments, for which I had great difficultyin obtaining Tichatschek’s consent. Although it was still of much more thanaverage length, I heard no particular complaints, and at last adoptedTichatschek’s view that, if he could stand it, so could the audience. For sixperformances therefore, all of which continued to receive a similar avalancheof applause, I let the matter run its course.
My opera, however, had also excited interest among the elder princesses of theroyal family. They thought its exhausting length a drawback, but werenevertheless unwilling to miss any of it. Lüttichau consequently proposed thatI should give the piece at full length, but half of it at a time on twosuccessive evenings. This suited me very well, and after an interval of a fewweeks we announced Rienzi’s Greatness for the first day, and His Fall for thesecond. The first evening we gave two acts, and on the second three, and forthe latter I composed a special introductory prelude. This met with the entireapproval of our august patrons, and especially of the two eldest, PrincessesAmalie and Augusta. The public, on the contrary, simply regarded this in thelight of now being asked to pay two entrance fees for one opera, and pronouncedthe new arrangement a decided fraud. Its annoyance at the change was so greatthat it actually threatened to be fatal to the attendance, and after threeperformances of the divided Rienzi the management was obliged to go back to theold arrangement, which I willingly made possible by introducing my cuttingsagain.
From this time forward the piece used to fill the house to overflowing as oftenas it could be presented, and the permanence of its success became still moreobvious when I began to realise the envy it drew upon me from many differentquarters. My first experience of this was truly painful, and came from thehands of the poet, Julius Mosen, on the very day after the first performance.When I first reached Dresden in the summer I had sought him out, and, having areally high opinion of his talent, our intercourse soon became more intimate,and was the means of giving me much pleasure and instruction. He had shown me avolume of his plays, which on the whole appealed to me exceptionally. Amongthese was a tragedy, Cola Rienzi, dealing with the same subject as my opera,and in a manner partly new to me, and which I thought effective. With referenceto this poem, I had begged him to take no notice of my libretto, as in thequality of its poetry it could not possibly bear comparison with his own; andit cost him little sacrifice to grant the request. It happened that just beforethe first performance of my Rienzi, he had produced in Dresden Bernhard vonWeimar, one of his least happy pieces, the result of which had brought himlittle pleasure. Dramatically it was a thing with no life in it, aiming only atpolitical harangue, and had shared the inevitable fate of all such aberrations.He had therefore awaited the appearance of my Rienzi with some vexation, andconfessed to me his bitter chagrin at not being able to procure the acceptanceof his tragedy of the same name in Dresden. This, he presumed, arose from itssomewhat pronounced political tendency, which, certainly in a spoken play on asimilar subject, would be more noticeable than in an opera, where from the verystart no one pays any heed to the words. I had genially confirmed him in thisdepreciation of the subject matter in opera; and was therefore the morestartled when, on finding him at my sister Louisa’s the day after the firstperformance, he straightway overwhelmed me with a scornful outburst ofirritation at my success. But he found in me a strange sense of the essentialunreality in opera of such a subject as that which I had just illustrated withso much success in Rienzi, so that, oppressed by a secret sense of shame, I hadno serious rejoinder to offer to his candidly poisonous abuse. My line ofdefence was not yet sufficiently clear in my own mind to be available offhand,nor was it yet backed by so obvious a product of my own peculiar genius that Icould venture to quote it. Moreover, my first impulse was only one of pity forthe unlucky playwright, which I felt all the more constrained to express,because his burst of fury gave me the inward satisfaction of knowing that herecognised my great success, of which I was not yet quite clear myself.
But this first performance of Rienzi did far more than this. It gave occasionfor controversy, and made an ever-widening breach between myself and thenewspaper critics. Herr Karl Bank, who for some time had been the chief musicalcritic in Dresden, had been known to me before at Magdeburg, where he oncevisited me and listened with delight to my playing of several fairly longpassages from my Liebesverbot. When we met again in Dresden, this man could notforgive me for having been unable to procure him tickets for the firstperformance of Rienzi. The same thing happened with a certain Herr JuliusSchladebach, who likewise settled in Dresden about that time as a critic.Though I was always anxious to be gracious to everybody, yet I felt just thenan invincible repugnance for showing special deference to any man because hewas a critic. As time went on, I carried this rule to the point of almostsystematic rudeness, and was consequently all my life through the victim ofunprecedented persecution from the press. As yet, however, this ill-will hadnot become pronounced, for at that time journalism had not begun to give itselfairs in Dresden. There were so few contributions sent from there to the outsidepress that our artistic doings excited very little notice elsewhere, a factwhich was certainly not without its disadvantages for me. Thus for the presentthe unpleasant side of my success scarcely affected me at all, and for a briefspace I felt myself, for the first and only time in my life, so pleasantlyborne along on the breath of general good-will, that all my former troublesseemed amply requited.
For further and quite unexpected fruits of my success now appeared withastonishing rapidity, though not so much in the form of material profit, whichfor the present resolved itself into nine hundred marks, paid me by the GeneralBoard as an exceptional fee instead of the usual twenty golden louis. Nor did Idare to cherish the hope of selling my work advantageously to a publisher,until it had been performed in some other important towns. But fate willed it,that by the sudden death of Rastrelli, royal director of music, which occurredshortly after the first production of Rienzi, an office should unexpectedlybecome vacant, for the filling of which all eyes at once turned to me.
While the negotiations over this matter were slowly proceeding, the GeneralBoard gave proof in another direction of an almost passionate interest in mytalents. They insisted that the first performance of the Fliegender Holländershould on no account be conceded to the Berlin opera, but reserved as an honourfor Dresden. As the Berlin authorities raised no obstacle, I very gladly handedover my latest work also to the Dresden theatre. If in this I had to dispensewith Tichatschek’s assistance, as there was no leading tenor part in the play,I could count all the more surely on the helpful co-operation ofSchroder-Devrient, to whom a worthier task was assigned in the leading femalepart than that which she had had in Rienzi. I was glad to be able thus to relyentirely upon her, as she had grown strangely out of humour with me, owing toher scanty share in the success of Rienzi. The completeness of my faith in herI proved with an exaggeration by no means advantageous to my own work, bysimply forcing the leading male part on Wachter, a once capable, but nowsomewhat delicate baritone. He was in every respect wholly unsuited to thetask, and only accepted it with unfeigned hesitation. On submitting my play tomy adored prima donna, I was much relieved to find that its poetry made aspecial appeal to her. Thanks to the genuine personal interest awakened in meunder very peculiar circumstances by the character and fate of this exceptionalwoman, our study of the part of Senta, which often brought us into closecontact, became one of the most thrilling and momentously instructive periodsof my life.
It is true that the great actress, especially when under the influence of herfamous mother, Sophie Schroder, who was just then with her on a visit, showedundisguised vexation at my having composed so brilliant a work as Rienzi forDresden without having specifically reserved the principal part for her. Yetthe magnanimity of her disposition triumphed even over this selfish impulse:she loudly proclaimed me ‘a genius,’ and honoured me with that specialconfidence which, she said, none but a genius should enjoy. But when sheinvited me to become both the accomplice and adviser in her really dreadfullove affairs, this confidence certainly began to have its risky side;nevertheless there were at first occasions on which she openly proclaimedherself before all the world as my friend, making most flattering distinctionsin my favour.
First of all I had to accompany her on a trip to Leipzig, where she was givinga concert for her mother’s benefit, which she thought to make particularlyattractive by including in its programme two selections from Rienzi—the aria ofAdriano and the hero’s prayer (the latter sung by Tichatschek), and both undermy personal conductorship. Mendelssohn, who was also on very friendly termswith her, had been enticed to this concert too, and produced his overture toRuy Blas, then quite new. It was during the two busy days spent on thisoccasion in Leipzig that I first came into close contact with him, all myprevious knowledge of him having been limited to a few rare and altogetherprofitless visits. At the house of my brother-in-law, Fritz Brockhaus, he andDevrient gave us a good deal of music, he playing her accompaniment to a numberof Schubert’s songs. I here became conscious of the peculiar unrest andexcitement with which this master of music, who, though still young, hadalready reached the zenith of his fame and life’s work, observed or ratherwatched me. I could see clearly that he thought but little of a success inopera, and that merely in Dresden. Doubtless I seemed in his eyes one of aclass of musicians to whom he attached no value, and with whom he proposed tohave no intercourse. Nevertheless my success had certain characteristicfeatures, which gave it a more or less alarming aspect. Mendelssohn’s mostardent desire for a long time past had been to write a successful opera, and itwas possible he now felt annoyed that, before he had succeeded in doing so, atriumph of this nature should suddenly be thrust into his face with bluntbrutality, and based upon a style of music which he might feel justified inregarding as poor. He probably found it no less exasperating that Devrient,whose gifts he acknowledged, and who was his own devoted admirer, should now soopenly and loudly sound my praises. These thoughts were dimly shapingthemselves in my mind, when Mendelssohn, by a very remarkable statement, droveme, almost with violence, to adopt this interpretation. On our way hometogether, after the joint concert rehearsal, I was talking very warmly on thesubject of music. Although by no means a talkative man, he suddenly interruptedme with curiously hasty excitement by the assertion that music had but onegreat fault, namely, that more than any other art it stimulated not only ourgood, but also our evil qualities, such, for instance, as jealousy. I blushedwith shame to have to apply this speech to his own feelings towards me; for Iwas profoundly conscious of my innocence of ever having dreamed, even in theremotest degree, of placing my own talents or performances as a musician incomparison with his. Yet, strange to say, at this very concert he showedhimself in a light by no means calculated to place him beyond all possibilityof comparison with myself. A rendering of his Hebrides Overture would haveplaced him so immeasurably above my two operatic airs, that all shyness athaving to stand beside him would have been spared me, as the gulf between ourtwo productions was impassable. But in his choice of the Ruy Blas Overture heappears to have been prompted by a desire to place himself on this occasion soclose to the operatic style that its effectiveness might be reflected upon hisown work. The overture was evidently calculated for a Parisian audience, andthe astonishment Mendelssohn caused by appearing in such a connection was shownby Robert Schumann in his own ungainly fashion at its close. Approaching themusician in the orchestra, he blandly, and with a genial smile, expressed hisadmiration of the ‘brilliant orchestral piece’ just played..
But in the interests of veracity let me not forget that neither he nor I scoredthe real success of that evening. We were both wholly eclipsed by thetremendous effect produced by the grey-haired Sophie Schroder in a recitationof Burger’s Lenore. While the daughter had been taunted in the newspapers withunfairly employing all sorts of musical attractions to cozen a benefit concertout of the music lovers of Leipzig for a mother who never had anything to dowith that art, we, who were there as her musical aiders and abettors, had tostand like so many idle conjurers, while this aged and almost toothless damedeclaimed Burger’s poem with truly terrifying beauty and grandeur. Thisepisode, like so much else that I saw during these few days, gave me abundantfood for thought and meditation.
A second excursion, also undertaken with Devrient, took me in the December ofthat year to Berlin, where the singer had been invited to appear at a grandstate concert. I for my part wanted an interview with Director Küstner aboutthe Fliegender Holländer. Although I arrived at no definite result regarding myown personal business, this short visit to Berlin was memorable for my meetingwith Franz Liszt, which afterwards proved of great importance. It took placeunder singular circumstances, which placed both him and me in a situation ofpeculiar embarrassment, brought about in the most wanton fashion by Devrient’sexasperating caprice.
I had already told my patroness the story of my earlier meeting with Liszt.During that fateful second winter of my stay in Paris, when I had at last beendriven to be grateful for Schlesinger’s hack-work, I one day received word fromLaube, who always bore me in mind, that F. Liszt was coming to Paris. He hadmentioned and recommended me to him when he was in Germany, and advised me tolose no time in looking him up, as he was ‘generous,’ and would certainly findmeans of helping me. As soon as I heard that he had really arrived, I presentedmyself at the hotel to see him. It was early in the morning. On my entrance Ifound several strange gentlemen waiting in the drawing-room, where, after sometime, we were joined by Liszt himself, pleasant and affable, and wearing hisindoor coat. The conversation was carried on in French, and turned upon hisexperiences during his last professional journey in Hungary. As I was unable totake part, on account of the language, I listened for some time, feelingheartily bored, until at last he asked me pleasantly what he could do for me.He seemed unable to recall Laube’s recommendation, and all the answer I couldgive was that I desired to make his acquaintance. To this he had evidently noobjection, and informed me he would take care to have a ticket sent me for hisgreat matinee, which was to take place shortly. My sole attempt to introduce anartistic theme of conversation was a question as to whether he knew Lowe’sErlkonig as well as Schubert’s. His reply in the negative frustrated thissomewhat awkward attempt, and I ended my visit by giving him my address.Thither his secretary, Belloni, presently sent me, with a few polite words, acard of admission to a concert to be given entirely by the master himself inthe Salle Erard. I duly wended my way to the overcrowded hall, and beheld theplatform on which the grand piano stood, closely beleaguered by the cream ofParisian female society, and witnessed their enthusiastic ovations of thisvirtuoso, who was at that time the wonder of the world. Moreover, I heardseveral of his most brilliant pieces, such as ‘Variations on Robert le Diable,’but carried away with me no real impression beyond that of being stunned. Thistook place just at the time when I abandoned a path which had been contrary tomy truer nature, and had led me astray, and on which I now emphatically turnedmy back in silent bitterness. I was therefore in no fitting mood for a justappreciation of this prodigy, who at that time was shining in the blazing lightof day, but from whom I had turned my face to the night. I went to see Liszt nomore.
As already mentioned, I had given Devrient a bare outline of this story, butshe had noted it with particular attention, for I happened to have touched herweak point of professional jealousy. As Liszt had also been commanded by theKing of Prussia to appear at the grand state concert at Berlin, it so happenedthat the first time they met Liszt questioned her with great interest about thesuccess of Rienzi. She thereupon observed that the composer of that opera wasan altogether unknown man, and proceeded with curious malice to taunt him withhis apparent lack of penetration, as proved by the fact that the said composer,who now so keenly excited his interest, was the very same poor musician whom hehad lately ‘turned away so contemptuously’ in Paris. All this she told me withan air of triumph, which distressed me very much, and I at once set to work tocorrect the false impression conveyed by my former account. As we were stilldebating this point in her room, we were startled by hearing from the next thefamous bass part in the ‘Revenge’ air from Donna Anna, rapidly executed inoctaves on the piano. ‘That’s Liszt himself,’ she cried. Liszt then entered theroom to fetch her for the rehearsal. To my great embarrassment she introducedme to him with malicious delight as the composer of Rienzi, the man whoseacquaintance he now wished to make after having previously shown him the doorin his glorious Paris. My solemn asseverations that my patroness—no doubt onlyin fun—was deliberately distorting my account of my former visit to him,apparently pacified him so far as I was concerned, and, on the other hand, hehad no doubt already formed his own opinion of the impulsive singer. Hecertainly regretted that he could not remember my visit in Paris, but itnevertheless shocked and alarmed him to learn that any one should have hadreason to complain of such treatment at his hands. The hearty sincerity ofListz’s simple words to me about this misunderstanding, as contrasted with thestrangely passionate raillery of the incorrigible lady, made a most pleasingand captivating impression upon me. The whole bearing of the man, and the wayin which he tried to ward off the pitiless scorn of her attacks, was somethingnew to me, and gave me a deep insight into his character, so firm in itsamiability and boundless good-nature. Finally, she teased him about theDoctor’s degree which had just been conferred on him by the University ofKönigsberg, and pretended to mistake him for a chemist. At last he stretchedhimself out flat on the floor, and implored her mercy, declaring himself quitedefenceless against the storm of her invective. Then turning to me with ahearty assurance that he would make it his business to hear Rienzi, and wouldin any case endeavour to give me a better opinion of himself than his evil starhad hitherto permitted, we parted for that occasion.
The almost naive simplicity and naturalness of his every phrase and word, andparticularly his emphatic manner, left a most profound impression upon me. Noone could fail to be equally affected by these qualities, and I now realisedfor the first time the almost magic power exerted by Liszt over all who came inclose contact with him, and saw how erroneous had been my former opinion as toits cause.
These two excursions to Leipzig and Berlin found but brief interruptions of theperiod devoted at home to our study of the Fliegender Holländer. It wastherefore, of paramount importance to me to maintain Schroder-Devrient’s keeninterest in her part, since, in view of the weakness of the rest of the cast, Iwas convinced that it was from her alone I could expect any adequateinterpretation of the spirit of my work.
The part of Senta was essentially suited to her, and there were just at thatmoment peculiar circumstances in her life which brought her naturally emotionaltemperament to a high pitch of tension. I was amazed when she confided to methat she was on the point of breaking off a regular liaison of many years’standing, to form, in passionate haste, another much less desirable one. Theforsaken lover, who was tenderly devoted to her, was a young lieutenant in theRoyal Guards, and the son of Muller, the ex-Minister of Education; her newchoice, whose acquaintance she had formed on a recent visit to Berlin, was Herrvon Munchhausen. He was a tall, slim young man, and her predilection for himwas easily explained when I became more closely acquainted with her loveaffairs. It seemed to me that the bestowal of her confidence on me in thismatter arose from her guilty conscience; she was aware that Muller, whom Iliked on account of his excellent disposition, had loved her with theearnestness of a first love, and also that she was now betraying him in themost faithless way on a trivial pretext. She must have known that her new loverwas entirely unworthy of her, and that his intentions were frivolous andselfish. She knew, too, that no one, and certainly none of her older friendswho knew her best, would approve of her behaviour. She told me candidly thatshe had felt impelled to confide in me because I was a genius, and wouldunderstand the demands of her temperament. I hardly knew what to think. I wasrepelled alike by her passion and the circumstances attending it; but to myastonishment I had to confess that the infatuation, so repulsive to me, heldthis strange woman in so powerful a grasp that I could not refuse her a certainamount of pity, nay, even real sympathy.
She was pale and distraught, ate hardly anything, and her faculties weresubjected to a strain so extraordinary that I thought she would not escape aserious, perhaps a fatal illness. Sleep had long since deserted her, andwhenever I brought her my unlucky Fliegender Holländer, her looks so alarmed methat the proposed rehearsal was the last thing I thought of. But in this mattershe insisted; she made me sit down at the piano, and then plunged into thestudy of her role as if it were a matter of life and death. She found theactual learning of the part very difficult, and it was only by repeated andpersevering rehearsal that she mastered her task. She would sing for hours at atime with such passion that I often sprang up in terror and begged her to spareherself; then she would point smiling to her chest, and expand the muscles ofher still magnificent person, to assure me that she was doing herself no harm.Her voice really acquired at that time a youthful freshness and power ofendurance. I had to confess that which often astonished me: this infatuationfor an insipid nobody was very much to the advantage of my Senta. Her courageunder this intense strain was so great that, as time pressed, she consented tohave the general rehearsal on the very day of the first performance, and adelay which would have been greatly to my disadvantage was thus avoided.
The performance took place on 2nd January, in the year 1843. Its result wasextremely instructive to me, and led to the turning-point of my career. Theill-success of the performance taught me how much care and forethought wereessential to secure the adequate dramatic interpretation of my latest works. Irealised that I had more or less believed that my score would explain itself,and that my singers would arrive at the right interpretation of their ownaccord. My good old friend Wachter, who at the time of Henriette Sontag’s firstsuccess was a favourite ‘Barber of Seville,’ had from the first discreetlythought otherwise. Unfortunately, even Schroder-Devrient only saw when therehearsals were too far advanced how utterly incapable Wachter was of realisingthe horror and supreme suffering of my Mariner. His distressing corpulence, hisbroad fat face, the extraordinary movements of his arms and legs, which hemanaged to make look like mere stumps, drove my passionate Senta to despair. Atone rehearsal, when in the great scene in Act ii. she comes to him in the guiseof a guardian angel to bring the message of salvation, she broke off to whisperdespairingly in my ear, ‘How can I say it when I look into those beady eyes?Good God, Wagner, what a muddle you have made!’ I consoled her as well as Icould, and secretly placed my dependence on Herr von Munchhausen, who promisedfaithfully to sit that evening in the front row of the stalls, so thatDevrient’s eyes must fall on him. And the magnificent performance of my greatartiste, although she stood horribly alone on the stage, did succeed in rousingenthusiasm in the second act. The first act offered the audience nothing but adull conversation between Herr Wachter and that Herr Risse who had invited meto an excellent glass of wine on the first night of Rienzi, and in the thirdthe loudest raging of the orchestra did not rouse the sea from its dead calmnor the phantom ship in its cautious rocking. The audience fell to wonderinghow I could have produced this crude, meagre, and gloomy work after Rienzi, inevery act of which incident abounded, and Tichatschek shone in an endlessvariety of costumes.
As Schroder-Devrient soon left Dresden for a considerable time, the FliegenderHolländer saw only four performances, at which the diminishing audiences madeit plain that I had not pleased Dresden taste with it. The management wascompelled to revive Rienzi in order to maintain my prestige; and the triumph ofthis opera compared with the failure of the Dutchman gave me food forreflection. I had to admit, with some misgivings, that the success of my Rienziwas not entirely due to the cast and staging, although I was fully alive to thedefects from which the Fliegender Holländer suffered in this respect. AlthoughWachter was far from realising my conception of the Fliegender Holländer Icould not conceal from myself the fact that Tichatschek was quite as farremoved from the ideal Rienzi. His abominable errors and deficiencies in hispresentation of the part had never escaped me; he had never been able to layaside his brilliant and heroic leading-tenor manners in order to render thatgloomy demonic strain in Rienzi’s temperament on which I had laid unmistakablestress at the critical points of the drama. In the fourth act, after thepronouncement of the curse, he fell on his knees in the most melancholy fashionand abandoned himself to bewailing his fate in piteous tones. When I suggestedto him that Rienzi, though inwardly despairing, must take up an attitude ofstatuesque firmness before the world, he pointed out to me the great popularitywhich the end of this very act had won as interpreted by himself, with anintimation that he intended making no change in it.
And when I considered the real causes of the success of Rienzi, I found that itrested on the brilliant and extraordinarily fresh voice of the soaring, happysinger, in the refreshing effect of the chorus and the gay movement andcolouring on the stage. I received a still more convincing proof of this whenwe divided the opera into two, and found that the second part, which was themore important from both the dramatic and the musical point of view, wasnoticeably less well attended than the first, for the very obvious reason, as Ithought, that the ballet occurred in the first part. My brother Julius, who hadcome over from Leipzig for one of the performances of Rienzi, gave me a stillmore naive testimony as to the real point of interest in the opera. I wassitting with him in an open box, in full sight of the audience, and hadtherefore begged him to desist from giving any applause, even if directed onlyto the efforts of the singers; he restrained himself all through the evening,but his enthusiasm at a certain figure of the ballet was too much for him, andhe clapped loudly, to the great amusement of the audience, telling me that hecould not hold himself in any longer. Curiously enough, this same balletsecured for Rienzi, which was otherwise received with indifference, theenduring preference of the present King of Prussia,[11] who many years afterwards ordered therevival of this opera, although it had utterly failed in arousing publicinterest by its merits as a drama.
[11]William the First.
I found, when I had to be present later on at a representation of the sameopera at Darmstadt, that while wholesale cuts had to be made in its best parts,it had been found necessary to expand the ballets by additions and repetitions.This ballet music, which I had put together with contemptuous haste at Riga ina few days without any inspiration, seemed to me, moreover, so strikingly weakthat I was thoroughly ashamed of it even in those days at Dresden, when I hadfound myself compelled to suppress its best feature, the tragic pantomime.Further, the resources of the ballet in Dresden did not even admit of theexecution of my stage directions for the combat in the arena, nor for the verysignificant round dances, both admirably carried out at a later date in Berlin.I had to be content with the humiliating substitution of a long, foolishstep-dance by two insignificant dancers, which was ended by a company ofsoldiers marching on, bearing their shields on high so as to form a roof andremind the audience of the Roman testudo; then the ballet-master with hisassistant, in flesh-coloured tights, leaped on to the shields and turnedsomersaults, a proceeding which they thought was reminiscent of thegladiatorial games. It was at this point that the house was always moved toresounding applause, and I had to own that this moment marked the climax of mysuccess.
I thus had my doubts as to the intrinsic divergence between my inner aims andmy outward success; at the same time a decisive and fatal change in my fortuneswas brought about by my acceptance of the conductorship at Dresden, undercircumstances as perplexing in their way as those preceding my marriage. I hadmet the negotiations which led up to this appointment with a hesitation and acoolness by no means affected. I felt nothing but scorn for theatrical life; ascorn that was by no means lessened by a closer acquaintance with theapparently distinguished ruling body of a court theatre, the splendours ofwhich only conceal, with arrogant ignorance, the humiliating conditionsappertaining to it and to the modern theatre in general. I saw every nobleimpulse stifled in those occupied with theatrical matters, and a combination ofthe vainest and most frivolous interests maintained by a ridiculously rigid andbureaucratic system; I was now fully convinced that the necessity of handlingthe business of the theatre would be the most distasteful thing I couldimagine. Now that, through Rastrelli’s death, the temptation to be false to myinner conviction came to me in Dresden, I explained to my old and trustedfriends that I did not think I should accept the vacant post.
But everything calculated to shake human resolution combined against thisdecision. The prospect of securing the means of livelihood through a permanentposition with a fixed salary was an irresistible attraction. I combated thetemptation by reminding myself of my success as an operatic composer, whichmight reasonably be expected to bring in enough to supply my moderaterequirements in a lodging of two rooms, where I could proceed undisturbed withfresh compositions. I was told in answer to this that my work itself would bebetter served by a fixed position without arduous duties, as for a whole yearsince the completion of the Fliegender Holländer I had not, under existingcircumstances, found any leisure at all for composition. I still remainedconvinced that Rastrelli’s post of musical director, in subordination to theconductor, was unworthy of me, and I declined to entertain the proposal, thusleaving the management to look elsewhere for some one to fill the vacancy.
There was therefore no further question of this particular post, but I was theninformed that the death of Morlacchi had left vacant a court conductorship, andit was thought that the King would be willing to offer me the post. My wife wasvery much excited at this prospect, for in Germany the greatest value is laidon these court appointments, which are tenable for life, and the dazzlingrespectability pertaining to them is held out to German musicians as the acmeof earthly happiness. The offer opened up for us in many directions theprospect of friendly relations in a society which had hitherto been outside ourexperience. Domestic comfort and social prestige were very alluring to thehomeless wanderers who, in bygone days of misery, had often longed for thecomfort and security of an assured and permanent position such as was now opento them under the august protection of the court. The influence of Caroline vonWeber did much in the long-run to weaken my opposition. I was often at herhouse, and took great pleasure in her society, which brought back to my mindvery vividly the personality of my still dearly beloved master. She begged mewith really touching tenderness not to withstand this obvious command of fate,and asserted her right to ask me to settle in Dresden, to fill the place leftsadly empty by her husband’s death. ‘Just think,’ she said, ‘how can I lookWeber in the face again when I join him if I have to tell him that the work forwhich he made such devoted sacrifices in Dresden is neglected; just imagine myfeelings when I see that indolent Reissiger stand in my noble Weber’s place,and when I hear his operas produced more mechanically every year. If you lovedWeber, you owe it to his memory to step into his place and to continue hiswork.’ As an experienced woman of the world she also pointed out energeticallyand prudently the practical side of the matter, impressing on me the duty ofthinking of my wife, who would, in case of my death, be sufficiently providedfor if I accepted the post.
The promptings of affection, prudence and good sense, however, had less weightwith me than the enthusiastic conviction, never at any period of my lifeentirely destroyed, that wherever fate led me, whether to Dresden or elsewhere,I should find the opportunity which would convert my dreams into realitythrough currents set in motion by some change in the everyday order of events.All that was needed for this was the advent of an ardent and aspiring soul who,with good luck to back him, might make up for lost time, and by his ennoblinginfluence achieve the deliverance of art from her shameful bonds. The wonderfuland rapid change which had taken place in my fortunes could not fail toencourage such a hope, and I was seduced on perceiving the marked alterationthat had taken place in the whole attitude of Lüttichau, the general director,towards me. This strange individual showed me a kindliness of which no onewould hitherto have thought him capable, and that he was prompted by a genuinefeeling of personal benevolence towards me I could not help being absolutelyconvinced, even at the time of my subsequent ceaseless differences with him.
Nevertheless, the decision came as a kind of surprise. On 2nd February 1843 Iwas very politely invited to the director’s office, and there met the generalstaff of the royal orchestra, in whose presence Lüttichau, through the mediumof my never-to-be-forgotten friend Winkler, solemnly read out to me a royalrescript appointing me forthwith conductor to his Majesty, with a life salaryof four thousand five hundred marks a year. Lüttichau followed the reading ofthis document by a more or less ceremonious speech, in which he assumed that Ishould gratefully accept the King’s favour. At this polite ceremony it did notescape my notice that all possibility of future negotiations over the figure ofthe salary was cut off; on the other hand, a substantial exemption in myfavour, the omission of the condition, enforced even on Weber in his time, ofserving a year’s probation under the title of mere musical director, wascalculated to secure my unconditional acceptance. My new colleaguescongratulated me, and Lüttichau accompanied me with the politest phrases to myown door, where I fell into the arms of my poor wife, who was giddy withdelight. Therefore I fully realised that I must put the best face I could onthe matter, and unless I wished to give unheard-of offence, I must evencongratulate myself on my appointment as royal conductor.
A few days after taking the oath as a servant of the King in solemn session,and undergoing the ceremony of presentation to the assembled orchestra by meansof an enthusiastic speech from the general director, I was summoned to anaudience with his Majesty. When I saw the features of the kind, courteous, andhomely monarch, I involuntarily thought of my youthful attempt at a politicaloverture on the theme of Friedrich und Freiheit. Our somewhat embarrassedconversation brightened with the King’s expression of his satisfaction withthose two of my operas which had been performed in Dresden. He expressed withpolite hesitation his feeling that if my operas left anything to be desired, itwas a clearer definition of the various characters in my musical dramas. Hethought the interest in the persons was overpowered by the elemental forcesfiguring beside them—in Hienzi the mob, in the Fliegender Holländer the sea. Ithought I understood his meaning perfectly, and this proof of his sinceresympathy and original judgment pleased me very much. He also made his excusesin advance for a possible rare attendance at my operas on his part, his solereason for this being that he had a peculiar aversion from theatre-going, asthe result of one of the rules of his early training, under which he and hisbrother John, who had acquired a similar aversion, were for a long timecompelled regularly to attend the theatre, when he, to tell the truth, wouldoften have preferred to be left alone to follow his own pursuits independent ofetiquette.
As a characteristic instance of the courtier spirit, I afterwards learned thatLüttichau, who had had to wait for me in the anteroom during this audience, hadbeen very much put out by its long duration. In the whole course of my life Iwas only admitted twice more to personal intercourse and speech with the goodKing. The first occasion was when I presented him with the dedication copy ofthe pianoforte score of my Rienzi; and the second was after my very successfularrangement and performance of the Iphigenia in Aulis, by Gluck, of whoseoperas he was particularly fond, when he stopped me in the public promenade andcongratulated me on my work.
That first audience with the King marked the zenith of my hastily adoptedcareer at Dresden; thenceforward anxiety reasserted itself in manifold ways. Ivery quickly realised the difficulties of my material situation, since it soonbecame evident that the advantage won by new exertions and my presentappointment bore no proportion to the heavy sacrifices and obligations which Iincurred as soon as I entered on an independent career. The young musicaldirector of Riga, long since forgotten, suddenly reappeared in an astonishingreincarnation as royal conductor to the King of Saxony. The first-fruits of theuniversal estimate of my good fortune took the shape of pressing creditors andthreats of prosecution; next followed demands from the Königsberg tradesmen,from whom I had escaped from Riga by means of that horribly wretched andmiserable flight. I also heard from people in the most distant parts, whothought they had some claim on me, dating even from my student, nay, my schooldays, until at last I cried out in my astonishment that I expected to receive abill next from the nurse who had suckled me. All this did not amount to anyvery large sum, and I merely mention it because of the ill-natured rumourswhich, I learned years later, had been spread abroad about the extent of mydebts at that time. Out of three thousand marks, borrowed at interest fromSchroder-Devrient, I not only paid these debts, but also fully compensated thesacrifices which Kietz had made on my behalf, without ever expecting anyreturn, in the days of my poverty in Paris. I was, moreover, able to be ofpractical use to him. But where was I to find even this sum, as my distress hadhitherto been so great that I was obliged to urge Schroder-Devrient to hurry onthe rehearsals of the Fliegender Holländer by pointing out to her the enormousimportance to me of the fee for the performance? I had no allowance for theexpenses of my establishment in Dresden, though it had to be suitable for myposition as royal conductor, nor even for the purchase of a ridiculous andexpensive court uniform, so that there would have been no possibility of mymaking a start at all, as I had no private means, unless I borrowed money atinterest.
But no one who knew of the extraordinary success of Rienzi at Dresden couldhelp believing in an immediate and remunerative rage for my operas on theGerman stage. My own relatives, even the prudent Ottilie, were so convinced ofit that they thought I might safely count on at least doubling my salary by thereceipts from my operas. At the very beginning the prospects did indeed seembright; the score of my Fliegender Holländer was ordered by the Royal Theatreat Cassel and by the Riga theatre, which I had known so well in the old days,because they were anxious to perform something of mine at an early date, andhad heard that this opera was on a smaller scale, and made smaller demands onthe stage management, than Rienzi. In May, 1843 I heard good reports of thesuccess of the performances from both those places. But this was all for thetime being, and a whole year went by without the smallest inquiry for any of myscores. An attempt was made to secure me some benefit by the publication of thepianoforte score of the Fliegender Holländer, as I wanted to reserve Rienzi,after the successes it had gained, as useful capital for a more favourableopportunity; but the plan was spoilt by the opposition of Messrs. Hartel ofLeipzig, who, although ready enough to publish my opera, would only do so onthe condition that I abstained from asking any payment for it.
So I had, for the present, to content myself with the moral satisfaction of mysuccesses, of which my unmistakable popularity with the Dresden public, and therespect and attention paid to me, formed part. But even in this respect myUtopian dreams were destined to be disturbed. I think that my appearance atDresden marked the beginning of a new era in journalism and criticism, whichfound food for its hitherto but slightly developed vitality in its vexation atmy success. The two gentlemen I have already mentioned, C. Bank and J.Schladebach, had, as I now know, first taken up their regular abode in Dresdenat that time; I know that when difficulties were raised about the permanence ofBank’s appointment, they were waived, owing to the testimonials andrecommendation of my present colleague Reissiger. The success of my Rienzi hadbeen the source of great annoyance to these gentlemen, who were now establishedas musical critics to the Dresden press, because I made no effort to win theirfavour; they were not ill-pleased, therefore, to find an opportunity of pouringout the vitriol of their hatred over the universally popular young musician whohad won the sympathy of the kindly public, partly on account of the poverty andill-luck which had hitherto been his lot. The need for any kind of humanconsideration had suddenly vanished with my ‘unheard-of’ appointment to theroyal conductorship. Now ‘all was well with me,’ ‘too well,’ in fact; and envyfound its congenial food; this provided a perfectly clear and comprehensiblepoint of attack; and soon there spread through the German press, in the columnsgiven to Dresden news, an estimate of me which has never fundamentally changed,except in one point, to this day. This single modification, which was purelytemporary and confined to papers of one political colour, occurred on my firstsettlement as a political refugee in Switzerland, but lasted only until,through Liszt’s exertions, my operas began to be produced all over Germany, inspite of my exile. The orders from two theatres, immediately after the Dresdenperformance, for one of my scores, were merely due to the fact that up to thattime the activity of my journalistic critics was still limited. I put down thecessation of all inquiries, certainly not without due justification, mainly tothe effect of the false and calumnious reports in the papers.
My old friend Laube tried, indeed, to undertake my defence in the press. On NewYear’s Day, 1843 he resumed the editorship of the Zeitung fur die EleganteWelt, and asked me to provide him with a biographical notice of myself for thefirst number. It evidently gave him great pleasure to present me thus intriumph to the literary world, and in order to give the subject more prominencehe added a supplement to that number in the shape of a lithograph reproductionof my portrait by Kietz. But after a time even he became anxious and confusedin his judgment of my works, when he saw the systematic and increasinglyvirulent detraction, depreciation, and scorn to which they were subjected. Heconfessed to me later that he had never imagined such a desperate position asmine against the united forces of journalism could possibly exist, and when heheard my view of the question, he smiled and gave me his blessing, as though Iwere a lost soul.
Moreover, a change was observable in the attitude of those immediatelyconnected with me in my work, and this provided very acceptable material forthe journalistic campaign. I had been led, though by no ambitious impulse, toask to be allowed to conduct the performances of my own works. I found that atevery performance of Rienzi Reissiger became more negligent in his conducting,and that the whole production was slipping back into the old familiar,expressionless, and humdrum performance; and as my appointment was alreadymooted, I had asked permission to conduct the sixth performance of my work inperson. I conducted without having held a single rehearsal, and without anyprevious experience, at the head of the Dresden orchestra. The performance wentsplendidly; singers and orchestra were inspired with new life, and everybodywas obliged to admit that this was the finest performance of Rienzi that hadyet been given. The rehearsing and con-ducting of the Fliegender Holländer werewillingly handed over to me, because Reissiger was overwhelmed with work, inconsequence of the death of the musical director, Rastrelli. In addition tothis I was asked to conduct Weber’s Euryanthe, by way of providing a directproof of my capacity to interpret scores other than my own. Apparentlyeverybody was pleased, and it was the tone of this performance that madeWeber’s widow so anxious that I should accept the Dresden conductorship; shedeclared that for the first time since her husband’s death she had heard hiswork correctly interpreted, both in expression and time.
Thereupon, Reissiger, who would have preferred to have a musical director underhim, but had received instead a colleague on an equal footing, felt himselfaggrieved by my appointment. Though his own indolence would have inclined himto the side of peace and a good understanding with me, his ambitious wife tookcare to stir up his fear of me. This never led to an openly hostile attitude onhis part, but I noticed certain indiscretions in the press from that timeonwards, which showed me that the friendliness of my colleague, who nevertalked to me without first embracing me, was not of the most honourable type.
I also received a quite unexpected proof that I had attracted the bitter envyof another man whose sentiments I had no reason to suspect. This was KarlLipinsky, a celebrated violinist in his day, who had for many years led theDresden orchestra. He was a man of ardent temperament and original talent, butof incredible vanity, which his emotional, suspicious Polish temperamentrendered dangerous. I always found him annoying, because however inspiring andinstructive his playing was as to the technical execution of the violinists, hewas certainly ill-fitted to be the leader of a first-class orchestra. Thisextraordinary person tried to justify Director Lüttichau’s praise of hisplaying, which could always be heard above the rest of the orchestra; he camein a little before the other violins; he was a leader in a double sense, as hewas always a little ahead. He acted in much the same way with regard toexpression, marking his slight variations in the piano passages with fanaticalprecision. It was useless to talk to him about it, as nothing but the mostskilful flattery had any effect on him. So I had to endure it as best I could,and to think out ways and means of diminishing its ill effects on theorchestral performances as a whole by having recourse to the most politecircumlocutions. Even so he could not endure the higher estimation in which theperformances of the orchestra under my conductorship were held, because hethought that the playing of an orchestra in which he was the leader mustinvariably be excellent, whoever stood at the conductor’s desk. Now ithappened, as is always the case when a new man with fresh ideas is installed inoffice, that the members of the orchestra came to me with the most variedsuggestions for improvements which had hitherto been neglected; and Lipinsky,who was already annoyed about this, turned a certain case of this kind to apeculiarly treacherous use. One of the oldest contrabassists had died. Lipinskyurged me to arrange that the post should not be filled in the usual way bypromotion from the ranks of our own orchestra, but should be given, on hisrecommendation, to a distinguished and skilful contrabassist from Darmstadtnamed Muller. When the musician whose rights of seniority were thus threatened,appealed to me, I kept my promise to Lipinsky, explained my views about theabuses of promotion by seniority, and declared that, in accordance with mysworn oath to the King, I held it my paramount duty to consider the maintenanceof the artistic interests of the institution before everything else. I thenfound to my great astonishment, though it was foolish of me to be surprised,that the whole of the orchestra turned upon me as one man, and when theoccasion arose for a discussion between Lipinsky and myself as to his ownnumerous grievances, he actually accused me of having threatened, by my remarksin the contrabassist case, to undermine the well-established rights of themembers of the orchestra, whose welfare it was my duty to protect. Lüttichau,who was on the point of absenting himself from Dresden for some time, wasextremely uneasy, as Reissiger was away on his holiday, at leaving musicalaffairs in such a dangerous state of unrest. The deceit and impudence of whichI had been the victim was a revelation to me, and I gathered from thisexperience the calm sense necessary to set the harassed director at ease by themost conclusive assurances that I understood the people with whom I had todeal, and would act accordingly. I faithfully kept my word, and never againcame into collision either with Lipinsky or any other member of the orchestra.On the contrary, all the musicians were soon so firmly attached to me that Icould always pride myself on their devotion.
From that day forward, however, one thing at least was certain, namely, that Ishould not die as conductor at Dresden. My post and my work at Dresdenthenceforward became a burden, of which the occasionally excellent results ofmy efforts made me all the more sensible.
My position at Dresden, however, brought me one friend whose intimate relationswith me long survived our artistic collaboration in Dresden. A musical directorwas assigned to each conductor; he had to be a musician of repute, a hardworker, adaptable, and, above all, a Catholic, for the two conductors wereProtestants, a cause of much annoyance to the clergy of the Catholic cathedral,numerous positions in which had to be filled from the orchestra. August Röckel,a nephew of Hummel, who sent in his application for this position from Weimar,furnished evidence of his suitability under all these heads. He belonged to anold Bavarian family; his father was a singer, and had sung the part ofFlorestan at the time of the first production of Beethoven’s Fidelio, and hadhimself remained on terms on close intimacy with the Master, many details aboutwhose life have been preserved through his care. His subsequent position as ateacher of singing led him to take up theatrical management, and he introducedGerman opera to the Parisians with so much success, that the credit for thepopularity of Fidelio and Der Freischutz with French audiences, to whom theseworks were quite unknown, must be awarded to his admirable enterprise, whichwas also responsible for Schroder-Devrient’s debut in Paris. August Röckel, hisson, who was still a young man, by helping his father in these and similarundertakings, had gained practical experience as a musician. As his father’sbusiness had for some time even extended to England, August had won practicalknowledge of all sorts by contact with many men and things, and in addition hadlearned French and English. But music had remained his chosen vocation, and hisgreat natural talent justified the highest hopes of success. He was anexcellent pianist, read scores with the utmost ease, possessed an exceptionallyfine ear, and had indeed every qualification for a practical musician. As acomposer he was actuated, not so much by a strong impulse to create, as thedesire to show what he was capable of; the success at which he aimed was togain the reputation of a clever operatic composer rather than recognition as adistinguished musician, and he hoped to obtain his end by the production ofpopular works. Actuated by this modest ambition he had completed an opera,Farinelli, for which he had also written the libretto, with no other aspirationthan that of attaining the same reputation as his brother-in-law Lortzing.
He brought this score to me, and begged me—it was his first visit before he hadheard one of my operas in Dresden—to play him something from Rienzi and theFliegender Holländer. His frank, agreeable personality induced me to try andmeet his wishes as far as I could; and I am convinced that I soon made such agreat and unexpectedly powerful impression on him that from that moment hedetermined not to bother me further with the score of his opera. It was notuntil we had become more intimate and had discovered mutual personal interests,that the desire of turning his work to account induced him to ask me to show mypractical friendship by turning my attention to his score. I made varioussuggestions as to how it might be improved, but he was soon so hopelesslydisgusted with his own work that he put it absolutely aside, and never againfelt seriously moved to undertake a similar task. On making a closeracquaintance with my completed operas and plans for new works, he declared tome that he felt it his vocation to play the part of spectator, to be myfaithful helper and the interpreter of my new ideas, and, as far as in him lay,to remove entirely, and at all events to relieve me as far as possible from,all the unpleasantnesses of my official position and of my dealings with theoutside world. He wished, he said, to avoid placing himself in the ridiculousposition of composing operas of his own while living on terms of closefriendship with me.
Nevertheless, I tried to urge him to turn his own talent to account, and tothis end called his attention to several plots which I wished him to work out.Among these was the idea contained in a small French drama entitled Cromwell’sDaughter, which was subsequently used as the subject for a sentimental pastoralromance, and for the elaboration of which I presented him with an exhaustiveplan.
But in the end all my efforts remained fruitless, and it became evident thathis productive talent was feeble. This perhaps arose partly from his extremelyneedy and trying domestic circumstances, which were such that the poor fellowwore himself out to support his wife and numerous growing children. Indeed, heclaimed my help and sympathy in quite another fashion than by arousing myinterest in his artistic development. He was unusually clear-headed, andpossessed a rare capacity for teaching and educating himself in every branch ofknowledge and experience; he was, moreover, so genuinely true and good-heartedthat he soon became my intimate friend and comrade. He was, and continued tobe, the only person who really appreciated the singular nature of my positiontowards the surrounding world, and with whom I could fully and sincerelydiscuss the cares and sorrows arising therefrom. What dreadful trials andexperiences, what painful anxieties our common fate was to bring upon us, willsoon be seen.
The earlier period of my establishment in Dresden brought me also anotherdevoted and lifelong friend, though his qualities were such that he exerted aless decisive influence upon my career. This was a young physician, named AntonPusinelli, who lived near me. He seized the occasion of a serenade sung inhonour of my thirtieth birthday by the Dresden Glee Club to express to mepersonally his hearty and sincere attachment. We soon entered upon a quietfriendship from which we derived a mutual benefit. He became my attentivefamily doctor, and during my residence in Dresden, marked as it was byaccumulating difficulties, he had abundant opportunities of helping me. Hisfinancial position was very good, and his ready self-sacrifice enabled him togive me substantial succour and bound me to him by many heartfelt obligations.
A further development of my association with Dresden buddy was provided by thekindly advances of Chamberlain von Konneritz’s family. His wife, Marie vonKonneritz (nee Fink), was a friend of Countess Ida Hahn-Hahn, and expressed herappreciation of my success as a composer with great warmth, I might almost say,with enthusiasm. I was often invited to their house, and seemed likely, throughthis family, to be brought into touch with the higher aristocracy of Dresden. Imerely succeeded in touching the fringe, however, as we really had nothing incommon. True, I here made the acquaintance of Countess Rossi, the famousSontag, by whom, to my genuine astonishment, I was most heartily greeted, and Ithereby obtained the right of afterwards approaching her in Berlin with acertain degree of familiarity. The curious way in which I was disillusionedabout this lady on that occasion will be related in due course. I would onlymention here that, through my earlier experiences of the world, I had becomefairly impervious to deception, and my desire for closer acquaintance withthese circles speedily gave way to a complete hopelessness and an entire lackof ease in their sphere of life.
Although the Konneritz couple remained friendly during the whole of myprolonged sojourn in Dresden, yet the connection had not the least influenceeither upon my development or my position. Only once, on the occasion of aquarrel between Lüttichau and myself, the former observed that Frau vonKonneritz, by her unmeasured praises, had turned my head and made me forget myposition towards him. But in making this taunt he forgot that, if any woman inthe higher ranks of Dresden society had exerted a real and invigoratinginfluence upon my inward pride, that woman was his own wife, Ida von Lüttichau(nee von Knobelsdorf).
The power which this cultured, gentle, and distinguished lady exercised over mylife was of a kind I now experienced for the first time, and might have becomeof great importance had I been favoured with more frequent and intimateintercourse. But it was less her position as wife of the general director thanher constant ill-health and my own peculiar unwillingness to appear obtrusive,that hindered our meeting, except at rare intervals. My recollections of hermerge somewhat, in my memory, with those of my own sister Rosalie. I rememberthe tender ambition which inspired me to win the encouraging sympathy of thissensitive woman, who was painfully wasting away amid the coarsest surroundings.My earliest hope for the fulfilment of this ambition arose from herappreciation of my Fliegender Holländer, in spite of the fact that, followingclose upon Rienzi, it had so puzzled the Dresden public. In this way she wasthe first, so to speak, who swam against the tide and met me upon my new path.So deeply was I touched by this conquest that, when I afterwards published theopera, I dedicated it to her. In the account of my later years in Dresden Ishall have more to record of the warm sympathy for my new development anddearest artistic aims for which I was indebted to her. But of real intercoursewe had none, and the character of my Dresden life was not affected by thisacquaintance, otherwise so important in itself.
On the other hand, my theatrical acquaintances thrust themselves withirresistible importunancy into the wide foreground of my life, and in fact,after my brilliant successes, I was still restricted to the same limited andfamiliar sphere in which I had prepared myself for these triumphs. Indeed, theonly one who joined my old friends Heine and Gaffer Fischer was Tichatschek,with his strange domestic circle. Any one who lived in Dresden at that time andchanced to know the court lithographer, Furstenau, will be astonished to hearthat, without really being aware of it myself, I entered into a familiaritythat was to prove a lasting one with this man who was an intimate friend ofTichatschek’s. The importance of this singular connection may be judged fromthe fact that my complete withdrawal from him coincided exactly with thecollapse of my civic position in Dresden.
My good-humoured acceptance of election to the musical committee of the DresdenGlee Club also brought me further chance acquaintances. This club consisted ofa limited number of young merchants and officials, who had more taste for anykind of convivial entertainment than for music. But it was seduously kepttogether by a remarkable and ambitious man, Professor Lowe, who nursed it withspecial objects in view, for the attainment of which he felt the need of anauthority such as I possessed at that time in Dresden.
Among other aims he was particularly and chiefly concerned in arranging for thetransfer of Weber’s remains from London to Dresden. As this project was onewhich interested me also, I lent him my support, though he was in realitymerely following the voice of personal ambition. He furthermore desired, ashead of the Glee Club—which, by the way, from the point of view of music wasquite worthless—to invite all the male choral unions of Saxony to a great galaperformance in Dresden. A committee was appointed for the execution of thisplan, and as things soon became pretty warm, Lowe turned it into a regularrevolutionary tribunal, over which, as the great day of triumph approached, hepresided day and night without resting, and by his furious zeal earned from methe nickname of ‘Robespierre.’
In spite of the fact that I had been placed at the head of this enterprise, Iluckily managed to evade his terrorism, as I was fully occupied with a greatcomposition promised for the festival. The task had been assigned to me ofwriting an important piece for male voices only, which, if possible, shouldoccupy half an hour. I reflected that the tiresome monotony of male singing,which even the orchestra could only enliven to a slight extent, can only beendured by the introduction of dramatic themes. I therefore designed a greatchoral scene, selecting the apostolic Pentecost with the outpouring of the HolyGhost as its subject. I completely avoided any real solos, but worked out thewhole in such a way that it should be executed by detached choral massesaccording to requirement. Out of this composition arose my Liebesmahl derApostel (‘Lovefeast of the Apostles’), which has recently been performed invarious places.
As I was obliged at all costs to finish it within a limited time, I do not mindincluding this in the list of my uninspired compositions. But I was notdispleased with it when it was done, more especially when it was played at therehearsals given by the Dresden choral societies under my personal supervision.When, therefore, twelve hundred singers from all parts of Saxony gatheredaround me in the Frauenkirche, where the performance took place, I wasastonished at the comparatively feeble effect produced upon my ear by thiscolossal human tangle of sounds. The conclusion at which I arrived was, thatthese enormous choral undertakings are folly, and I never again felt inclinedto repeat the experiment.
It was with much difficulty that I shook myself free of the Dresden Glee Club,and I only succeeded in doing so by introducing to Professor Lowe anotherambitious man in the person of Herr Ferdinand Hiller. My most glorious exploitin connection with this association was the transfer of Weber’s ashes, of whichI will speak later on, though it occurred at an earlier date. I will only refernow to another commissioned composition which, as royal bandmaster, I wasofficially commanded to produce. On the 7th of June of this year (1843) thestatue of King Frederick Augustus by Rietschl was unveiled in the DresdenZwinger [12] with all due pompand ceremony. In honour of this event I, in collaboration with Mendelssohn, wascommanded to compose a festal song, and to conduct the gala performance. I hadwritten a simple song for male voices of modest design, whereas to Mendelssohnhad been assigned the more complicated task of interweaving the National Anthem(the English ‘God Save the King,’ which in Saxony is called Heil Dir imRautenkranz) into the male chorus he had to compose. This he had effected by anartistic work in counterpoint, so arranged that from the first eight beats ofhis original melody the brass instruments simultaneously played the Anglo-Saxonpopular air. My simpler song seems to have sounded very well from a distance,whereas I understood that Mendelssohn’s daring combination quite missed itseffect, because no one could understand why the vocalists did not sing the sameair as the wind instruments were playing. Nevertheless Mendelssohn, who waspresent, left me a written expression of thanks for the pains I had taken inthe production of his composition. I also received a gold snuff-box from thegrand gala committee, presumably meant as a reward for my male chorus, but thehunting scene which was engraved on the top was so badly done that I found, tomy surprise, that in several places the metal was cut through.
[12]This is the name by which the famous Dresden Art Galleries are known.—Editor.
Amid all the distractions of this new and very different mode of life, Idiligently strove to concentrate and steel my soul against these influences,bearing in mind my experiences of success in the past. By May of my thirtiethyear I had finished my poem Der Venusberg (‘The Mount of Venus’), as I calledTannhäuser at that time. I had not yet by any means gained any real knowledgeof mediaeval poetry. The classical side of the poetry of the Middle Ages had sofar only faintly dawned upon me, partly from my youthful recollections, andpartly from the brief acquaintance I had made with it through Lehrs’instruction in Paris.
Now that I was secure in the possession of a royal appointment that would lastmy lifetime, the establishment of a permanent domestic hearth began to assumegreat importance; for I hoped it would enable me to take up my serious studiesonce more, and in such a way as to make them productive—an aim which mytheatrical life and the miseries of my years in Paris had rendered impossible.My hope of being able to do this was strengthened by the character of myofficial employment, which was never very arduous, and in which I met withexceptional consideration from the general management. Though I had only heldmy appointment for a few months, yet I was given a holiday this first summer,which I spent in a second visit to Toplitz, a place which I had grown to like,and whither I had sent on my wife in advance.
Keenly indeed did I appreciate the change in my position since the precedingyear. I could now engage four spacious and well-appointed rooms in the samehouse—the Eiche at Schonau—where I had before lived in such straitened andfrugal circumstances. I invited my sister Clara to pay us a visit, and also mygood mother, whose gout necessitated her taking the Toplitz baths every year. Ialso seized the opportunity of drinking the mineral waters, which I hoped mighthave a beneficial effect on the gastric troubles from which I had suffered eversince my vicissitudes in Paris. Unfortunately the attempted cure had a contraryeffect, and when I complained of the painful irritation produced, I learnedthat my constitution was not adapted for water cures. In fact, on my morningpromenade, and while drinking my water, I had been observed to race through theshady alleys of the adjacent Thurn Gardens, and it was pointed out to me thatsuch a cure could only be properly wrought by leisurely calm and easysauntering. It was also remarked that I usually carried about a fairly stoutvolume, and that, armed with this and my bottle of mineral water, I used totake rest in lonely places.
This book was J. Grimm’s German Mythology. All who know the work can understandhow the unusual wealth of its contents, gathered from every side, and meantalmost exclusively for the student, would react upon me, whose mind waseverywhere seeking for something definite and distinct. Formed from the scantyfragments of a perished world, of which scarcely any monuments remainedrecognisable and intact, I here found a heterogeneous building, which at firstglance seemed but a rugged rock clothed in straggling brambles. Nothing wasfinished, only here and there could the slightest resemblance to anarchitectonic line be traced, so that I often felt tempted to relinquish thethankless task of trying to build from such materials. And yet I was enchainedby a wondrous magic. The baldest legend spoke to me of its ancient home, andsoon my whole imagination thrilled with images; long-lost forms for which I hadsought so eagerly shaped themselves ever more and more clearly into realitiesthat lived again. There rose up soon before my mind a whole world of figures,which revealed themselves as so strangely plastic and primitive, that, when Isaw them clearly before me and heard their voices in my heart, I could notaccount for the almost tangible familiarity and assurance of their demeanour.The effect they produced upon the inner state of my soul I can only describe asan entire rebirth. Just as we feel a tender joy over a child’s first brightsmile of recognition, so now my own eyes flashed with rapture as I saw a world,revealed, as it were, by miracle, in which I had hitherto moved blindly as thebabe in its mother’s womb.
But the result of this reading did not at first do much to help me in mypurpose of composing part of the Tannhäuser music. I had had a piano put in myroom at the Eiche, and though I smashed all its strings, nothing satisfactorywould emerge. With much pain and toil I sketched the first outlines of my musicfor the Venusberg, as fortunately I already had its theme in my mind. MeanwhileI was very much troubled by excitability and rushes of blood to the brain. Iimagined I was ill, and lay for whole days in bed, where I read Grimm’s Germanlegends, or tried to master the disagreeable mythology. It was quite a reliefwhen I hit upon the happy thought of freeing myself from the torments of mycondition by an excursion to Prague. Meanwhile I had already ascended MountMillischau once with my wife, and in her company I now made the journey toPrague in an open carriage. There I stayed once more at my favourite inn, theBlack Horse, met my friend Kittl, who had now grown fat and rotund, madevarious excursions, revelled in the curious antiquities of the old city, andlearned to my joy that the two lovely friends of my youth, Jenny and AugustePachta, had been happily married to members of the highest aristocracy.Thereupon, having reassured myself that everything was in the best possibleorder, I returned to Dresden and resumed my functions as musical conductor tothe King of Saxony.
We now set to work on the preparations and furnishing of a roomy andwell-situated house in the Ostra Allee, with an outlook upon the Zwinger.Everything was good and substantial, as is only right for a man of thirty whois settling down at last for the whole of his life. As I had not received anysubsidy towards this outlay, I had naturally to raise the money by loan. But Icould look forward to a certain harvest from my operatic successes in Dresden,and what was more natural than for me to expect soon to earn more than enough?The three most valued treasures which adorned my house were a concert grandpiano by Breitkopf and Hartel, which I had bought with much pride; a statelywriting-desk, now in possession of Otto Kummer, the chamber-music artist; andthe title-page by Cornelius for the Nibelungen, in a handsome Gothic frame—theonly object which has remained faithful to me to the present day. But the thingwhich above all else made my house seem homelike and attractive was thepresence of a library, which I procured in accordance with a systematic planlaid down by my proposed line of study. On the failure of my Dresden careerthis library passed in a curious way into the possession of Herr HeinrichBrockhaus, to whom at that time I owed fifteen hundred marks, and who took itas security for the amount. My wife knew nothing at the time of thisobligation, and I never afterwards succeeded in recovering this characteristiccollection from his hands. Upon its shelves old German literature wasespecially well represented, and also the closely related work of the GermanMiddle Ages, including many a costly volume, as, for instance, the rare oldwork, Romans des douze Paris. Beside these stood many excellent historicalworks on the Middle Ages, as well as on the German people in general. At thesame time I made provision for the poetical and classical literature of alltimes and languages. Among these were the Italian poets, Shakespeare and theFrench writers, of whose language I had a passable knowledge. All these Iacquired in the original, hoping some day to find time to master theirneglected tongues. As for the Greek and Roman classics, I had to content myselfwith standard German translations. Indeed, on looking once more into myHomer—whom I secured in the original Greek—I soon recognised that I should bepresuming on more leisure than my conductorship was likely to leave me, if Ihoped to find time for regaining my lost knowledge of that language. Moreover,I provided most thoroughly for a study of universal history, and to this enddid not fail to equip myself with the most voluminous works. Thus armed, Ithought I could bid defiance to all the trials which I clearly foresaw wouldinevitably accompany my calling and position. In hopes, therefore, of long andpeaceable enjoyment of this hard-earned home, I entered into possession withthe best of spirits in October of this year (1843), and though my conductor’squarters were by no means magnificent, they were stately and substantial.
The first leisure in my new home which I could snatch from the claims of myprofession and my favourite studies was devoted to the composition ofTannhäuser, the first act of which was completed in January of the new year,1844. I have no recollections of any importance regarding my activities inDresden during this winter. The only memorable events were two enterpriseswhich took me away from home, the first to Berlin early in the year, for theproduction of my Fliegender Holländer, and the other in March to Hamburg forRienzi.
Of these the former made the greater impression upon my mind. The manager ofthe Berlin theatre, Küstner, quite took me by surprise when he announced thefirst performance of the Fliegender Holländer for an early date.
As the opera house had been burnt down only about a year before, and could notpossibly have been rebuilt, it had not occurred to me to remind them about theproduction of my opera. It had been performed in Dresden with very poor scenicaccessories, and knowing how important a careful and artistic execution of thedifficult scenery was for my dramatic sea-scapes, I had relied implicitly onthe admirable management and staging capacities of the Berlin opera house.Consequently I was very much annoyed that the Berlin manager should select myopera as a stopgap to be produced at the Comedy Theatre, which was being usedas a temporary opera house. All remonstrances proved useless, for I learnedthat they were not merely thinking about rehearsing the work, but that it wasalready actually being rehearsed, and would be produced in a few days. It wasobvious that this arrangement meant that my opera was to be condemned to quitea short run in their repertoire, as it was not to be expected that they wouldremount it when the new opera house was opened. On the other hand, they triedto appease me by saying that this first production of the Fliegender Holländerwas to be associated with a special engagement of Schroder-Devrient, which wasto begin in Berlin immediately. They naturally thought I should be delighted tosee the great actress in my own work. But this only confirmed me in thesuspicion that this opera was simply wanted as a makeshift for the duration ofSchroder-Devrient’s visit. They were evidently in a dilemma with regard to herrepertoire, which consisted mainly of so-called grand operas—such asMeyerbeer’s—destined exclusively for the opera house, and which were beingspecially reserved for the brilliant future of the new building. I thereforerealised beforehand that my Fliegender Holländer was to be relegated to thecategory of conductor’s operas, and would meet with the usual predestined fateof such productions. The whole treatment meted out to me and my works allpointed in the same direction; but in consideration of the expectedco-operation of Schroder-Devrient I fought against these vexatiouspremonitions, and set out for Berlin to do all I could for the success of myopera. I saw at once that my presence was very necessary. I found theconductor’s desk occupied by a man calling himself Conductor Henning (orHenniger), an official who had won promotion from the ranks of ordinarymusicians by an upright observance of the laws of seniority, but who knewprecious little about conducting an orchestra at all, and about my opera hadnot the faintest glimmer of an idea. I took my seat at the desk, and conductedone full rehearsal and two performances, in neither of which, however, didSchroder-Devrient take part. Although I found much to complain of in theweakness of the string instruments and the consequent mean sound of theorchestra, yet I was well satisfied with the actors both as regards theircapacity and their zeal. The careful staging, moreover, which under thesupervision of the really gifted stage manager, Blum, and with the co-operationof his skilful and ingenious mechanics, was truly excellent, gave me a mostpleasant surprise.
I was now very curious to learn what effect these pleasing and encouragingpreparations would have upon the Berlin public when the full performance tookplace. My experiences on this point were very curious. Apparently the onlything that interested the large audience was to discover my weak points. Duringthe first act the prevalent opinion seemed to be that I belonged to thecategory of bores. Not a single hand was moved, and I was afterwards informedthat this was fortunate, as the slightest attempt at applause would have beenascribed to a paid claque, and would have been energetically opposed. Küstneralone assured me that the composure with which, on the close of this act, Iquitted my desk and appeared before the curtain, had filled him with wonder,considering this entire absence—lucky as it appears to have been—of allapplause. But so long as I myself felt content with the execution, I was notdisposed to let the public apathy discourage me, knowing, as I did, that thecrucial test was in the second act.
It lay, therefore, much nearer my heart to do all I could for the success ofthis than to inquire into the reasons for this attitude on the part of theBerlin public. And here the ice was really broken at last. The audience seemedto abandon all idea of finding a proper niche for me, and allowed itself to becarried away into giving vent to applause, which at last grew into the mostboisterous enthusiasm. At the close of the act, amid a storm of shouts, I ledforward my singers on to the stage for the customary bows of thanks. As thethird act was too short to be tedious, and as the scenic effects were both newand impressive, we could not help hoping that we had won a veritable triumph,especially as renewed outbursts of applause marked the end of the performance.Mendelssohn, who happened at that time to be in Berlin, with Meyerbeer, onbusiness relating to the general musical conductorship, was present in a stagebox during this performance. He followed its progress with a pale face, andafterwards came and murmured to me in a weary tone of voice, ‘Well, I shouldthink you are satisfied now!’ I met him several times during my brief stay inBerlin., and also spent an evening with him listening to various pieces ofchamber-music. But never did another word concerning the Fliegender Holländerpass his lips, beyond inquiries as to the second performance, and as to whetherDevrient or some one else would appear in it. I heard, moreover, that he hadresponded with equal indifference to the earnest warmth of my allusions to hisown music for the Midsummer Night’s Dream, which was being frequently played atthat time, and which I had heard for the first time. The only thing hediscussed with any detail was the actor Gern, who was playing in Zettel, andwho he considered was overacting his part.
A few days later came a second performance with the same cast. My experienceson this evening were even more startling than on the former. Evidently thefirst night had won me a few friends, who were again present, for they began toapplaud after the overture. But others responded with hisses, and for the restof the evening no one again ventured to applaud. My old friend Heine hadarrived in the meantime from Dresden, sent by our own board of directors tostudy the scenic arrangements of the Midsummer Night’s Dream for our theatre.He was present at this second performance, and had persuaded me to accept theinvitation from one of his Berlin relatives to have supper after theperformance in a wine-bar unter den Linden. Very weary, I followed him to anasty and badly lighted house, where I gulped down the wine with hastyill-humour to warm myself, and listened to the embarrassed conversation of mygood-natured friend and his companion, whilst I turned over the day’s papers. Inow had ample leisure to read the criticisms they contained on the firstperformance of my Fliegender Holländer. A terrible spasm cut my heart as Irealised the contemptible tone and unparalleled shamelessness of their ragingignorance regarding my own name and work. Our Berlin friend and host, athorough Philistine, said that he had known how things would go in the theatrethat night, after having read these criticisms in the morning. The people ofBerlin, he added, wait to hear what Rellstab and his mates have to say, andthen they know how to behave. The good fellow was anxious to cheer me up, andordered one wine after another. Heine hunted up his reminiscences of our merryRienzi times in Dresden, until at last the pair conducted me, staggering alongin an addled condition, to my hotel.
It was already midnight. As I was being lighted by the waiter through itsgloomy corridors to my room, a gentleman in black, with a pale refined face,came forward and said he would like to speak to me. He informed me that he hadwaited there since the close of the play, and as he was determined to see me,had stopped till now. I excused myself on the ground of being quite unfit forbusiness, and added that, although not exactly inclined to merriment, I had, ashe might perceive, somewhat foolishly drunk a little too much wine. This I saidin a stammering voice; but my strange visitor seemed only the more unwilling tobe repulsed. He accompanied me to my room, declaring that it was all the moreimperative for him to speak with me. We seated ourselves in the cold room, bythe meagre light of a single candle, and then he began to talk. In flowing andimpressive language he related that he had been present at the performance thatnight of my Fliegender Holländer, and could well conceive the humour in whichthe evening’s experiences had left me. For this very reason he felt thatnothing should hinder him from speaking to me that night, and telling me thatin the Fliegender Holländer I had produced an unrivalled masterpiece. Moreover,the acquaintance he had made with this work had awakened in him a new andunforeseen hope for the future of German art; and that it would be a great pityif I yielded to any sense of discouragement as the result of the unworthyreception accorded to it by the Berlin public. My hair began to stand on end.One of Hoffmann’s fantastic creations had entered bodily into my life. I couldfind nothing to say, except to inquire the name of my visitor, at which heseemed surprised, as I had talked with him the day before at Mendelssohn’shouse. He said that my conversation and manner had created such an impressionupon him there, and had filled him with such sudden regret at not havingsufficiently overcome his dislike for opera in general, to be present at thefirst performance, that he had at once resolved not to miss the second. Hisname, he added, was Professor Werder. That was no use to me, I said, he mustwrite his name down. Getting paper and ink, he did as I desired, and we parted.I flung myself unconsciously on the bed for a deep and invigorating sleep. Nextmorning I was fresh and well. I paid a farewell call on Schroeder-Devrient, whopromised me to do all she could for the Fliegender Holländer as soon aspossible, drew my fee of a hundred ducats, and set off for home. On my waythrough Leipzig I utilised my ducats for the repayment of sundry advances mademe by my relatives during the earlier and poverty-stricken period of my sojournin Dresden, and then continued my journey, to recuperate among my books andmeditate upon the deep impression made on me by Werder’s midnight visit.
Before the end of this winter I received a genuine invitation to Hamburg forthe performance of Rienzi. The enterprising director, Herr Cornet, through whomit came, confessed that he had many difficulties to contend against in themanagement of his theatre, and was in need of a great success. This, after thereception with which it had met in Dresden, he thought he could secure by theproduction of Rienzi. I accordingly betook myself thither in the month ofMarch. The journey at that time was not an easy one, as after Hanover one hadto proceed by mail-coach, and the crossing of the Elbe, which was full offloating ice, was a risky business. Owing to a great fire that had recentlybroken out, the town of Hamburg was in process of being rebuilt, and there werestill many wide spaces encumbered with ruins. Cold weather and an ever-gloomysky make my recollections of my somewhat prolonged sojourn in this townanything but agreeable. I was tormented to such an extent by having to rehearsewith bad material, fit only for the poorest theatrical trumpery, that, worn outand exposed to constant colds, I spent most of my leisure time in the solitudeof my inn chamber. My earlier experiences of ill-arranged and badly managedtheatres came back to me afresh. I was particularly depressed when I realisedthat I had made myself an unconscious accomplice of Director Cornet’s basestinterests. His one aim was to create a sensation, which he thought should be ofgreat service to me also; and not only did he put me off with a smaller fee,but even suggested that it should be paid by gradual instalments. The dignityof scenic decoration, of which he had not the smallest idea, was completelysacrificed to the most ridiculous and tawdry showiness. He imagined thatpageantry was all that was really needed to secure my success. So he hunted outall the old fairy-ballet costumes from his stock, and fancied that if they onlylooked gay enough, and if plenty of people were bustling about on the stage, Iought to be satisfied. But the most sorry item of all was the singer heprovided for the title-role. He was a man of the name of Wurda, an elderly,flabby and voiceless tenor, who sang Rienzi with the expression of a lover—likeElvino, for instance, in the Somnanibula. He was so dreadful that I conceivedthe idea of making the Capitol tumble down in the second act, so as to bury himsooner in its ruins, a plan which would have cut out several of theprocessions, which were so dear to the heart of the director. I found my oneray of light in a lady singer, who delighted me with the fire with which sheplayed the part of Adriano. This was a Mme. Fehringer, who was afterwardsengaged by Liszt for the role of Ortrud in the production of Lohengrin atWeimar, but by that time her powers had greatly deteriorated. Nothing could bemore depressing than my connection with this opera under such dismalcircumstances. And yet there were no outward signs of failure. The managerhoped in any case to keep Rienzi in his repertoire until Tichatschek was ableto come to Hamburg and give the people of that town a true idea of the play.This actually took place in the following summer.
My discouragement and ill-humour did not escape the notice of Herr Cornet, anddiscovering that I wished to present my wife with a parrot, he managed toprocure a very fine bird, which he gave me as a parting gift. I carried it withme in its narrow cage on my melancholy journey home, and was touched to findthat it quickly repaid my care and became very much attached to me. Minnagreeted me with great joy when she saw this beautiful grey parrot, for sheregarded it as a self-evident proof that I should do something in life. Wealready had a pretty little dog, born on the day of the first Rienzi rehearsalin Dresden, which, owing to its passionate devotion to myself, was much pettedby all who knew me and visited my house during those years. This sociable bird,which had no vices and was an apt scholar, now formed an addition to ourhousehold; and the pair did much to brighten our dwelling in the absence ofchildren. My wife soon taught the bird snatches of songs from Rienzi, withwhich it would good-naturedly greet me from a distance when it heard me comingup the stairs.
And thus at last my domestic hearth seemed to be established with everypossible prospect of a comfortable competency.
No further excursions for the performance of any of my operas took place, forthe simple reason that no such performances were given. As I saw it was quiteclear that the diffusion of my works through the theatrical world would be avery slow business, I concluded that this was probably due to the fact that noadaptations of them for the piano existed. I therefore thought that I should dowell to press forward such an issue at all costs, and in order to secure theexpected profits, I hit upon the idea of publishing at my own expense. Iaccordingly made arrangements with F. Meser, the court music-dealer, who hadhitherto not got beyond the publication of a valse, and signed an agreementwith him for his firm to appear as the nominal publishers on the understandingthat they should receive a commission of ten per cent, whilst I provided thenecessary capital.
As there were two operas to be issued, including Rienzi, a work of exceptionalbulk, it was not likely that these publications would prove very profitableunless, in addition to the usual piano selections, I also publishedadaptations, such as the music without words, for duet or solo. For this afairly large capital was necessary. I also needed funds for the repayment ofthe loans already mentioned, and for the settlement of old debts, as well as topay off the remaining expenses of my house-furnishing. I was therefore obligedto try and procure much larger sums. I laid my project and its motive beforeSchroder-Devrient, who had just returned to Dresden, at Easter, 1844, to fulfila fresh engagement. She believed in the future of my works, recognised thepeculiarity of my position, as well as the correctness of my calculations, anddeclared her willingness to provide the necessary capital for the publicationof my operas, refusing to consider the act as one involving any sacrifice onher part. This money she proposed to get by selling out her investments inPolish state-bonds, and I was to pay the customary rate of interest. The thingwas so easily done, and seemed so much a matter of course, that I at once madeall needful arrangements with my Leipzig printer, and set to work on thepublication of my operas.
When the amount of work delivered brought with it a demand for considerablepayments on account, I approached my friend for a first advance. And here Ibecame confronted with a new phase of that famous lady’s life, which placed mein a position which proved as disastrous as it was unexpected. After havingbroken away from the unlucky Herr von Munchhausen some time previously, andreturned, as it appeared, with penitential ardour to her former connection withmy friend, Hermann Muller, it now turned out that she had found no realsatisfaction in this fresh relationship. On the contrary, the star of herbeing, whom she had so long and ardently desired, had now at last arisen in theperson of another lieutenant of the Guards. With a vehemence which made lightof her treachery to her old friend, she elected this slim young man, whosemoral and intellectual weaknesses were patent to every eye, as the chosenkeystone of her life’s love. He took the good luck that befell him soseriously, that he would brook no jesting, and at once laid hands on thefortune of his future wife, as he considered that it was disadvantageously andinsecurely invested, and thought that he knew of much more profitable ways ofemploying it. My friend therefore explained, with much pain and evidentembarrassment, that she had renounced all control over her capital, and wasunable to keep her promise to me.
Owing to this I entered upon a series of entanglements and troubles whichhenceforth dominated my life, and plunged me into sorrows that left theirdismal mark on all my subsequent enterprises. It was clear that I could not nowabandon the proposed plan of publication. The only satisfactory solution of myperplexities was to be found in the execution of my project and the successwhich I hoped would attend it. I was compelled, therefore, to turn all myenergies to the raising of the money wherewith to publish my two operas, towhich in all probability Tannhäuser would shortly have to be added. I firstapplied to my friends, and in some cases had to pay exorbitant rates ofinterest, even for short terms. For the present these details are sufficient toprepare the reader for the catastrophe towards which I was now inevitablydrifting.
The hopelessness of my position did not at first reveal itself. There seemed noreason to despair of the eventual spread of my operatic works among thetheatres in Germany, though my experience of them indicated that the processwould be slow. In spite of the depressing experiences in Berlin and Hamburg,there were many encouraging signs to be seen. Above all, Rienzi maintained itsposition in favour of the people of Dresden, a place which undoubtedly occupieda position of great importance, especially during the summer months, when somany strangers from all parts of the world pass through it. My opera, which wasnot to be heard anywhere else, was in great request, both among the Germans andother visitors, and was always received with marked approbation, whichsurprised me very much. Thus a performance of Rienzi, especially in summer,became quite a Dionysian revelry, whose effect upon me could not fail to beencouraging.
On one occasion Liszt was among the number of these visitors. As Rienzi did nothappen to be in the repertoire when he arrived, he induced the management athis earnest request to arrange a special performance. I met him between theacts in Tichatschek’s dressing-room, and was heartily encouraged and touched byhis almost enthusiastic appreciation, expressed in his most emphatic manner.The kind of life to which Liszt was at that time condemned, and which bound himto a perpetual environment of distracting and exciting elements, debarred usfrom all more intimate and fruitful intercourse. Yet from this time onward Icontinued to receive constant testimonies of the profound and lastingimpression I had made upon him, as well as of his sympathetic remembrance ofme. From various parts of the world, wherever his triumphal progress led him,people, chiefly of the upper classes, came to Dresden for the purpose ofhearing Rienzi. They had been so interested by Liszt’s reports of my work, andby his playing of various selections from it, that they all came expectingsomething of unparalleled importance.
Besides these indications of Liszt’s enthusiastic and friendly sympathy, otherdeeply touching testimonies appeared from different quarters. The startlingbeginning made by Werder, on the occasion of his midnight visit after thesecond performance of the Fliegender Holländer in Berlin, was shortlyafterwards followed by a similarly unsolicited approach in the form of aneffusive letter from an equally unknown personage, Alwino Frommann, whoafterwards became my faithful friend. After my departure from Berlin she heardSchroder-Devrient twice in the Fliegender Holländer, and the letter in whichshe described the effect produced upon her by my work conveyed to me for thefirst time the vigorous and profound sentiments of a deep and confidentrecognition such as seldom falls to the lot of even the greatest master, andcannot fail to exercise a weighty influence on his mind and spirit, which longfor self-confidence.
I have no very vivid recollections of my own doings during this first year ofmy position as conductor in a sphere of action which gradually grew more andmore familiar. For the anniversary of my appointment, and to some extent as apersonal recognition, I was commissioned to procure Gluck’s Armida. This weperformed in March, 1843, with the co-operation of Schroder-Devrient, justbefore her temporary departure from Dresden. Great importance was attached tothis production, because, at the same moment, Meyerbeer was inaugurating hisgeneral-directorship in Berlin by a performance of the same work. Indeed, itwas in Berlin that the extraordinary respect entertained for such acommemoration of Gluck had its origin. I was told that Meyerbeer went toRellstab with the score of Armida in order to obtain hints as to its correctinterpretation.
As not long afterwards I also heard a strange story of two silver candlesticks,wherewith the famous composer was said, to have enlightened the no less famouscritic when showing him the score of his Feldlager in Schlesien, I decided toattach no great importance to the instructions he might have received, butrather to help myself by a careful handling of this difficult score, and byintroducing some softness into it through modulating the variations in tone asmuch as possible. I had the gratification later of receiving an exceedinglywarm appreciation of my rendering from Herr Eduard Devrient, a great Gluckconnoisseur. After hearing this opera as presented by us, and comparing it withthe Berlin performance, he heartily praised the tenderly modulated character ofour rendering of certain parts, which, he said, had been given in Berlin withthe coarsest bluntness. He mentioned, as a striking instance of this, a briefchorus in C major of male and female nymphs in the third act. By theintroduction of a more moderate tempo and very soft piano I had tried to freethis from the original coarseness with which Devrient had heard it rendered inBerlin—presumably with traditional fidelity. My most innocent device, and onewhich I frequently adopted, for disguising the irritating stiffness or theorchestral movement in the original, was a careful modification of theBasso-continuo, which was taken uninterruptedly in common time. This I feltobliged to remedy, partly by legato playing, and partly by pizzicato.
Our management were lavish in their expenditure on externals, especiallydecoration, and as a spectacular opera the piece drew fairly large houses, thusearning me the reputation of being a very suitable conductor for Gluck, and onewho was in close sympathy with him. This result was the more conspicuous fromthe fact that Iphigenia in Tauris which is a far superior work, and in whichDevrient’s interpretation of the title-role was admirable had been performed toempty houses.
I had to live upon this reputation for a long time, as it often happened that Iwas compelled to give inferior performances of repertoire pieces, includingMozart’s operas. The mediocrity of these was particularly disappointing tothose who, after my success in Armida, had expected a great deal from myrendering of these pieces, and were much disappointed in consequence. Evensympathetic hearers sought to explain their disappointment on the ground that Idid not appreciate Mozart and could not understand him. But they failed torealise how impossible it was for me, as a mere conductor, to exercise any realinfluence on such desultory performances, which were merely given as stopgaps,and often without rehearsal. Indeed, in this matter I often found myself in afalse position, which, as I was powerless to remedy it, contributed not alittle to render unbearable both my new office and my dependence upon themeanest motives of a paltry theatrical routine, already overweighted with thecares of business. This, in fact, became worse than I had expected, in spite ofmy previous knowledge of the precariousness of such a life. My colleagueReissiger, to whom from time to time I poured out my woes regarding the scantattention given by the general management to our demands for the maintenance ofcorrect representations in the realm of opera, comforted me by saying that I,like himself, would sooner or later relinquish all these fads and submit to theinevitable fate of a conductor. Thereupon he proudly smote his stomach, andhoped that I might soon be able to boast of one as round as his own.
I received further provocation for my growing dislike of these jog-trot methodsfrom a closer acquaintance with the spirit in which even eminent conductorsundertook the reproduction of our masterpieces. During this first yearMendelssohn was invited to conduct his St. Paul for one of the Palm Sundayconcerts in the Dresden chapel, which was famous at that time. The knowledge Ithus acquired of this work, under such favourable circumstances, pleased me somuch, that I made a fresh attempt to approach the composer with sincere andfriendly motives; but a remarkable conversation which I had with him on theevening of this performance quickly and strangely repelled my impulse. Afterthe oratorio Reissiger was to produce Beethoven’s Eighth Symphony. I hadnoticed in the preceding rehearsal that Keissiger had fallen into the error ofall the ordinary conductors of this work by taking the tempo di minuetto of thethird movement at a meaningless waltz time, whereby not only does the wholepiece lose its imposing character, but the trio is rendered absolutelyridiculous by the impossibility of the violoncello part being interpreted atsuch a speed. I had called Reissiger’s attention to this defect, and heacquiesced in my opinion, promising to take the part in question at trueminuetto tempo. I related this to Mendelssohn, when he was resting after hisown performance in the box beside me, listening to the symphony. He, too,acknowledged that I was right, and thought that it ought to be played as Isaid. And now the third movement began. Reissiger, who, it is true, did notpossess the needful power suddenly to impress so momentous a change of timeupon his orchestra with success, followed the usual custom and took the tempodi minuetto in the same old waltz time. Just as I was about to express myanger, Mendelssohn gave me a friendly nod, as though he thought that this waswhat I wanted, and that I had understood the music in this way. I was so amazedby this complete absence of feeling on the part of the famous musician, that Iwas struck dumb, and thenceforth my own particular opinion of Mendelssohngradually matured, an opinion which was afterwards confirmed by R. Schumann.The latter, in expressing the sincere pleasure he had felt on listening to thetime at which I had taken the first movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony,told me that he had been compelled to hear it year after year taken byMendelssohn at a perfectly distracting speed.
Amid my yearning anxiety to exert some influence upon the spirit in which ournoblest masterpieces were executed, I had to struggle against the profounddissatisfaction I felt with my employment on the ordinary theatre repertoire.It was not until Palm Sunday of the year 1844, just after my dispiritingexpedition to Hamburg, that my desire to conduct the Pastoral Symphony wassatisfied. But many faults still remained unremedied, and for the removal ofthese I had to adopt indirect methods which gave me much trouble. For instance,at these famous concerts the arrangement of the orchestra, the members of whichwere seated in a long, thin, semicircular row round the chorus of singers, wasso inconceivably stupid that it required the explanation given by Reissiger tomake me understand such folly. He told me that all these arrangements datedfrom the time of the late conductor Morlacchi, who, as an Italian composer ofoperas, had no true realisation of the importance of the orchestra nor of itsnecessities. When, therefore, I asked why they had permitted him to meddle withthings he did not understand, I learned that the preference shown to thisItalian, both by the court and the general management, even in opposition toCarl Maria von Weber, had always been absolute and brooked no contradiction. Iwas warned that, even now, we should experience great difficulty in riddingourselves of these inherited vices, because the opinion still prevailed in thehighest circles that he must have understood best what he was about.
Once more my childish memories of the eunuch Sassaroli flashed through my mind,and I remembered the warning of Weber’s widow as to the significance of mysuccession to her husband’s post of conductor in Dresden. But, in spite of allthis, our performance of the Pastoral Symphony succeeded beyond expectation,and the incomparable and wonderfully stimulating enjoyment, which I was infuture to derive from my intercourse with Beethoven’s works, now first enabledme to realise his prolific strength. Kockel shared in this enjoyment withheartfelt sympathy; he supported me with eye and ear at every rehearsal, alwaysstood by my side, and was at one with me both in his appreciation and his aims.
After this encouraging success I was to receive the gratification of anothertriumph in the summer, which, although it was of no particular moment from themusical point of view, was of great social importance. The King of Saxony,towards whom, as I have already said, I had felt warmly drawn when he wasPrince Friedrich, was expected home from a long visit to England. The reportsreceived of his stay there had greatly rejoiced my patriotic soul. While thishomely monarch, who shrank from all pomp and noisy demonstration, was inEngland, it happened that the Tsar Nicholas arrived quite unexpectedly on avisit to the Queen. In his honour great festivities and military reviews wereheld, in which our King, much against his will, was obliged to participate, andhe was consequently compelled to receive the enthusiastic acclamations of theEnglish crowd, who were most demonstrative in showing their preference for him,as compared with the unpopular Tsar. This preference was also reflected in thenewspapers, so that a flattering incense floated over from England to ourlittle Saxony which filled us all with a peculiar pride in our King. While Iwas in this mood, which absorbed me completely, I learned that preparationswere being made in Leipzig for a special welcome to the King on his return,which was to be further dignified by a musical festival in the directing ofwhich Mendelssohn was to take part. I made inquiries as to what was going to bedone in Dresden, and learned that the King did not propose to call there atall, but was going direct to his summer residence at Pillnitz.
A moment’s reflection showed me that this would only further my desire ofpreparing a pleasant and hearty reception for his Majesty. As I was a servantof the Crown, any attempt on my part to render an act of homage in Dresdenmight have had the appearance of an official parade which would not beadmissible. I seized the idea, therefore, of hurriedly collecting together allwho could either play or sing, so that we might perform a Reception songhastily composed in honour of the event. The obstacle to my plan was that myDirector Lüttichau was away at one of his country seats. To come to anunderstanding with my colleague Reissiger would, moreover, have involved delay,and given the enterprise the very aspect of an official ovation which I wishedto avoid. As no time was to be lost, if anything worthy of the occasion was tobe done—as the King was due to arrive in a few days—I availed myself of myposition as conductor of the Glee Club, and summoned all its singers andinstrumentalists to my aid. In addition to these, I invited the members of ourtheatrical company, and also those of the orchestra, to join us. This done, Idrove quickly to Pillnitz to arrange matters with the Lord Chamberlain, whom Ifound favourably disposed towards my project. The only leisure I could snatchfor composing the verses of my song and setting them to music was during therapid drive there and back, for by the time I reached home I had to have everything ready for the copyist and lithographer. The agreeable sensation ofrushing through the warm summer air and lovely country, coupled with thesincere affection with which I was inspired for our German Prince, and whichhad prompted my effort, elated me and worked me up to a high pitch of tension,in which I now formed a clear conception of the lyrical outlines of the‘Tannhäuser March,’ which first saw the light of day on the occasion of thisroyal welcome. I soon afterwards developed this theme, and thus produced themarch which became the most popular of the melodies I had hitherto composed.
On the next day it had to be tried over with a hundred and twentyinstrumentalists and three hundred singers. I had taken the liberty of invitingthem to meet me on the stage of the Court Theatre, where everything went offcapitally. Every one was delighted, and I not the least so, when a messengerarrived from the director, who had just returned to town, requesting animmediate interview. Littichau was enraged beyond measure at my high-handedproceedings in this matter, of which he had been informed by our good friendReissiger. If his baronial coronet had been on his head during this interview,it would assuredly have tumbled off. The fact that I should have conducted mynegotiations in person with the court officials, and could report that myendeavours had met with extraordinarily prompt success, aroused his deepestfury, for the chief importance of his own position consisted in alwaysrepresenting everything which had to be obtained by these means as surroundedby the greatest obstacles, and hedged in by the strictest etiquette. I offeredto cancel everything, but that only embarrassed him the more. I thereupon askedhim what he wanted me to do, if the plan was still to be carried out. On thispoint he seemed uncertain, but thought I had shown a great lack offellow-feeling in having not only ignored him, but Reissiger as well. Ianswered that I was perfectly ready to hand over my composition and theconducting of the piece to Reissiger. But he could not swallow this, as hereally had an exceedingly poor opinion of Reissiger, of which I was very wellaware. His real grievance was that I had arranged the whole business with theLord Chamberlain, Herr von Reizenstein, who was his personal enemy, and headded that I could form no conception of the rudeness he had been obliged toendure from the hands of this official. This outburst of confidence made iteasier for me to exhibit an almost sincere emotion, to which he responded by ashrug of the shoulders, meaning that he must resign himself to a disagreeablenecessity.
But my project was even more seriously threatened by the wretched weather thanby this storm with the director; for it rained all day in torrents. If itlasted, which it seemed only too likely to do, I could hardly start on thespecial boat at five o’clock in the morning, as proposed, with my hundreds ofhelpers, to give an early morning concert at Pillnitz, two hours away. Ianticipated such a disaster with genuine dismay. But Röckel consoled me bysaying that I could rely upon it that we should have glorious weather the nextday; for I was lucky! This belief in my luck has followed me ever since, evendown to my latest days; and amid the great misfortunes which have so oftenhampered my enterprises, I have felt as if this statement were a wicked insultto fate. But this time, at least, my friend was right; the 12th of August, 1844was from sunrise till late at night the most perfect summer day that I canremember in my whole life. The sensation of blissful content with which I sawmy light-hearted legion of gaily dressed bandsmen and singers gathering throughthe auspicious morning mists on board our steamer, swelled my breast with afervent faith in my lucky star.
By my friendly impetuosity I had succeeded in overcoming Reissiger’ssmouldering resentment, and had persuaded him to share the honour of ourundertaking by conducting the performance of my composition himself. When wearrived at the spot, everything went off splendidly. The King and royal familywere visibly touched, and in the evil times that followed the Queen of Saxonyspoke of this occasion, I am told, with peculiar emotion, as the fairest day ofher life. After Reissiger had wielded his baton with great dignity, and I hadsung with the tenors in the choir, we two conductors were summoned to thepresence of the royal family. The King warmly expressed his thanks, while theQueen paid us the high compliment of saying that I composed very well and thatReissiger conducted very well. His Majesty asked us to repeat the last threestanzas only, as, owing to a painful ulcerated tooth, he could not remain muchlonger out of doors. I rapidly devised a combined evolution, the remarkablysuccessful execution of which I am very proud, even to this day. I had theentire song repeated, but, in accordance with the King’s wish, only one versewas sung in our original crescent formation. At the beginning of the secondverse I made my four hundred undisciplined bandsmen and singers file off in amarch through the garden, which, as they gradually receded, was so arrangedthat the final notes could only reach the royal ear as an echoing dream-song.Thanks to my unexampled activity and ever-present help, this retreat was sosteadily carried out that not the slightest faltering was perceptible either intime or delivery, and the whole might have been taken for a carefully rehearsedtheatrical manœuvre. On reaching the castle court we found that, by theQueen’s kindly forethought, an ample breakfast had been provided for our partyon the lawn, where the tables were already spread. We often saw our royalhostess herself busily supervising the attendants, or moving with exciteddelight about the windows and corridors of the castle. Every eye beamed raptureto my soul, as the successful author of the general happiness, and I almostfelt amid the glories of that day as though the millennium had been proclaimed.After roaming in a body through the lovely grounds of the castle, and notomitting to pay a visit to the Keppgrund which had been so dear to me in myyouth, we returned late at night, and in the highest spirits, to Dresden.
Next morning I was again summoned to the presence of the director. But a changehad come over him during the night.
As I began to offer my apologies for the anxiety I had caused him, the tallthin man, with the hard dry face, seized me by the hand and addressed me with arapturous expression, which I am sure no one else ever saw on his face. He toldme to say no more about these anxieties. I was a great man, and soon no onewould know anything about him, whereas I should be universally admired andloved. I was deeply moved, and wished only to express my embarrassment at sounexpected an outburst, when he kindly interrupted me and sought an escape fromhis own emotion in good-humoured confidences. He referred, with a smile, to theself-denial which had yielded the place of honour on so extraordinary anoccasion to an undeserving man like Reissiger. When I assured him that this acthad afforded me the liveliest satisfaction, and that I had myself persuaded mycolleague to take the baton, he confessed that at last he began to understandme, but failed altogether to comprehend how the other could accept a positionto which he had no right.
Lüttichau’s altered attitude towards me was such that for some time ourintercourse on matters of business assumed an almost confidential tone. But,unfortunately, in course of time things changed for the worse, so that ourrelationship became one of open enmity; nevertheless, a certain peculiartenderness towards me on the part of this singular man was always clearlyperceptible. Indeed, I might almost say that much of his subsequent abuse of mesounded more like the strangely perverted plaints of a love that met with noresponse.
For my holiday this year I went, early in September, to Fischer’s vineyard,near Loschwitz, not far from the famous Firidlater vineyard, where, somewhatlate in the year, I rented a summer residence. Where under the kindly andstrengthening stimulus of six week of open-air life, I composed my music forthe second act of Tannhäuser, which I completed by the 15th of October. Duringthis period a performance of Rienzi was given before an audience of no ordinaryimportance. For this event I went up to town. Spontini, Meyerbeer, and GeneralLwoff, the composer of the Russian National Anthem, were seated together in astage box. I sought no opportunity of learning the impression made by my operaupon these learned judges and magnates of the musical world. It was enough forme to have the complacent satisfaction of knowing that they had heard myoft-repeated work performed before a crowded house and amid overwhelmingapplause. I was delighted at the close of the opera to have my little dog Peps,which had run after me all the way from the country, brought to me; and withoutwaiting to greet the European celebrities, I drove off with it at once to ourquiet vineyard, where Minna was greatly relieved to recover her little pet,which for hours she had believed to be lost.
Here I also received a visit from Werder, the man whose friendship I had madein Berlin under such dramatic circumstances. But this time he appeared inordinary human guise, beneath the kindly light of heaven, by which we disputedin a friendly way concerning the true worth of the Fliegender Holländer, mymind having somewhat turned against this work since Tannhäuser had got into myhead. It certainly seemed odd to find myself contradicted on this point by myfriend, and to receive instruction from him on the significance of my own work.
When we returned to our winter quarters I tried to avoid allowing so lengthy aninterval to elapse between the composition of the second and third acts as hadseparated that of the first and second. In spite of many absorbing engagementsI succeeded in my aim. By carefully cultivating a habit of taking solitarywalks, and thanks to their soothing influence over me, I managed to finish themusic of Act iii. by the 29th of December, that is to say, before the end ofthe year.
During this period my time was otherwise very seriously occupied by a visitpaid us by Spontini with reference to a proposed presentation of his Vestalin,the preparation for which had just begun. The singular episodes andcharacteristic features of the intercourse which I thus gained with thiseminent and hoary-headed master are still so vividly imprinted on my memorythat they seem worthy of a place in this record.
Since, with the co-operation of Schroder-Devrient, we could, on the whole, relyupon an admirable presentation of the opera, I had inspired Lüttichau with theidea of inviting Spontini to undertake the personal superintendence of hisjustly famous work. He had just left Berlin for ever, after enduring greathumiliation there, and such an invitation at this moment would be a well-timedproof of respect. This was accordingly sent, and as I had myself been entrustedwith the conductorship of the opera, I was given the singular task of decidingthis point with the master. My letter, it appears, although written in French,inspired him with a high opinion of my zeal for the enterprise, and in agracious reply he informed me what his special wishes were regarding thearrangements to be made for his collaboration. As far as the vocalists wereconcerned, and seeing that a Schroder-Devrient was among the number, he franklyexpressed his satisfaction. As for chorus and ballet, he took it for grantedthat nothing would be lacking to the dignity of the performance; and finally,as regarded the orchestra, he expected that this also would be sure to pleasehim, as he presumed it contained the necessary complement of excellentinstruments which, to use his own words, ‘he hoped would furnish theperformance with twelve good contrabass!’ (le tout garni de douze bonnescontre-basses). This phrase bowled me over, for the proportion thus bluntlystated in figures gave me so logical a conception of his exalted expectations,that I hurried away at once to the director to warn him that the enterprise onwhich we had embarked would not, after all, prove as easy as we thought. Hisalarm was great, and he said that some plan must at once be devised forbreaking off the engagement.
When Schroder-Devrient heard of our dilemma, knowing Spontini well, she laughedas though she would never stop at the ingenuous impudence with which we hadissued our invitation. A trifling indisposition from which she then sufferedprovided a reasonable excuse for a delay, more or less prolonged, and this shegenerously placed at our disposal. Spontini had, in fact, urged us to use allpossible despatch in the execution of our project, for, as he was impatientlyawaited in Paris, he could spare us but little time. It fell to my lot to weavethe tissue of innocent deceptions by which we hoped to divert the master from adefinite acceptance of our invitation. Now we could breathe again, and dulybegan rehearsing. But on the very day before we proposed to hold our full-dressrehearsal at our leisure, lo and behold! about noon a carriage drove up to mydoor, in which, clad in a long blue coat of pilot-cloth, sat no other than thehaughty master himself, whose manners resembled those of a Spanish grandee. Allunattended and greatly excited, he entered my room, showed me my letters, andproved from our correspondence that the invitation had not been declined, butthat he had in all points accurately complied with our wishes. Forgetting forthe moment all the possible embarrassments which might arise, in my genuinedelight at beholding the wonderful man before me, and hearing his workconducted by himself, I at once undertook to do everything I possibly could tomeet his desires. This declaration I made with the utmost sincerity of zeal. Hesmiled with almost childlike kindliness on hearing me, and I at once begged himto conduct the rehearsal arranged for the morrow. He thereupon grew suddenlythoughtful, and began to weigh the numerous disadvantages of such an action onhis part. So acute did his agitation become that he had the greatest difficultyin expressing himself clearly on any point, and I found it no easy matter toinquire what arrangements on our part would persuade him to undertake themorrow’s rehearsal. After a moment’s reflection he asked what sort of baton Iwas accustomed to use when conducting. With my hands I indicated theapproximate length and thickness of a medium-sized wooden rod, such as ourchoir-attendant was in the habit of supplying, freshly covered with whitepaper. He sighed, and asked if I thought it possible to procure him byto-morrow a baton of black ebony, whose very respectable length and thicknesshe indicated by a gesture, and on each end of which a fairly large knob ofivory was to be affixed. I promised to have one prepared for the nextrehearsal, which should at least be similar in appearance to what he desired,and another of the specified materials in time for the actual performance.Visibly relieved, he then passed his hand over his brow, and granted mepermission to announce his consent to conduct on the following day. After oncemore strongly enforcing his instructions as to the baton, he went back to hishotel.
I seemed to be moving in a dream, and hastened in a whirl-wind of excitement topublish the news of what had happened and was to be expected. We were fairlytrapped. Schroder-Devrient offered to become our scapegoat, while I enteredinto precise details with the theatre carpenter concerning the baton. Thisturned out so far correct that it possessed the requisite length and breadth,was black in its colour, and had two large white knobs. Then came the fatefulrehearsal. Spontini was evidently ill at ease on his seat in the orchestra.First of all he wished to have the oboists placed behind him. As this partialchange of position just at that moment would have caused much confusion in thedisposition of the orchestra, I promised to effect the alteration after therehearsal. He said no more, and took up his baton. In a moment I understood whyhe attached such importance to its form and size. He held it, not as otherconductors do, by the end, but gripped it about the middle with his clenchedfist, waving it so as to make it evident that he wielded his baton like afield-marshal’s staff, not for beating time, but for command.
Confusion arose in the very first scene, which was increased by the fact thatthe master’s instructions, both to orchestra and singers, were rendered almostunintelligible by his confused use of the German language. This much at leastwe were soon able to grasp, that he was particularly anxious to disabuse us ofthe idea that this was a full-dress rehearsal, and to show us that he was setupon a thorough re-study of the opera from the very beginning. Great, indeed,was the despair of my good old chorus-master and stage manager, Fischer—whobefore had enthusiastically advocated the invitation of Spontini—when herecognised that the dislocation of our repertoire was now inevitable. Thisfeeling swelled by degrees to open anger, in the blindness of which every freshsuggestion of Spontini’s appeared but frivolous fault-finding, to which hebluntly responded in the coarsest German. After one of the choruses Spontinibeckoned me to his side and whispered: ‘Mais savez-vous, vos choeurs nechantent pas mal’; whereupon Fischer, regarding this with suspicion, shoutedout to me in a rage: ‘What does the old hog want now?’ and I had some troubleto pacify the speedily converted enthusiast.
But our most serious delay arose, during the first act, through the evolutionsof a triumphal march. With the most vociferous emphasis the master expressedintense dissatisfaction with the apathetic demeanour of our populace during theprocession of vestal virgins. He was quite unaware of the fact that, inobedience to our stage manager’s instructions, they had fallen on their kneesupon the appearance of the priestesses; for he was so excited, and withal soterribly short-sighted, that nothing which appealed to the eye alone wasperceptible to his senses. What he demanded was that the Roman army shouldmanifest its devout respect in more drastic fashion by flinging themselves asone man to the ground, and marking this by delivering a crashing blow of theirspears on their shields. Endless attempts were made, but some one alwaysclattered either too soon or too late. Then he repeated the action himselfseveral times with his baton on the desk, but all to no purpose; the crash wasnot sufficiently sharp and emphatic. This reminded me of the impression madeupon me some years before in Berlin by the wonderful precision and almostalarming effect with which I had seen similar evolutions carried out in theplay of Ferdinand Cortez, and I realized that it would require an immediate andtedious accentuation of our customary softness of action in such maneouvresbefore we could meet the fastidious master’s requirements. At the end of thefirst act Spontini went on the stage himself, in order to give a detailedexplanation of his reasons for wishing to defer his opera for a considerabletime, so as to prepare by multitudinous rehearsals for its production inaccordance with his taste. He expected to find the actors of the Dresden CourtTheatre gathered there to hear him; but the company had already dispersed.Singers and stage manager had hastily scattered in every direction to givevent, each in his own fashion, to the misery of the situation. None but theworkmen, lamp-cleaners, and a few of the chorus gathered in a semicircle aroundSpontini, in order to have a look at that remarkable man, as he held forth withwonderful effect on the requirements of true theatrical art. Turning towardsthe dismal scene, I gently and respectfully pointed out to Spontini theuselessness of his declamation, and promised that everything should eventuallybe done precisely as he desired.
Finally, I succeeded in extricating him from the undignified position in which,to my horror, he had been placed, by telling him that Herr Eduard Devrient, whohad seen the Vestalin in Berlin, and carried every detail of the performance inhis mind, should personally drill our chorus and supers into a becomingsolemnity during the reception of the vestals. This pacified him, and weproceeded to settle on a plan for a series of rehearsals according to hiswishes. But, in spite of all this, I was the only person to whom this strangeturn of affairs was not unwelcome; for through the burlesque extravagances ofSpontini, and notwithstanding his extraordinary eccentricities, which, however,I learned in time to understand, I could perceive the miraculous energy withwhich he pursued and attained an ideal of theatrical art such as in our dayshad become almost unknown.
We began, therefore, with a pianoforte rehearsal, at which the master made apoint of telling the singers what he wanted. He did not tell us anything new,however, for he said little about the details of the rendering; on the otherhand, he expatiated upon the general interpretation, and I noticed that indoing this, he had accustomed himself to make the most decided allowances forthe great singers, especially Schroder-Devrient and Tichatschek. The only thinghe did was to forbid the latter to use the word Braut (bride) with whichLicinius had to address Julia in the German translation; this word soundedhorrible in his ears, and he could not understand how anybody could set such avulgar sound as that to music. He gave a long lecture, however, to the somewhatcoarse and less talented singer who took the part of the high-priest, andexplained to him how to understand and interpret this character from thedialogue (in recitative) between him and Haruspex. He told him that he mustunderstand that the whole thing was based upon priestcraft and superstition.Pontifex must make it clear that he does not fear his antagonist at the head ofthe Roman army, because, should the worst come to the worst, he has hismachines ready, which, if necessary, will miraculously rekindle the dead fireof Vesta. In this way, even though Julia should escape the sacrifice, the powerof the priesthood would still be unassailable.
During one of the rehearsals I asked Spontini why he, who, as a rule, made suchvery effective use of the trombone, should have left it entirely out in themagnificent triumphal march of the first act. Very much astonished he asked:‘Est-ce que je n’ai pas de trombones?’ I showed him the printed score, and hethen asked me to add the trombones to the march, so that, if possible, theymight be used at the next rehearsal. He also said: ‘J’ai entendu dans votreRienzi un instrument, que vous appelez Basse-tuba; je ne veux pas bannir cetinstrument de l’orchestre: faites m’en une partie pour la Vestale.’ It gave megreat pleasure to perform this task for him with all the care and good judgmentI could dispose of. When at the rehearsal he heard the effect for the firsttime, he threw me a really grateful glance, and so much appreciated the reallysimple additions I had made to his score, that a little later on he wrote me avery friendly letter from Paris in which he asked me kindly to send him theextra instrumental parts I had prepared for him. His pride would not allow him,however, to ask outright for something for which I alone had been responsible,so he wrote: ‘Envoyez-moi une partition des trombones pour la marche triomphaleet de la Basse-tuba telle qu’elle a ete executee sous ma direction a Dresde.’Apart from this, I also showed how greatly I respected him, in the eagernesswith which, at his special request, I regrouped all the instruments in theorchestra. He was forced to this request more by habit than by principle, andhow very important it seemed to him not to make the slightest change in hiscustomary arrangements, was proved to me when he explained his method ofconducting. He conducted the orchestra, so he said, only with his eyes: ‘Myleft eye is the first violin, my right eye the second, and if the eye is tohave power, one must not wear glasses (as so many bad conductors do), even ifone is short-sighted. I,’ he admitted confidentially, ‘cannot see twelve inchesin front of me, but all the same I can make them play as I want, merely byfixing them with my eye.’ In some respects the arbitrary way in which he usedto arrange his orchestra was really very irrational. From his old days in Parishe had retained the habit of placing the two oboists immediately behind him,and although this was a fad which owed its origin to a mere accident, it wasone to which he always adhered. The consequence was that these players had toavert the mouthpiece of their instruments from the audience, and our excellentoboist was so angry about this arrangement, that it was only by dint of greatdiplomacy that I succeeded in pacifying him.
Apart from this, Spontini’s method was based upon the absolutely correct system(which even at the present time is misunderstood by some German orchestras) ofspreading the string quartette over the whole orchestra. This system furtherconsisted in preventing the brass and percussion instruments from culminatingin one point (and drowning each other) by dividing them on both sides, and byplacing the more delicate wind instruments at a judicious distance from eachother, thus forming a chain between the violins. Even some great and celebratedorchestras of the present day still retain the custom of dividing the mass ofinstruments into two halves, the string and the wind instruments, anarrangement that denotes roughness and a lack of understanding of the sound ofthe orchestra, which ought to blend harmoniously and be well balanced.
I was very glad to have the chance of introducing this excellent improvement inDresden, for now that Spontini himself had initiated it, it was an easy matterto get the King’s command to let the alteration stand. Nothing remained afterSpontini’s departure but to modify and correct certain eccentricities andarbitrary features in his arrangements; and from that moment I attained a highlevel of success with my orchestra.
With all the peculiarities he showed at rehearsals, this exceptional manfascinated both musicians and singers to such an extent that the productionattracted quite an unusual amount of attention. Very characteristic was theenergy with which he insisted on exceptionally sharp rhythmic accents; throughhis association with the Berlin orchestra he had acquired the habit of markingthe note that he wished to be brought out with the word diese (this), which atfirst was quite incomprehensible to me. The great singer Tichatschek, who had apositive genius for rhythm, was highly pleased by this; for he also hadacquired the habit of compelling the chorus to great precision in veryimportant entries, and maintained that if one only accentuated the first noteproperly, the rest followed as a matter of course. On the whole, therefore, aspirit of devotion to the master gradually pervaded the orchestra; the violasalone bore him a grudge for a while, and for this reason. In the accompanimentof the lugubrious cantilena of Julia at the end of the second act, he would notput up with the way in which the violas played the horribly sentimentalaccompaniment. Suddenly turning towards them he called in a sepulchral tone,‘Are the violas dying?’ The two pale and incurably melancholy old men who heldon tenaciously to their posts in the orchestra, notwithstanding their right toa pension, stared at Spontini with real fright, reading a threat in his words,and I had to explain Spontini’s wish in sober language in order to call themback to life.
On the stage Herr Eduard Devrient helped very materially in bringing aboutwonderfully distinct ensembles; he also knew how to gratify a certain wish ofSpontini’s, which threw us all into tremendous confusion. In accordance withthe cuts adopted by all the German theatres, we too ended the opera with thefiery duet, supported by the chorus, between Licinius and Julia after theirrescue. The master, however, insisted on adding a lively chorus and ballet tothe finale, according to the antiquated method of ending common to French operaseria. He was absolutely against finishing his work with a dismal churchyardepisode; consequently the whole scene had to be altered. Venus was to shineresplendent in a rose bower, and the long-suffering lovers were to be wedded ather altar, amid lively dancing and singing, by rose-bedecked priests andpriestesses. We performed it like this, but unluckily not with the success wehad all hoped for.
In the course of the production, which was proceeding with wonderful accuracyand verve, we came across a difficulty with regard to the principal part forwhich none of us had been prepared. Our great Schroder-Devrient was obviouslyno longer of an age to give the desired effect as the youngest of the vestalvirgins; she had acquired matronly contours, and her age was moreoveraccentuated by the extremely girlish-looking high-priestess with whom she hadto act, and whose youth it was difficult to dissimulate. This was my niece,Johanna Wagner, who, because of her marvellous voice and great talent as anactress, made every one in the audience long to see the parts of the two womenreversed. Schroder-Devrient, who was well aware of this fact, tried by everyeffective means in her power to overcome her most difficult position; thiseffort, however, resulted not infrequently in great exaggeration and strainingof the voice, and in one very important place her part was sadly overacted.When, after the great trio in the second act, she had to gasp the words, ‘erist frei’ (‘he is free’), and to move away from her rescued lover towards thefront of the stage, she made the mistake of speaking the words instead ofsinging them.
She had often proved the effect of a decisive word uttered with an exaggeratedand yet careful imitation of the ordinary accents of the spoken language, byexciting the audience’s wildest enthusiasm when she almost whispered the words,‘Noch einen Schritt und du bist todt!’ (‘Just one more step and thou artdead!’) in Fidelia. This terrific effect, which I too had felt, was produced bythe shock—like unto the blow of an executioner’s axe—which I received onsuddenly coming down from the ideal sphere to which music itself can exalt themost awful situations, to the naked surface of dreadful reality. This sensationwas due simply to the knowledge of the utmost height of the sublime, and thememory of the impression I received led me to call that particular moment themoment of lightning; for it was as if two different worlds that meet, and yetare divided, were suddenly illumined and revealed as by a flash. Thoroughly tounderstand such a moment, and not to treat it wrongly, was the whole secret,and this I fully realised on that day from the absolute failure on the greatsinger’s part to produce the right effect. The toneless, hoarse way in whichshe uttered the words was like throwing cold water over the audience andmyself, and not one of those present could see any more in the incident than abotched theatrical effect. It is possible that the public had expected toomuch, for they were curious to see Spontini conduct, and the prices had beenraised accordingly; it may also have been that the whole style of the work,with its antiquated French plot, seemed rather obsolete in spite of themajestic beauty, of the music; or, perhaps, the very tame end left the samecold impression as Devrient’s dramatic failure. In any case there was no realenthusiasm, and the only sign of approval was a rather lukewarm call for thecelebrated master, who, covered with numerous decorations, made a sadimpression on me as he bowed his thanks to the audience for their very moderateapplause.
Nobody was less blind to the somewhat disappointing result than Spontinihimself. He decided, however, to defy fate, and to this end had recourse tomeans which he had often employed in Berlin, in order to get packed houses forhis operatic productions. Thus, he always gave Sunday performances, forexperience had taught him that he could always have a full house on that day.As the next Sunday on which his Vestalin was to be produced was still some timeahead, his prolonged stay gave us several more chances of enjoying hisinteresting company. I have such a vivid recollection of the hours spent withhim either at Madame Devrient’s or at my house, that I shall be pleased toquote a few reminiscences.
I shall never forget a dinner at Schroder-Devrient’s house at which we had acharming conversation with Spontini and his wife (a sister of the celebratedpianoforte maker, Erard). Spontini generally listened deferentially to what theothers had to say, his attitude being that of a man who expected to be askedfor his opinion. When he did speak in the end it was with a sort of rhetoricalsolemnity, in sharp and precise sentences, categorical and well accentuated,which forbade contradiction from the outset. Herr Ferdinand Hiller was amongthe invited guests, and he began to speak about Liszt. After some time Spontinigave his opinion in his characteristic fashion, but in a spirit which showedonly too clearly, that from the heights of his Berlin throne he had not judgedthe affairs of the world either with impartiality or goodwill. While he waslaying down the law in this style he could not brook any interruption. When,therefore, during the dessert, the general conversation became livelier, andMadame Devrient happened to laugh with her neighbour at the table in the middleof a long harangue of Spontini’s, he shot an extremely angry glance at hiswife. Madame Devrient apologised for her at once by saying that it was she(Madame Devrient) who had been laughing about some lines on a bonbonnière,whereupon Spontini retorted: ‘Pourtant je suis sûr que c’est ma femme qui asuscité ce rire; je ne veux pas que l’on rie devant moi, je ne rie jamais moi,j’aime le sérieux.’ In spite of that he sometimes succeeded in being jovial.For instance, it amused him to set us all wondering at the way in which hecrunched enormous lumps of sugar with his marvellous teeth. After dinner, whenwe drew our chairs closer together, he usually became very excited.
As far as he was capable of affection he seemed really to like me; he declaredopenly that he loved me, and said that he would prove this best by trying tokeep me from the misfortune of proceeding in my career as a dramatic composer.He said he knew it would be difficult to convince me of the value of thisfriendly service, but as he felt it his sacred duty to look after my happinessin this particular line, he was prepared to stay in Dresden for anotherhalf-year, during which period he suggested that we should produce his otheroperas, and especially Agnes von Hohenstaufen, under his direction. Toexplain his views about the fatal mistake of trying to succeed as a dramaticcomposer ‘after Spontini,’ he began by praising me in these terms: ‘Quandj’ai entendu votre Rienzi, j’ai dit, c’est un homme de génie, mais déjà il aplus fait qu’il ne peut faire.’ In order to show me what he meant by thisparadox, he proceeded as follows: ‘Après Gluck c’est moi qui ai fait lagrande révolution avec la Vestale; j’ai introduit le Vorhalt dela sexte’ (the suspension of the sixth) ‘dans l’harmonie et la grossecaisse dans l’orchestre; avec Cortez j’ai fait un pas de plus en avant;puis j’ai fait trois pas avec Olympic. Nurmahal, Alcidor et tout ce quej’ai fait dans les premiers temps à Berlin, je vous les livre, c’étaient desœuvres occasionnelles; mais depuis j’ai fait cent pas en avant avec Agnèsde Hohenstaufen, où j’ai imaginé un emploi de l’orchestre remplacantparfaitement l’orgue.’
Since then he had tried his hand at a new work, Les Atheniennes; the CrownPrince (now King of Prussia[13])had urged him to finish this work, and to testify to the truth of his words, hetook several letters which he had received from this monarch out of hispocket-book, and handed them to us for inspection. Not until he had insistedupon our reading them carefully through did he continue by saying that, inspite of this flattering invitation, he had given up the idea of setting thisexcellent subject to music, because he felt sure he could never surpass hisAgnes von Hohenstaufen, nor invent anything new. In conclusion he said: ‘Or,comment voulez-vous que quiconque puisse inventer quelque chose de nouveau, moiSpontini declarant ne pouvoir en aucune facon surpasser mes œuvresprecedentes, d’autre part etant avise que depuis la Vestale il n’a point eteecrit une note qui ne fut volee de mes partitions.’
[13]William the First.
To prove that this assertion was not merely talk, but that it was based onscientific investigations, he quoted his wife, who was supposed to have readwith him an elaborate discussion on the subject by a celebrated member of theFrench academy, and he added that the essay in question had, for somemysterious reason, never been printed. In this very important and scientifictreatise it was proved that without Spontini’s invention of the suspension ofthe sixth in his Vestalin, the whole of modern melody would not have existed,and that any and every form of melody that had been used since had beenborrowed from his compositions. I was thunderstruck, but hoped all the same tobring the inexorable master to a better frame of mind, especially in regard tocertain reservations he had made. I acknowledged that the academician inquestion was right in many ways, but I asked him if he did not believe that ifsomebody brought him a dramatic poem full of an absolutely new and hithertounknown spirit, it would not inspire him to invent new musical combinations?With a ring of compassion in his voice, he replied that my question was whollymistaken; in what would the novelty consist? ‘Dans la Vestale j’ai compose unsujet romain, dans Ferdinand Cortez un sujet espagnol-mexicain, dans Olympic unsujet greco-macedonien, enfin dans Agnes de Hohenstaufen un sujet allemand:tout le reste ne vaut rien!’ He hoped that I was not thinking of the so-calledromantic style a la Freischutz? With such childish stuff no serious man couldhave anything to do; for art was a serious thing, and he had exhausted seriousart! And, after all, what nation could produce the composer who could surpassHIM? Surely not the Italians, whom he characterised simply as cochons;certainly not the French, who had only imitated the Italians; nor the Germans,who would never get beyond their childhood in music, and who, if they had everpossessed any talent, had had it all spoilt for them by the Jews? ‘Oh,croyez-moi, il y avait de l’espoir pour l’Allemagne lorsque j’etais empereur dela musique a Berlin; mais depuis que le roi de Prusse a livre sa musique audesordre occasionne par les deux juifs errants qu’il a attires, tout espoir estperdu.’
Our charming hostess now thought it time to change the subject, and to divertthe master’s thoughts. The theatre was situated quite near to her house; sheinvited him to go across with our friend Heine, who was amongst the guests, andto have a look at Antigone, which was then being given, and which was sure tointerest him on account of the antique equipment of the stage, which had beencarried out according to Semper’s excellent plans. At first he wanted torefuse, on the plea that he had seen all this so much better when his Olympiahad been performed. After a while he consented; but in a very short time hereturned to his original opinion, and, smiling scornfully, assured us that hehad seen and heard enough to strengthen him in his verdict. Heine told us thatshortly after he and Spontini had taken their seats in the almost emptyamphitheatre, and as soon as the Bacchus chorus had started, Spontini had saidto him: ‘C’est de la Berliner Sing-Academie, allons-nous-en.’ Through an opendoor a streak of light had fallen on a lonely figure behind one of the columns;Heine had recognised Mendelssohn, and concluded that he had overheardSpontini’s remark.
From the master’s very excited conversations we soon realised very distinctlythat he intended to stay longer in Dresden, so as to get all his operasperformed. It was Schroder-Devrient’s idea to save Spontini, in his owninterest, from the mortifying disappointment of finding all his enthusiastichopes in regard to a second performance of Vestalin unfounded, and, ifpossible, to prevent this second performance during his stay in Dresden. Shepretended to be ill, and the director requested me to inform Spontini of thefact that his production would have to be indefinitely postponed. This visitwas so distasteful to me, that I was glad to make it in Röckel’s company. Hewas also a friend of Spontini’s, and his French was moreover much better thanmine. As we were quite prepared for a bad reception, we were really frightenedto enter. Imagine, therefore, our astonishment when we found the master, whohad already been informed of the news in a letter from Devrient, in the verybrightest spirits.
He told us that he had to leave immediately for Paris, and that from there hewas to travel to Rome, the Holy Father having commanded him to come in order toreceive the title of ‘Count of San Andrea.’ Then he showed us a seconddocument, in which the King of Denmark was supposed to have raised him to theDanish nobility. This meant, however, only that the title of ‘Ritter’ of the‘Elephanten-Order’ had been conferred upon him; and although this was indeed ahigh honour, in speaking about it he only mentioned the word ‘Ritter’ withoutreferring to the particular order, because this seemed to him too ordinary fora person of his dignity. He was, however, childishly pleased over the affair,and felt that he had been miraculously rescued from the narrow sphere of hisDresden Vestalin production to find himself suddenly transported into regionsof glory, from which he looked down upon the distressing ‘opera’ world withsublime self-content.
Meanwhile Röckel and I silently thanked the Holy Father and the King of Denmarkfrom the bottom of our hearts. We bode an affectionate farewell to the strangemaster, and to cheer him I promised him seriously to think over his friendlyadvice with regard to my career as a composer of opera.
Later on I heard what Spontini had said about me, on hearing that I had fledfrom Dresden for political reasons, and had sought refuge in Switzerland. Hethought that this was in consequence of my share in a plot of high treasonagainst the King of Saxony, whom he looked upon as my benefactor, because I hadbeen nominated conductor of the royal orchestra, and he expressed his opinionabout me by ejaculating in tones of the deepest anguish: ‘Quelle ingratitude!’
From Berlioz, who was at Spontini’s deathbed until the end, I heard that themaster had struggled most determinedly against death, and had cried repeatedly,‘Je ne veux pas mourir, je ne veux pas mourir!’ When Berlioz tried to comforthim by saying, ‘Comment pouvez-vous penser mourir vous, mon maître, qui etesimmortel!’ Spontini retorted angrily, ‘Ne faites pas de mauvaisesplaisanteries!’ In spite of all the extraordinary experiences I had had withhim, the news of his death, which I received in Zürich, touched me very deeply.Later on I expressed my feelings towards him, and my opinion of him as anartist, in a somewhat condensed form in the Eidgenossischen Zeitung, and inthis article the quality I extolled more particularly in him was that, unlikeMeyerbeer, who was then the rage, and the very aged Rossini, he believedabsolutely in himself and his art. All the same, and somewhat to my disgust, Icould not but see that this belief in himself had deteriorated into a veritablesuperstition.
I do not remember in those days having gone deeply into my feelings aboutSpontini’s exceedingly strange individuality, nor do I recollect havingtroubled to discover how far they were consistent with the high opinion Iformed of him after I had got to know him more intimately. Obviously I had onlyseen the caricature of the man, although the tendency towards such plainlyoverweening self-confidence may, at all events, have manifested itself earlierin life. At the same time, one could trace in all this the influence of thedecay of the musical and dramatic life of the period, which Spontini, situatedas he was in Berlin, was well able to witness. The surprising fact that he sawhis chief merit in unessential details showed plainly that his judgment hadbecome childish; in my opinion this did not detract from the great value of hisworks, however much he might exaggerate their value. In a sense I could justifyhis boundless self-confidence, which was principally the outcome of thecomparison between himself and the great composers who were now replacing him;for in my heart of hearts I shared the contempt which he felt for theseartists, although I did not dare to say so openly. And thus it came about that,in spite of his many somewhat absurd idiosyncrasies, I learned during thismeeting at Dresden to feel a deep sympathy for this man, the like of whom I wasnever again to meet.
My next experiences of important musical celebrities of this age were of quitea different character. Amongst the more distinguished of these was HeinrichMarschner, who, as a very young man, had been nominated musical director of theDresden orchestra by Weber. After Weber’s death he seemed to have hoped that hewould take his place entirely, and it was due less to the fact that his talentwas still unknown, than to his repellent manner, that he was disappointed inhis expectations. His wife, however, suddenly came into some money, and thiswindfall enabled him to devote all his energies to his work as composer ofoperas, without being obliged to fill any fixed post.
During the wild days of my youth Marschner lived in Leipzig, where his operasDer Vampir and Templer und Judin saw their first appearance. My sister Rosaliehad once taken me to him in order to hear his opinion about me. He did nottreat me uncivilly, but my visit led to nothing. I was also present at thefirst night of his opera Des Falkner’s Braut, which however was not a success.Then he went to Hanover. His opera Hans Heiling, which was originally producedin Berlin, I heard for the first time in Wurzburg; it showed vacillation in itstendency, and a decrease in constructive power. After that he produced severalother operas, such as Das Schloss am Aetna and Der Babu, which never becamepopular. He was always neglected by the management at Dresden, as though theybore him some grudge, and only his Templer was played at all often. Mycolleague, Reissiger, had to conduct this opera, and as in his absence I alwayshad to take his place, it also fell to my lot on one occasion to direct aperformance of this work.
This was during the time that I worked at my Tannhäuser. I remember that,although I had often conducted this opera before in Magdeburg, on this occasionthe wild nature of the instrumentation and its lack of mastership affected meto such an extent that it literally made me ill, and as soon as he returned,therefore, I implored Reissiger at any cost to resume the leadership. On theother hand, immediately after my nomination I had started on the production ofHans Heiling, but merely for the sake of the artistic honour. The insufficientdistribution of the parts, however, a difficulty which in those days could notbe overcome, made a complete success impossible. In any case, though, the wholespirit of the work seemed to be terribly old-fashioned.
I now heard that Marschner had finished another opera called Adolph von Nassau,and in a criticism of this work, of the genuineness of which I was unable tojudge, particular stress was laid upon the ‘patriotic and noble Germanatmosphere’ of this new creation. I did my best to make the Dresden theatretake the initiative, and to urge Lüttichau to secure this opera before it wasproduced elsewhere. Marschner, who did not seem to have been treated withparticular consideration by the Hanoverian opera authorities, accepted theinvitation with great joy, sent his score, and declared himself willing to cometo Dresden for the first performance. Lüttichau, however, was not anxious tosee him take his place at the head of the orchestra; while I, also, was of theopinion that the too frequent appearance of outside conductors, even if it werefor the purpose of conducting their own works, would not only lead toconfusion, but might also fail to be as amusing and instructive as Spontini’svisit had proved to be. It was therefore decided that I should conduct the newopera myself. And how I lived to regret it!
The score arrived: to a weak plot by Karl Golmick the composer of the Templerhad written such superficial music, that the principal effect lay in a drinkingsong for a quartette, in which the German Rhine and German wine played theusual stereotyped part peculiar to such male quartettes. I lost all courage;but we had to go on with it now, and all I could do was to try, by maintaininga grave bearing, to make the singers take an interest in their task; this,however, was not easy. To Tichatschek and Mitterwurzer were assigned the twoprincipal male parts; being both eminently musical, they sang everything atfirst sight, and after each number looked up at me as if to say, ‘What do youthink of it all?’ I maintained that it was good German music; they must notallow themselves to get confused. But all they did was to stare at each otherin amazement, not knowing what to make of me. Nevertheless, in the end theycould not stand it any longer, and when they saw that I still retained mygravity, they burst into loud laughter, in which I could not help joining.
I now had to take them into my confidence, and make them promise to follow mylead and pretend to be serious, for it was impossible to give up the opera atthis stage. A Viennese ‘colorature’ singer of the latest style—Madame SpatserGentiluomo—who came to us from Hanover, and on whose services Marschner greatlyrelied, was rather taken with her part chiefly because it gave her the chanceof showing ‘brilliancy.’ And, indeed, there was a finale in which my ‘Germanmaster’ had actually tried to steal a march on Donizetti. The Princess had beenpoisoned by a golden rose, a present from the wicked Bishop of Mainz, and hadbecome delirious. Adolph von Nassau, with the knights of the German empire,swears vengeance, and, accompanied by the chorus, pours out his feelings in astretta of such incredible vulgarity and amateurishness that Donizetti wouldhave thrown it at the head of any of his pupils who had dared to compose such athing. Marschner now arrived for the dress rehearsal; he was very pleased, and,without compelling me to falsehood, he gave me sufficient opportunities forexercising my powers in the art of concealing my real thoughts. At all events Imust have succeeded fairly well, for he had every reason to think himselfconsiderately and kindly treated by me.
During the performance the public behaved very much as the singers had done atthe rehearsals. We had brought a still-born child into the world. But Marschnerwas comforted by the fact that his drinking quartette was encored. This wasreminiscent of one of Becker’s songs: Sie sollen ihn nicht haben, den freiendeutschen Rhein (‘They shall not have it, our free German Rhine’). After theperformance the composer was my guest at a supper party at which, I am sorry tosay, the singers, who had had enough of it, would not attend. Herr FerdinandHiller had the presence of mind to insist, in his toast to Marschner, that‘whatever one might say, all stress must be laid on the GERMAN master andGERMAN art.’ Strangely enough, Marschner himself contradicted him by sayingthat there was something wrong with German operatic compositions, and that oneought to consider the singers and how to write more brilliantly for theirvoices than he had succeeded in doing up to the present.
Highly gifted as Marschner was, there can be no doubt that the decline of hisgenius was due partly to a tendency which even in the ageing master himself, ashe frankly admitted, was effecting an important and most salutary change. Inlater years I met him once more in Paris at the time of my memorable productionof Tannhäuser. I did not feel inclined to renew the old relations, for, to tellthe truth, I wanted to spare myself the unpleasantness of witnessing theconsequences of his change of views, of which we had seen the beginning inDresden. I learned that he was in a state of almost helpless childishness, andthat he was in the hands of a young and ambitious woman, who was trying to makea last attempt at conquering Paris for him. Among other puff paragraphscalculated to spread Marschner’s glory, I read one which said that theParisians must not believe that I (Wagner) was representative of German art;no—if only Marschner were given a hearing, it would be discovered that he wasbeyond a doubt better suited to the French taste than I could ever be.Marschner died before his wife had succeeded in establishing this point.
Ferdinand Hiller, on the other hand, who was in Dresden, behaved in a verycharming and friendly manner, particularly at this time. Meyerbeer also stayedin the same town from time to time; precisely why, nobody knew. Once he hadrented a little house for the summer near the Pirnaischer Schlag, and under apretty tree in the garden of this place he had had a small piano installed,whereon, in this idyllic retreat, he worked at his Feldlager in Schlesien. Helived in great retirement, and I saw very little of him. Ferdinand Hiller, onthe contrary, took a commanding position in the Dresden musical world in so faras this was not already monopolised by the royal orchestra and its masters, andfor many years he worked hard for its success. Having a little private capital,he established himself comfortably amongst us, and was soon known as adelightful host, who kept a pleasant house, which, thanks to his wife’sinfluence, was frequented by a numerous Polish colony. Frau Hiller was indeedan exceptional Jewish woman of Polish origin, and she was perhaps all the moreexceptional seeing that she, in company with her husband, had been baptized aProtestant in Italy. Hiller began his career in Dresden with the production ofhis opera, Der Traum in der Christnacht. Since the unheard-of fact that Rienzihad been able to rouse the Dresden public to lasting enthusiasm, many an operacomposer had felt himself drawn towards our ‘Florence on the Elbe,’ of whichLaube once said that as soon as one entered it one felt bound to apologisebecause one found so many good things there which one promptly forgot themoment one departed.
The composer of Der Traum in der Christnacht looked upon this work as apeculiarly ‘German composition.’ Hiller had set to music a gruesome play byRaupach, Der Muller und sein Kind (‘The Miller and his Child’), in which fatherand daughter, within but a short space of time, both die of consumption. Hedeclared that he had conceived the dialogue and the music of this opera in whathe called the ‘popular style,’ but this work met with the same fate as thatwhich, according to Liszt, befell all his compositions. In spite of hisundoubted musical merits, which even Rossini acknowledged, and whether he gavethem in French in Paris or in Italian in Italy, it was his sad experiencealways to see his operas fail. In Germany he had tried the Mendelssohnianstyle, and had succeeded in composing an oratorio called Die ZerstorungJerusalems, which luckily was not taken notice of by the moody theatre-goingpublic, and which consequently received the unassailable reputation of being ‘asolid German work.’ He also took Mendelssohn’s place as director of the LeipzigGewandhaus concerts when the latter was called to Berlin in the capacity ofgeneral director. Hiller’s evil fortune still pursued him, however, and he wasunable to retain his position, everybody being given to understand that it wasbecause his wife was not sufficiently acknowledged as concert prima-donna.Mendelssohn returned and made Hiller leave, and Hiller boasted of havingquarrelled with him.
Dresden and the success of my Rienzi now weighed so much upon his mind that henaturally made another attempt to succeed as an opera composer. Owing to hisgreat energy, and to his position as son of a rich banker (a special attractioneven to the director of a court theatre), it happened that he induced them toput aside my poor friend Röckel’s Farinelli (the production of which had beenpromised him) in favour of his (Hiller’s) own work, Der Traum in derChristnacht. He was of the opinion that next to Reissiger and myself, a man ofgreater musical reputation than Röckel was needed. Lüttichau, however, wasquite content to have Reissiger and myself as celebrities, particularly as wegot on so well together, and he remained deaf to Hiller’s wishes. To me DerTraum in der Christnacht was a great nuisance. I had to conduct it a secondtime, and before an empty house. Hiller now saw that he had been wrong in nottaking my advice before, and in not shortening the opera by one act andaltering the end, and he now fancied that he was doing me a great favour by atlast declaring himself ready to act on my suggestion in the event of anotherperformance of his opera being possible. I really managed to have it playedonce more. This was, however, to be the last time, and Hiller, who had read mybook of Tannhäuser, thought that I had a great advantage over him in writing myown words. He therefore made me promise to help him with the choice and writingof a subject for his next opera.
Shortly afterwards Hiller was present at a performance of Rienzi, which wasagain given before a crowded and enthusiastic house. When, at the end of thesecond act, and after frantic recalls from the audience, I left the orchestrain a great state of excitement, Hiller, who was waiting for me in the passage,took the opportunity of adding to his very hasty congratulations, ‘Do give myTraum once more!’ I promised him laughingly to do this if I had the chance, butI cannot remember whether it came off or not. While he was waiting for thecreation of an entirely new plot for his next opera, Hiller devoted himself tothe study of chamber music, to which his large and well-furnished room lentitself most admirably.
A beautiful and solemn event added to the seriousness of the mood in which Ifinished the music to Tannhäuser towards the end of the year, and neutralisedthe more superficial impressions made upon me by the stirring events abovedescribed. This was the removal of the remains of Carl Maria von Weber fromLondon to Dresden in December, 1844. As I have already said, a committee hadfor years been agitating for this removal. From information given by a certaintraveller, it had become known that the insignificant coffin which containedWeber’s ashes had been disposed of in such a careless way in a remote corner ofSt. Paul’s, that it was feared it might soon become impossible to identify it.
My energetic friend, Professor Lowe, whom I have already mentioned, had availedhimself of this information in order to urge the Dresden Glee Club, whichconstituted his hobby, to take the matter in hand. The concert of male singersarranged to this end had been a fair success financially, and they now wantedto induce the theatre management to make similar efforts, when suddenly theymet with serious opposition from this very quarter. The management of theDresden theatre told the committee that the King had religious scruples withregard to disturbing the peace of the dead. However much we felt inclined todoubt the genuineness of these reasons, nothing could be done, and I was nextapproached on the subject, in the hope that my influential position might lendweight to my appeal. I entered into the spirit of the enterprise with greatfervour. I consented to be made president; Herr Hofrat Schulz, director of the‘Antiken-Cabinet,’ who was a well-known authority on artistic matters, andanother gentleman, a Christian banker, were also elected members of thecommittee, and the movement thus received fresh life. Prospectuses were sentround, exhaustive plans were made, and numerous meetings held. Here, again, Imet with opposition on the part of my chief, Lüttichau; if he could have doneso, he would have forbidden me to move in the matter by making the most of theKing’s scruples referred to above. But he had had a warning not to pick aquarrel with me after his experience in the summer, when, contrary to hisexpectations, the music written by me to celebrate the King’s arrival had foundfavour with the monarch. As his antipathy to the proceedings was not so veryserious, Lüttichau must have seen that even the direct opposition of hisMajesty could not have prevented the enterprise from being carried outprivately, and that, on the contrary, the court would cut a sorry figure if theRoyal Court Theatre (to which Weber once belonged) should assume a hostileattitude. He therefore tried in a would-be friendly way to make me desist fromfurthering the cause, well knowing that, without me, the plan would fail. Hetried to convince me that it would be wrong to pay this exaggerated honour toWeber’s memory, whereas nobody thought of removing the ashes of Morlacchi fromItaly, although the latter had given his services to the royal orchestra for amuch longer period than Weber had done. What would be the consequence? By wayof argument he said, ‘Suppose Reissiger died on his journey to somewatering-place—his wife would then be as much justified as was Frau von Weber(who had annoyed him quite enough already) in expecting her husband’s dead bodyto be brought home with music and pomp.’ I tried to calm him, and if I did notsucceed in making him see the difference between Reissiger and Weber, I managedto make him understand that the affair must take its course, as the BerlinCourt Theatre had already announced a benefit performance to support ourundertaking.
Meyerbeer, to whom my committee had applied, was instrumental in bringing thisabout, and a performance of Euryanthe was actually given which yielded thehandsome balance of six thousand marks. A few theatres of lesser importance nowfollowed our lead. The Dresden Court Theatre, therefore, could not hold backany longer, and as we now had a fairly large sum at the bank, we were able tocover the expenses of the removal, as well as the cost of an appropriate vaultand monument; we even had a nucleus fund for a statue of Weber, which we wereto fight for later on. The elder of the two sons of the immortal mastertravelled to London to fetch the remains of his father. He brought them by boatdown the Elbe, and finally arrived at the Dresden landing-stage, from whencethey were to be conducted to German soil. This last journey of the remains wasto take place at night. A solemn torchlight procession was to be formed, and Ihad undertaken to see to the funeral music.
I arranged this from two motives out of Euryanthe, using that part of the musicin the overture which relates to the vision of spirits. I introduced theCavatina from Euryanthe—Hier dicht am Quell (‘Here near the source’), which Ileft unaltered, except that I transposed it into B flat major, and I finishedthe whole, as Weber finished his opera, by a return to the first sublimemotive. I had orchestrated this symphonic piece, which was well suited to thepurpose, for eight chosen wind instruments, and notwithstanding the volume ofsound, I had not forgotten softness and delicacy of instrumentation. Isubstituted the gruesome tremolo of the violas, which appears in that part ofthe overture adapted by me, by twenty muffled drums, and as a whole attained tosuch an exceedingly impressive effect, especially to us who were full ofthoughts of Weber, that, even in the theatre where we rehearsed,Schroder-Devrient, who was present, and who had been an intimate friend ofWeber’s, was deeply moved. I had never carried out anything more in keepingwith the character of the subject; and the procession through the town wasequally impressive.
As the very slow tempo, devoid of any strongly marked accents, offered numerousdifficulties, I had had the stage cleared for the rehearsal, in order tocommand a sufficient space for the musicians, once they had thoroughlypractised the piece, to walk round me in a circle playing all the while.Several of those who witnessed the procession from their windows assured methat the effect of the procession was indescribably and sublimely solemn. Afterwe had placed the coffin in the little mortuary chapel of the Catholic cemeteryin Friedrichstadt, where Madame Devrient met it with a wreath of flowers, weperformed, on the following morning, the solemn ceremony of lowering it intothe vault. Herr Hofrat Schulz and myself, as presidents of the committee, wereallowed the honour of speaking by the graveside, and what afforded me anappropriate subject for the few, somewhat affecting, words which I had topronounce, was the fact that, shortly before the removal of Weber’s remains,the second son of the master, Alexander von Weber, had died. The poor motherhad been so terribly affected by the sudden death of this youth, so full oflife and health, that had we not been in the very midst of our arrangements, weshould have been compelled to abandon them; for in this new loss the widow sawa judgment of God who, in her opinion, looked upon the removal of the remainsas an act of sacrilege prompted by vanity. As the public seemed particularlydisposed to hold the same view, it fell to my lot to set the nature of ourundertaking in the proper light before the eyes of the world. And this I so farsucceeded in doing that, to my satisfaction, I learned from all sides that myjustification of our action had received the most general acceptance.
On this occasion I had a strange experience with regard to myself, when for thefirst time in my life I had to deliver a solemn public speech. Since then Ihave always spoken extemporarily; this time, however, as it was my firstappearance as an orator, I had written out my speech, and carefully learned itby heart. As I was thoroughly under the influence of my subject, I felt so sureof my memory that I never thought of making any notes. Thanks to this omission,however, I made my brother Albert very unhappy. He was standing near me at theceremony, and he told me afterwards that, in spite of being deeply moved, hefelt at one moment as if he could have sworn at me for not having asked him toprompt me. It happened in this way: I began my speech in a clear and fullvoice, but suddenly the sound of my own words, and their particular intonation,affected me to such an extent that, carried away as I was by my own thoughts, Iimagined I SAW as well as HEARD myself before the breathless multitude. While Ithus appeared objectively to myself I remained in a sort of trance, duringwhich I seemed to be waiting for something to happen, and felt quite adifferent person from the man who was supposed to be standing and speakingthere. It was neither nervousness nor absent-mindedness on my part; only at theend of a certain sentence there was such a long pause that those who saw mestanding there must have wondered what on earth to think of me. At last my ownsilence and the stillness round me reminded me that I was not there to listen,but to speak. I at once resumed my discourse, and I spoke with such fluency tothe very end that the celebrated actor, Emil Devrient, assured me that, apartfrom the solemn service, he had been deeply impressed simply from thestandpoint of a dramatic orator.
The ceremony concluded with a poem written and set to music by myself, and,though it presented many difficulties for men’s voices, it was splendidlyrendered by some of the best opera singers. Lüttichau, who was present, was nownot only convinced of the justice of the enterprise, but also strongly infavour of it. I was deeply thankful that everything had succeeded so well, andwhen Weber’s widow, upon whom I called after the ceremony, told me howprofoundly she, too, had been moved, the only cloud that still darkened myhorizon was dispelled. In my youth I had learned to love music through myadmiration for Weber’s genius, and the news of his death was a terrible blow tome. To have, as it were, come into contact with him again and after so manyyears by this second funeral, was an event that stirred the very depths of mybeing.
From all the particulars I have given concerning my intimacy with the greatmasters who were my contemporaries, it is easy to see at what sources I hadbeen able to quench my thirst for intellectual intercourse. It was not a verysatisfactory outlook to turn from Weber’s grave to his living successors; but Ihad still to find out how absolutely hopeless this was.
I spent the winter of 1844-5 partly in yielding to attractions from outside,and partly in indulging in the deepest meditation. By dint of great energy, andby getting up very early, even in winter, I succeeded in completing my score toTannhäuser early in April, having, as already stated, finished the compositionof it at the end of the preceding year. In writing down the orchestration Imade things particularly difficult for myself by using the specially preparedpaper which the printing process renders necessary, and which involved me inall kinds of trying formalities. I had each page transferred to the stoneimmediately, and a hundred copies printed from each, hoping to make use ofthese proofs for the rapid circulation of my work. Whether my hopes were to befulfilled or not, I was at all events fifteen hundred marks out of pocket whenall the expenses of the publication were paid.
In regard to this work which called for so many sacrifices, and which was soslow and difficult, more details will appear in my autobiography. At allevents, when May came round I was in possession of a hundred neatly boundcopies of my first new work since the production of the Fliegender Holländer,and Hiller, to whom I showed some parts of it, formed a tolerably goodimpression of its value.
These plans for rapidly spreading the fame of my Tannhäuser were made with thehope of a success which, in view of my needy circumstances, seemed ever moreand more desirable. In the course of one year since I had begun my ownpublication of my operas, much had been done to this end. In September of theyear 1844 I had presented the King of Saxony with a special richly bound copyof the complete pianoforte arrangement of Rienzi, dedicated to his Majesty. TheFliegender Holländer had also been finished, and the pianoforte arrangement ofRienzi for duet, as well as some songs selected from both operas, had eitherbeen published or were about to be published. Apart from this I had hadtwenty-five copies made of the scores of both these operas by means of theso-called autographic transfer process, although only from the writing of thecopyists. All these heavy expenses made it absolutely imperative that I shouldtry to send my scores to the different theatres, and induce them to produce myoperas, as the outlay on the piano scores had been heavy, and these could onlyhave a sale if my works got to be known sufficiently well through the theatre.
I now sent the score of my Rienzi to the more important theatres, but they allreturned my work to me, the Munich Court Theatre even sending it back unopened!I therefore knew what to expect, and spared myself the trouble of sending myDutchman. From a speculative business point of view the situation was this: thehoped-for success of Tannhäuser would bring in its wake a demand for my earlierworks. The worthy Meser, my agent, who was the music publisher appointed to thecourt, had also begun to feel a little doubtful, and saw that this was the onlything to do. I started at once on the publication of a pianoforte arrangementof Tannhäuser, preparing it myself while Röckel undertook the FliegenderHolländer, and a certain Klink did Rienzi.
The only thing that Meser was absolutely opposed to was the title of my newopera, which I had just named Der Venusberg; he maintained that, as I did notmix with the public, I had no idea what horrible jokes were made about thistitle. He said the students and professors of the medical school in Dresdenwould be the first to make fun of it, as they had a predilection for that kindof obscene joke. I was sufficiently disgusted by these details to consent tothe change. To the name of my hero, Tannhäuser, I added the name of the subjectof the legend which, although originally not belonging to the Tannhäuser myth,was thus associated with it by me, a fact which later on Simrock, the greatinvestigator and innovator in the world of legend, whom I esteemed so highly,took very much amiss.
Tannhäuser und der Sangerkrieg auf Wartburg should henceforth be its title, andto give the work a mediaeval appearance I had the words specially printed inGothic characters upon the piano arrangement, and in this way introduced thework to the public.
The extra expenses this involved were very heavy; but I went to great pains toimpress Meser with my belief in the success of my work. So deeply were weinvolved in this scheme, and so great were the sacrifices it had compelled usto make, that there was nothing else for it but to trust to a special turn ofFortune’s wheel. As it happened, the management of the theatre shared myconfidence in the success of Tannhäuser. I had induced Lüttichau to have thescenery for Tannhäuser painted by the best painters of the great opera house inParis. I had seen their work on the Dresden stage: it belonged to the style ofGerman scenic art which was then fashionable, and really gave the effect offirst-class work.
The order for this, as well as the necessary negotiations with the Parisianpainter, Desplechin, had already been settled in the preceding autumn. Themanagement agreed to all my wishes, even to the ordering of beautiful costumesof mediaeval character designed by my friend Heine. The only thing Lüttichauconstantly postponed was the order for the Hall of Song on the Wartburg; hemaintained that the Hall for Kaiser Karl the Great in Oberon, which had onlyrecently been delivered by some French painters, would answer the purpose justas well. With superhuman efforts I had to convince my chief that we did notwant a brilliant throne-room, but a scenic picture of a certain character suchas I saw before my mind’s eye, and that it could be painted only according tomy directions. As in the end I became very irritable and cross, he soothed meby saying that he had no objection to having this scene painted, and that hewould order it to be commenced at once, adding that he had not agreedimmediately, only with the view of making my joy the greater, because, what oneobtained without difficulty, one rarely appreciated. This Hall of Song wasfated to cause me great trouble later on.
Thus everything was in full swing; circumstances were favourable, and seemed tocast a hopeful light upon the production of my new work at the beginning of theautumn season. Even the public was looking forward to it, and for the firsttime I saw my name mentioned in a friendly manner in a communication to theAllgemeine Zeitung. They actually spoke of the great expectations they had ofmy new work, the poem of which had been written ‘with undoubted poeticfeeling.’
Full of hope, I started in July on my holiday, which consisted of a journey toMarienbad in Bohemia, where my wife and I intended to take the cure. Again Ifound myself on the ‘volcanic’ soil of this extraordinary country, Bohemia,which always had such an inspiring effect on me. It was a marvellous summer,almost too hot, and I was therefore in high spirits. I had intended to followthe easy-going mode of life which is a necessary part of this somewhat tryingtreatment, and had selected my books with care, taking with me the poems ofWolfram von Eschenbach, edited by Simrock and San Marte, as well as theanonymous epic Lohengrin, with its lengthy introduction by Gorres. With my bookunder my arm I hid myself in the neighbouring woods, and pitching my tent bythe brook in company with Titurel and Parcival, I lost myself in Wolfram’sstrange, yet irresistibly charming, poem. Soon, however, a longing seized me togive expression to the inspiration generated by this poem, so that I had thegreatest difficulty in overcoming my desire to give up the rest I had beenprescribed while partaking of the water of Marienbad.
The result was an ever-increasing state of excitement. Lohengrin, the firstconception of which dates from the end of my time in Paris, stood suddenlyrevealed before me, complete in every detail of its dramatic construction. Thelegend of the swan which forms such an important feature of all the manyversions of this series of myths that my studies had brought to my notice,exercised a singular fascination over my imagination.
Remembering the doctor’s advice, I struggled bravely against the temptation ofwriting down my ideas, and resorted to the most strange and energetic methods.Owing to some comments I had read in Gervinus’s History of German Literature,both the Meistersinger von Nurnberg and Hans Sachs had acquired quite a vitalcharm for me. The Marker alone, and the part he takes in the Master-singing,were particularly pleasing to me, and on one of my lonely walks, withoutknowing anything particular about Hans Sachs and his poetic contemporaries, Ithought out a humorous scene, in which the cobbler—as a popularartisan-poet—with the hammer on his last, gives the Marker a practical lessonby making him sing, thereby taking revenge on him for his conventionalmisdeeds. To me the force of the whole scene was concentrated in the twofollowing points: on the one hand the Marker, with his slate covered withchalk-marks, and on the other Hans Sachs holding up the shoes covered with hischalk-marks, each intimating to the other that the singing had been a failure.To this picture, by way of concluding the second act, I added a sceneconsisting of a narrow, crooked little street in Nuremberg, with the people allrunning about in great excitement, and ultimately engaging in a street brawl.Thus, suddenly, the whole of my Meistersinger comedy took shape so vividlybefore me, that, inasmuch as it was a particularly cheerful subject, and not inthe least likely to over-excite my nerves, I felt I must write it out in spiteof the doctor’s orders. I therefore proceeded to do this, and hoped it mightfree me from the thrall of the idea of Lohengrin; but I was mistaken; for nosooner had I got into my bath at noon, than I felt an overpowering desire towrite out Lohengrin, and this longing so overcame me that I could not wait theprescribed hour for the bath, but when a few minutes elapsed, jumped out and,barely giving myself time to dress, ran home to write out what I had in mymind. I repeated this for several days until the complete sketch of Lohengrinwas on paper.
The doctor then told me I had better give up taking the waters and baths,saying emphatically that I was quite unfit for such cures. My excitement hadgrown to such an extent that even my efforts to sleep as a rule ended only innocturnal adventures. Among some interesting excursions that we made at thistime, one to Eger fascinated me particularly, on account of its associationwith Wallenstein and of the peculiar costumes of the inhabitants.
In mid-August we travelled back to Dresden, where my friends were glad to seeme in such good spirits; as for myself, I felt as if I had wings. In September,when all our singers had returned from their summer holidays, I resumed therehearsals of Tannhäuser with great earnestness. We had now got so far, atleast with the musical part of the performance, that the possible date of theproduction seemed quite close at hand. Schroder-Devrient was one of the firstto realise the extraordinary difficulties which the production of Tannhäuserwould entail. And, indeed, she saw these difficulties so clearly that, to mygreat discomfiture, she was able to lay them all before me. Once, when I calledupon her, she read the principal passages aloud with great feeling and force,and then she asked me how I could have been so simple-minded as to have thoughtthat so childish a creature as Tichatschek would be able to find the propertones for Tannhäuser. I tried to bring her attention and my own to bear uponthe nature of the music, which was written so clearly in order to bring out thenecessary accent, that, in my opinion, the music actually spoke for him whointerpreted the passage, even if he were only a musical singer and nothingmore. She shook her head, saying that this would be all right in the case of anoratorio.
She now sang Elizabeth’s prayer from the piano score, and asked me if I reallythought that this music would answer my intentions if sung by a young andpretty voice without any soul or without that experience of life which alonecould give the real expression to the interpretation. I sighed and said that,in that case, the youthfulness of the voice and of its owner must make up forwhat was lacking: at the same time, I asked her as a favour to see what shecould do towards making my niece, Johanna, understand her part. All this,however, did not solve the Tannhäuser problem, for any effort at teachingTichatschek would only have resulted in confusion. I was therefore obliged torely entirely upon the energy of his voice, and on the singer’s peculiarlysharp ‘speaking’ tone.
Devrient’s anxiety about the principal parts arose partly out of concern abouther own. She did not know what to do with the part of Venus; she had undertakenit for the sake of the success of the performance, for although a small part,so much depended upon its being ideally interpreted! Later on, when the workwas given in Paris, I became convinced that this part had been written in toosketchy a style, and this induced me to reconstruct it by making extensiveadditions, and by supplying all that which I felt it lacked. For the moment,however, it looked as if no art on the part of the singer could give to thissketch anything of what it ought to represent. The only thing that might havehelped towards a satisfactory impersonation of Venus would have been theartist’s confidence in her own great physical attraction, and in the effect itwould help to produce by appealing to the purely material sympathies of thepublic. The certainty that these means were no longer at her disposal paralysedthis great singer, who could hide her age and matronly appearance no longer.She therefore became self-conscious, and unable to use even the usual means forgaining an effect. On one occasion, with a little smile of despair, sheexpressed herself incapable of playing Venus, for the very simple reason thatshe could not appear dressed like the goddess. ‘What on earth am I to wear asVenus?’ she exclaimed. ‘After all, I cannot be clad in a belt alone. A nicefigure of fun I should look, and you would laugh on the wrong side of yourface!’
On the whole, I still built my hopes upon the general effect of the musicalone, the great promise of which at the rehearsals greatly encouraged me.Hiller, who had looked through the score and had already praised it, assured methat the instrumentation could not have been carried out with greater sobriety.The characteristic and delicate sonority of the orchestra delighted me, andstrengthened me in my resolve to be extremely sparing in the use of myorchestral material, in order to attain that abundance of combinations which Ineeded for my later works.
At the rehearsal my wife alone missed the trumpets and trombones that gave suchbrightness and freshness to Rienzi. Although I laughed at this, I could nothelp feeling anxious when she confided to me how great had been herdisappointment when, at the theatre rehearsal, she noticed the really feebleimpression made by the music of the Sangerkrieg. Speaking from the point ofview of the public, who always want to be amused or stirred in some way orother, she had thus very rightly called attention to an exceedinglyquestionable side of the performance. But I saw at once that the fault lay lesswith the conception than with the fact that I had not controlled the productionwith sufficient care.
In regard to the conception of this scene I was literally on the horns of adilemma, for I had to decide once for all whether this Sangerkrieg was to be aconcert of arias or a competition in dramatic poetry. There are many peopleeven nowadays, who, in spite of having witnessed a perfectly successfulproduction of this scene, have not received the right impression of itspurport. Their idea is that it belongs to the traditional operatic ‘genre,’which demands that a number of vocal evolutions shall be juxtaposed orcontrasted, and that these different songs are intended to amuse and interestthe audience by means of their purely musical changes in rhythm and time on theprinciple of a concert programme, i.e. by various items of different styles.This was not at all my idea: my real intention was, if possible, to force thelistener, for the first time in the history of opera, to take an interest in apoetical idea, by making him follow all its necessary developments. For it wasonly by virtue of this interest that he could be made to understand thecatastrophe, which in this instance was not to be brought about by any outsideinfluence, but must be the outcome simply of the natural spiritual processes atwork. Hence the need of great moderation and breadth in the conception of themusic; first, in order that according to my principle it might prove helpfulrather than the reverse to the understanding of the poetical lines, andsecondly, in order that the increasing rhythmic character of the melody whichmarks the ardent growth of passion may not be interrupted too arbitrarily byunnecessary changes in modulation and rhythm. Hence, too, the need of a verysparing use of orchestral instruments for the accompaniment, and an intentionalsuppression of all those purely musical effects which must be utilised, andthat gradually, only when the situation becomes so intense that one almostceases to think, and can only feel the tragic nature of the crisis. No onecould deny that I had contrived to produce the proper effect of this principlethe moment I played the Sangerkrieg on the piano. With the view of ensuring allmy future successes, I was now confronted with the exceptional difficulty ofmaking the opera singers understand how to interpret their parts precisely inthe way I desired. I remembered how, through lack of experience, I hadneglected properly to superintend the production of the Fliegender Holländer,and as I now fully realised all the disastrous consequences of this neglect, Ibegan to think of means by which I could teach the singers my owninterpretation. I have already stated that it was impossible to influenceTichatschek, for if he were made to do things he could not understand, he onlybecame nervous and confused. He was conscious of his advantages. He knew thatwith his metallic voice he could sing with great musical rhythm and accuracy,while his delivery was simply perfect. But, to my great astonishment, I wassoon to learn that all this did not by any means suffice; for, to my horror, atthe first performance, that which had strangely escaped my notice in therehearsals became suddenly apparent to me. At the close of the Sangerkrieg,when Tannhäuser (in frantic excitement, and forgetful of everybody present) hasto sing his praise to Venus, and I saw Tichatschek moving towards Elizabeth andaddressing his passionate outburst to her, I thought of Schroder-Devrient’swarning in very much the same way as Croesus must have thought when he cried,‘O Solon! Solon!’ at the funeral pyre. In spite of the musical excellence ofTichatschek, the enormous life and melodic charm of the Sangerkrieg failedentirely.
On the other hand, I succeeded in calling into life an entirely new elementsuch as probably had never been seen in opera! I had watched the young baritoneMitterwurzer with great interest in some of his parts—he was a strangelyreticent man, and not at all sociably inclined, and I had noticed that hisdelightfully mellow voice possessed the rare quality of bringing out the innernote of the soul. To him I entrusted Wolfram, and I had every reason to besatisfied with his zeal and with the success of his studies. Therefore, if Iwished my intention and method to become known, especially in regard to thisdifficult Sangerkrieg, I had to rely on him for the proper execution of myplans and everything they involved. I began by going through the opening songof this scene with him; but, after I had done my utmost to make him understandhow I wanted it done, I was surprised to find how very difficult thisparticular rendering of the music appeared to him. He was absolutely incapableof repeating it after me, and with each renewed effort his singing became socommonplace and so mechanical that I realised clearly that he had notunderstood this piece to be anything more than a phrase in recitative form,which he might render with any inflections of the voice that happened to beprescribed, or which might be sung either this way or that, according to fancy,as was usual in operatic pieces. He, too, was astonished at his own want ofcapacity, but was so struck by the novelty and the justice of my views, that hebegged me not to try any more for the present, but to leave him to find out forhimself how best to become familiar with this newly revealed world. Duringseveral rehearsals he only sang in a whisper in order to get over thedifficulty, but at the last rehearsal he acquitted himself so admirably of histask, and threw himself into it so heartily, that his work has remained to thisday as my most conclusive reason for believing that, in spite of theunsatisfactory state of the world of opera to-day, it is possible not only tofind, but also properly to train, the singer whom I should regard asindispensable for a correct interpretation of my works. It was through theimpression made by Mitterwurzer that I ultimately succeeded in making thepublic understand the whole of my work. This man, who had utterly changedhimself in bearing, look, and appearance in order to fit himself to the role ofWolfram, had, in thus solving the problem, not only become a thorough artist,but by his interpretation of his part had also proved himself my saviour at thevery moment when my work was threatening to fail through the unsatisfactoryresult of the first performance.
By his side the part of Elizabeth made a sweet impression. The youthfulappearance of my niece, her tall and slender form, the decidedly German cast ofher features, as well as the incomparable beauty of her voice, with itsexpression of almost childlike innocence, helped her to gain the hearts of theaudience, even though her talent was more theatrical than dramatic. She soonrose to fame by her impersonation of this part, and often in later years, whenspeaking about Tannhäuser performances in which she had appeared, people usedto tell me that its success had been entirely due to her. Strange to say, insuch reports people referred principally to the charm of her acting at themoment when she received the guests in the Wartburg Hall; and I used to accountfor this by remembering the untiring efforts with which my talented brother andI had trained her to perform this very part. And yet it was never possible tomake her understand the proper interpretation of the prayer in the third act,and I felt inclined to say, ‘O Solon! Solon!’ as I had done in the case ofTichatschek, when after the first performance I was obliged to make aconsiderable cut in this solo, a proceeding which greatly reduced itsimportance for ever afterwards. I heard later that Johanna, who for a shortperiod actually had the reputation of being a great singer, had never succeededin singing the prayer as it ought to be sung, whereas a French singer,Mademoiselle Marie Sax, achieved this in Paris to my entire satisfaction.
In the beginning of October we had so far progressed with our rehearsals thatnothing stood in the way of an immediate production of Tannhäuser save thescenery, which was not yet complete. A few only of the scenes ordered fromParis had arrived, and even these had come very late. The Wartburg Valley wasbeautifully effective and perfect in every detail. The inner part of theVenusberg, however, gave me much anxiety: the painter had not understood me; hehad painted clusters of trees and statues, which reminded one of Versailles,and had placed them in a wild cave; he had evidently not known how to combinethe weird with the alluring. I had to insist on extensive alterations, andchiefly on the painting out of the shrubs and statues, all of which requiredtime. The grotto had to lie half hidden in a rosy cloud, through which theWartburg Valley had to loom in the distance; this was to be done in strictobedience to my own ideas.
The greatest misfortune, however, was to befall me in the shape of the tardydelivery of the scenery for the Hall of Song. This was due to great negligenceon the part of the Paris artists; and we waited and waited until every detailof the opera had been studied and studied again ad nauseam. Daily I went to therailway station and examined all the packages and boxes that had arrived, butthere was no Hall of Song. At last I allowed myself to be persuaded not topostpone the first performance any longer, and I decided to use the Hall ofKarl the Great out of Oberon, originally suggested to me by Lüttichau, insteadof the real thing. Considering the importance I attached to practical effect,this entailed a great sacrifice of my personal feelings. And true enough, whenthe curtain rose for the second act, the reappearance of this throne-room,which the public had seen so often, added considerably to the generaldisappointment of the audience, who had anticipated astonishing surprises inthis opera.
On the 19th of October the first performance took place. In the morning of thatday a very beautiful young lady was introduced to me by the leader Lipinsky.Her name was Mme. Ivalergis, and she was a niece of the Russian Chancellor,Count von Nesselrode. Liszt had spoken to her about me with such enthusiasmthat she had travelled all the way to Dresden especially to hear the firstproduction of my new work. I thought I was right in regarding this flatteringvisit as a good omen. But although on this occasion she turned away from me,somewhat perplexed and disappointed by the very unintelligible performance andthe somewhat doubtful reception with which it met, I had sufficient cause inafter-years to know how deeply this remarkable and energetic woman hadnevertheless been impressed.
A great contrast to this visit was one I received from a peculiar man called C.Gaillard. He was the editor of a Berlin musical paper, which had only juststarted, and in which I had read with great astonishment an entirely favourableand important criticism of my Fliegender Holländer. Although necessity hadcompelled me to remain indifferent to the attitude of the critics, yet thisparticular notice gave me much pleasure, and I had invited my unknown critic tocome and hear the first production of Tannhäuser in Dresden.
This he did, and I was deeply touched to find that I had to deal with a youngman who, in spite of being threatened by consumption, and being alsoexceedingly badly off, had come at my invitation, simply from a sense of dutyand honour, and not with any mercenary motive. I saw from his knowledge andcapacities that he would never be able to attain a position of great influence,but his kindness of heart and his extraordinarily receptive mind filled me witha feeling of profound respect for him. A few years later I was very sorry tohear that he had at last succumbed to the terrible disease from which I knewhim to be suffering; for to the very end he remained faithful and devoted tome, in spite of the most trying circumstances.
Meanwhile I had renewed my acquaintance with the friend I had won through theproduction of the Fliegender Holländer in Berlin, and who for a long time I hadnever had an opportunity of knowing more thoroughly. The second time I met herwas at Schroder-Devrient’s, with whom she was already on friendly terms, and ofwhom she used to speak as ‘one of my greatest conquests.’
She was already past her first youth, and had no beauty of feature exceptremarkably penetrating and expressive eyes that showed the greatness of soulwith which she was gifted. She was the sister of Frommann, the bookseller ofJena, and could relate many intimate facts about Goethe, who had stayed at herbrother’s house when he was in that town. She had held the position of readerand companion to the Princess Augusta of Prussia, and had thus becomeintimately acquainted with her, and was regarded by her own association asalmost a bosom friend and confidante of that great lady. Nevertheless, shelived in extreme poverty, and seemed proud of being able, by means of hertalent as a painter of arabesques, to secure for herself some sort ofindependence. She always remained faithfully devoted to me, as she was one ofthe few who were uninfluenced by the unfavourable impression produced by thefirst performance of Tannhäuser, and promptly expressed her appreciation of mylatest work with the greatest enthusiasm.
With regard to the production itself the conclusions I drew from it were asfollows: the real faults in the work, which I have already mentionedincidentally, lay in the sketchy and clumsy portrayal of the part of Venus, andconsequently of the whole of the introductory scene of the first act. Inconsequence of this defect the drama never even rose to the level of genuinewarmth, still less did it attain to the heights of passion which, according tothe poetic conception of the part, should so strongly work upon the feelings ofthe audience as to prepare them for the inevitable catastrophe in which thescene culminates, and thus lead up to the tragic denouement. This great scenewas a complete failure, in spite of the fact that it was entrusted to so greatan actress as Schroder-Devrient, and a singer so unusually gifted asTichatschek. The genius of Devrient might yet have struck the right note ofpassion in the scene had she not chanced to be acting with a singer incapableof all dramatic seriousness, and whose natural gifts only fitted him for joyousor declamatory accents, and who was totally incapable of expressing pain andsuffering. It was not until Wolfram’s touching song and the closing scene ofthis act were reached that the audience showed any signs of emotion.Tichatschek wrought such a tremendous effect in the concluding phrase by thejubilant music of his voice that, as I was afterwards informed, the end of thisfirst act left the audience in a great state of enthusiasm. This wasmaintained, and even exceeded in the second act, during which Elizabeth andWolfram made a very sympathetic impression. It was only the hero of Tannhäuserwho continued to lose ground, and at last so completely failed to hold theaudience that in the final scene he almost broke down himself in dejection, asthough the failure of Tannhäuser were his own. The fatal defect of hisperformance lay in his inability to find the right expression for the theme ofthe great Adagio passage of the finale beginning with the words: ‘To lead thesinner to salvation, the Heaven-sent messenger drew near.’ The importance ofthis passage I have explained at length in my subsequent instructions for theproduction of Tannhäuser. Indeed, owing to Tichatschek’s absolutelyexpressionless rendering, which made it seem terribly long and tedious, I hadto omit it entirely from the second performance. As I did not wish to offend sodevoted and, in his way, so deserving a man as Tichatschek, I let it beunderstood I had come to the conclusion that this theme was a failure.Moreover, as Tichatschek was thought to be an actor chosen by myself to takethe parts of the heroes in my works, this passage, which was so immeasurablyvital to the opera, continued to be omitted in all the subsequent productionsof Tannhäuser, as though this proceeding had been approved and demanded by me.I therefore cherished no illusions about the value of the subsequent universalsuccess of this opera on the German stage. My hero, who, in rapture as in woe,should always have asserted his feelings with boundless energy, slunk away atthe end of the second act with the humble bearing of a penitent sinner, only toreappear in the third with a demeanour designed to awaken the charitablesympathy of the audience. His pronunciation of the Pope’s excommunication,however, was rendered with his usual full rhetorical power, and it wasrefreshing to hear his voice dominating the accompanying trombones. Grantedthat this radical defect in the hero’s acting had left the public in a doubtfuland unsatisfied state of suspense regarding the meaning of the whole, yet themistake in the execution of the final scene, arising from my own inexperiencein this new field of dramatic creation, undoubtedly contributed to produce achilling uncertainty as to the true significance of the scenic action. In myfirst complete version I had made Venus, on the occasion of her second attemptto recall her faithless lover, appear in a vision to Tannhäuser when he is in afrenzy of madness, and the awfulness of the situation, is merely suggested by afaint roseate glow upon the distant Horselberg. Even the definite announcementof Elizabeth’s death was a sudden inspiration on the part of Wolfram. This ideaI intended to convey to the listening audience solely by the sound of bellstolling in the distance, and by a faint gleam of torches to attract their eyesto the remote Wartburg. Moreover, there was a lack of precision and clearnessin the appearance of the chorus of young pilgrims, whose duty it was toannounce the miracle by their song alone. At that time I had given them nobudding staves to carry, and had unfortunately spoiled their refrain by atedious and unbroken monotony of accompaniment.
When at last the curtain fell, I was under the impression, not so much from thebehaviour of the audience, which was friendly, as from my own inwardconviction, that the failure of this work was to be attributed to the immatureand unsuitable material used in its production. My depression was extreme, anda few friends who were present after the piece, among them my dear sister Claraand her husband, were equally affected. That very evening I decided to remedythe defects of the first night before the second performance. I was consciousof where the principal fault lay, but hardly dared give expression to myconviction. At the slightest attempt on my part to explain anything toTichatschek I had to abandon it, as I realised the impossibility of success, Ishould only have made him so embarrassed and annoyed, that on one pretext oranother he would never have sung Tannhäuser again. In order to ensure therepetition of my opera, therefore, I took the only course open to me byarrogating to myself all blame for the failure. I could thus make considerablecurtailments, whereby, of course, the dramatic significance of the leading rolewas considerably lessened; this, however, did not interfere with the otherparts of the opera, which had been favourably received. Consequently, althoughinwardly very humiliated, I hoped to gain some advantage for my work at thesecond performance, and was particularly desirous that this should take placewith as little delay as possible. But Tichatschek was hoarse, and I had topossess my soul in patience for fully a week.
I can hardly describe what I suffered during that time; it seemed as if thisdelay would completely ruin my work. Every day that elapsed between the firstand second performance left the result of the former more and more problematic,until at last it appeared to be a generally acknowledged failure. While thepublic as a whole expressed angry astonishment that, after the approval theyhad shown of my Rienzi, I had paid no attention to their taste in writing mynew work, there were may kind and judicious friends who were utterly perplexedat its inefficiency, the principal parts of which they had been unable tounderstand, or thought were imperfectly sketched and finished. The critics,with unconcealed joy, attacked it as ravens attack carrion thrown out to them.Even the passions and prejudices of the day were drawn into the controversy inorder, if possible, to confuse men’s minds, and prejudice them against me. Itwas just at the time when the German-Catholic agitation, set in motion byCzersky and Ronge as a highly meritorious and liberal movement, was causing agreat commotion. It was now made out that by Tannhäuser I had provoked areactionary tendency, and that precisely as Meyerbeer with his Huguenots hadglorified Protestantism, so I with my latest opera would glorify Catholicism.
The rumour that in writing Tannhäuser I had been bribed by the Catholic partwas believed for a long time. While the effort was being made to ruin mypopularity by this means, I had the questionable honour of being approached,first by letter, afterwards in person, by a certain M. Rousseau, at that timeeditor of the Prussian Staatszeitung, who wished for my friendship and help. Iknew of him only in connection with a scathing criticism of my FliegenderHolländer. He informed me that he had been sent from Austria to further theCatholic cause in Berlin, but that he had had so many sad experiences of thefruitlessness of his efforts, that he was now returning to Vienna to continuehis work in this direction undisturbed, with which work I had, by myTannhäuser, proclaimed myself fully in accord.
That remarkable paper, the Dresdener Anzeiger, which was a local organ for theredress of slander and scandal, daily published some fresh bit of news to myprejudice. At last I noticed that these attacks were met by witty and forciblelittle snubs, and also that encouraging comments appeared in my favour, whichfor some time surprised me very much, as I knew that only enemies and neverfriends interested themselves in such cases. But I learned, to my amusement,from Röckel, that he and my friend Heine had carried out this inspiritingcampaign on my behalf.
The ill-feeling against me in this quarter was only troublesome because at thatunfortunate period I was hindered from expressing myself through my work.Tichatschek continued hoarse, and it was said he would never sing in my operaagain. I heard from Lüttichau that, scared by the failure of Tannhäuser, he washolding himself in readiness to countermand the order for the promised sceneryfor the Hall of Song, or to cancel it altogether. I was so terrified at thecowardice which was thus revealed, that I myself began to look upon Tannhäuseras doomed. My prospects and my whole position, when viewed in this mood, may bereadily gathered from my communications, especially those referring to mynegotiations for the publication of my works.
This terrible week dragged out like an endless eternity. I was afraid to lookanybody in the face, but was one day obliged to go to Meser’s music shop, whereI met Gottfried Semper just buying a text-book of Tannhäuser. Only a short timebefore I had been very much put out in discussing this subject with him; hewould listen to nothing I had to say about the Minnesangers and Pilgrims of theMiddle Ages in connection with art, but gave me to understand that he despisedme for my choice of such material.
While Meser assured me that no inquiry whatever had been received for thenumbers of Tannhäuser already published, it was strange that my most energeticantagonist should be the only person who had actually bought and paid for acopy. In a peculiarly earnest and impressive manner he remarked to me that itwas necessary to be thoroughly acquainted with the subject if a just opinionwas to be passed on it, and that for this purpose, unfortunately, nothing butthe text was available. This very meeting with Semper, strange as it mayappear, was the first really encouraging sign that I can remember.
But I found my greatest consolation in those days of trouble and anxiety inRöckel, who from that time forward entered into a lifelong intimacy with me. Hehad, without my being aware of it, disputed, explained, quarrelled, andpetitioned on my behalf, and thereby roused himself to a veritable enthusiasmfor Tannhäuser. The evening before the second performance, which was at last totake place, we met over a glass of beer, and his bright demeanour had such acheering effect upon me that we became very lively. After contemplating my headfor some time, he swore that it was impossible to destroy me, that there was asomething in me, something, probably, in my blood, as similar characteristicsalso appeared in my brother Albert, who was otherwise so unlike me. To speakmore plainly, he called it the peculiar HEAT of my temperament; this heat, hethought, might consume others, whereas I appeared to feel at my best when itglowed most fiercely, for he had several times seen me positively ablaze. Ilaughed, and did not know what to make of his nonsense. Well, he said, I shouldsoon see what he meant in Tannhäuser, for it was simply absurd to think thework would not live; and he was absolutely certain of its success. I thoughtover the matter on my way home, and came to the conclusion that if Tannhäuserdid indeed win its way, and become really popular, incalculable possibilitiesmight be attained.
At last the time arrived for our second performance. For this I thought I hadmade due preparation by lessening the importance of the principal part, andlowering my original ideals about some of the more important portions, and Ihoped by accentuating certain undoubtedly attractive passages to secure agenuine appreciation of the whole. I was greatly delighted with the scenerywhich had at last arrived for the Hall of Song in the second act, the beautifuland imposing effect of which cheered us all, for we looked upon it as a goodomen. Unfortunately I had to bear the humiliation of seeing the theatre nearlyempty. This, more than anything else, sufficed to convince me what the opinionof the public really was in regard to my work. But, if the audience was scanty,the majority, at any rate, consisted of the first friends of my art, and thereception of the piece was very cordial. Mitterwurzer especially aroused thegreatest enthusiasm. As for Tichatschek, my anxious friends, Röckel and Heine,thought it necessary to endeavour by every artifice to keep him in a goodhumour for his part. In order to give practical assistance in making theundoubted obscurity of the last scene clear, my friends had asked several youngpeople, more especially artists, to give vent to torrents of applause at thoseparts which are not generally regarded by the opera-going public as provokingany demonstration. Strange to say, the outburst of applause thus provoked afterthe words, ‘An angel flies to God’s throne for thee, and will make his voiceheard; Heinrich, thou art saved,’ made the entire situation suddenly clear tothe public. At all subsequent productions this continued to be the principalmoment for the expression of sympathy on the part of the audience, although ithad passed quite unnoticed on the first night. A few days later a thirdperformance took place, but this time before a full house, Schroder-Devrient,depressed at the small share she was able to take in the success of my work,watched the progress of the opera from the small stage box; she informed methat Lüttichau had come to her with a beaming face, saying he thought we hadnow carried Tannhäuser happily through.
And this certainly proved to be the case; we often repeated it in the course ofthe winter, but noticed that when two performances followed close upon oneanother, there was not such a rush for the second, from which we concluded thatI had not yet gained the approval of the great opera-going public, but only ofthe more cultured section of the community. Among these real friends ofTannhäuser there were many, as I gradually discovered, who as a rule nevervisited the theatre at all, and least of all the opera. This interest on thepart of a totally new public continued to grow in intensity, and expresseditself in a delightful and hitherto unknown manner by a strong sympathy for theauthor. It was particularly painful to me, on Tichatschek’s account, to respondalone to the calls of the audience after almost every act; however, I had atlast to submit, as my refusal would only have exposed the vocalist to freshhumiliations, for when he appeared on the stage with his colleagues without me,the loud shouts for me were almost insulting to him. With what genuineeagerness did I wish that the contrary were the case, and that the excellenceof the execution might overshadow the author. The conviction that I shouldnever attain this with my Tannhäuser in Dresden guided me in all my futureundertakings. But, at all events, in producing Tannhäuser in this city I hadsucceeded in making at least the cultured public acquainted with my peculiartendencies, by stimulating their mental faculties and stripping the performanceof all realistic accessories. I did not, however, succeed in making thesetendencies sufficiently clear in a dramatic performance, and in such anirresistible and convincing manner as also to familiarise the uncultivatedtaste of the ordinary public with them when they saw them embodied on thestage.
By enlarging the circle of my acquaintances, and making interesting friends, Ihad a good opportunity during the winter of obtaining further information onthis point in a way that was both instructive and encouraging. My acquaintanceand close intimacy at this time with Dr. Hermann Franck of Breslau, who had forsome time been living quietly in Dresden, was also very inspiring. He was verycomfortably off, and was one of those men who, by a wide knowledge and goodjudgment, combined with considerable gifts as an author, won an excellentreputation for himself in a large and select circle of private friends,without, however, making any great name for himself with the public. Heendeavoured to use his knowledge and abilities for the general good, and wasinduced by Brockhaus to edit the Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung when it firststarted. This paper had been founded by Brockhaus some years earlier. However,after editing it for a year, Franck resigned this post, and from that timeforward it was only on the very rarest occasions that he could be persuaded totouch anything connected with journalism. His curt and spirited remarks abouthis experiences in connection with the Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung justifiedhis disinclination to engage in any work connected with the public press. Myappreciation was all the greater, therefore, when, without any persuasion on mypart, he wrote a full report on Tannhäuser for the Augsburger AllgemeineZeitung. This appeared in October or November, 1845, in a supplement to thatpaper, and although it contained the first account of a work which has sincebeen so widely discussed, I regard it, after mature consideration, as the mostfar-reaching and exhaustive that has ever been written. By this means my namefigured for the first time in the great European political paper, whosecolumns, in consequence of a remarkable change of front which was to theinterests of the proprietors, have since been open to any one who wished tomake merry at the expense of me or my work.
The point which particularly attracted me in Dr. Franck was the delicate andtactful art he displayed in his criticism and his methods of discussion. Therewas something distinguished about them that was not so much the outcome of rankand social position as of genuine world-wide culture.
The delicate coldness and reserve of his manner charmed rather than repelledme, as it was a characteristic I had not met with hitherto. When I found himexpressing himself with some reserve in regard to persons who enjoyed areputation to which I did not think they were always entitled, I was verypleased to see during my intercourse with him that in many ways I exercised adecisive influence over his opinion. Even at that time I did not care to let itpass unchallenged when people evaded the close analysis of the work of this orthat celebrity, by referring in terms of eulogy to his ‘good-nature.’ I evencornered my worldly wise friend on this point, when a few years later I had thesatisfaction of getting from him a very concise explanation of Meyerbeer’s‘good-nature,’ of which he had once spoken, and he recalled with a smile theextraordinary questions I had put to him at the time. He was, however, quitealarmed when I gave him a very lucid explanation of the disinterestedness andconspicuous altruism of Mendelssohn in the service of art, of which he hadspoken enthusiastically. In a conversation about Mendelssohn he had remarkedhow delightful it was to find a man able to make real sacrifices in order tofree himself from a false position that was of no service to art. It wasassuredly a grand thing, he said, to have renounced a good salary of ninethousand marks as general musical conductor in Berlin, and to have retired toLeipzig as a simple conductor at the Gewandhaus concerts, and Mendelssohn wasmuch to be admired on that account. Just at that time I happened to be in aposition to give some correct details regarding this apparent sacrifice on thepart of Mendelssohn, because when I had made a serious proposal to our generalmanagement about increasing the salaries of several of the poorer members ofthe orchestra, Lüttichau was requested to inform me that, according to theKing’s latest commands, the expenditure on the state bands was to be sorestricted that for the present the poorer chamber musicians could not claimany consideration, for Herr von Falkenstein, the governor of the Leipzigdistrict, who was a passionate admirer of Mendelssohn’s, had gone so far as toinfluence the King to appoint the latter secret conductor, with a secret salaryof six thousand marks. This sum, together with the salary of three thousandmarks openly granted him by the management of the Leipzig Gewandhaus, wouldamply compensate him for the position he had renounced in Berlin, and he hadconsequently consented to migrate to Leipzig. This large grant had, fordecency’s sake, to be kept secret by the board administering the band funds,not only because it was detrimental to the interests of the institution, butalso because it might give offence to those who were acting as conductors at alower salary, if they knew another man had been appointed to a sinecure. Fromthese circumstances Mendelssohn derived not only the advantage of having thegrant kept a secret, but also the satisfaction of allowing his friends toapplaud him as a model of self-sacrificing zeal for going to Leipzig; whichthey could easily do, although they knew him to be in a good financialposition. When I explained this to Franck, he was astonished, and admitted itwas one of the strangest cases he had ever come across in connection withundeserved fame.
We soon arrived at a mutual understanding in our views about many otherartistic celebrities with whom we came in contact at that time in Dresden. Thiswas a simple matter in the case of Ferdinand Hiller, who was regarded as thechief of the ‘good-natured’ ones. Regarding the more famous painters of theso-called Dusseldorf School, whom I met frequently through the medium ofTannhäuser, it was not quite so easy to come to a conclusion, as I was to agreat extent influenced by the fame attached to their well-known names; buthere again Franck startled me with opportune and conclusive reasons fordisappointment. When it was a question between Bendemann and Hubner, it seemedto me that Hubner might very well be sacrificed to Bendemann. The latter, whohad only just completed the frescoes for one of the reception-rooms at theroyal palace, and had been rewarded by his friends with a banquet, appeared tome to have the right to be honoured as a great master. I was very muchastonished, therefore, when Franck calmly pitied the King of Saxony for havinghad his room ‘bedaubed’ by Bendemann! Nevertheless, there was no denying thatthese people were ‘good-natured.’ My intercourse with them became morefrequent, and at all events offered me opportunities of mixing with the morecultured artistic society, in distinction to the theatrical circles with whichI had usually associated; yet I never derived from it the least enthusiasm orinspiration. The latter, however, appears to have been Hiller’s main object,and that winter he organised a sort of social circle which held weekly meetingsat the home of one or the other of its members in turn. Reinecke, who was bothpainter and poet, joined this society, together with Hubner and Bendemann, andhad the bad fortune to write the new text for an opera for Hiller, the fate ofwhich I will describe later on. Robert Schumann, the musician, who was also inDresden at this time, and was busy working out on opera, which eventuallydeveloped into Genovefa, made advances to Hiller and myself. I had alreadyknown Schumann in Leipzig, and we had both entered upon our musical careers atabout the same time. I had also occasionally sent small contributions to theNeue Zeitschrift fur Musik, of which he had formerly been editor, and morerecently a longer one from Paris on Rossini’s Stabat Mater. He had been askedto conduct his Paradies und Peri at a concert to be given at the theatre; buthis peculiar awkwardness in conducting on that occasion aroused my sympathy forthe conscientious and energetic musician whose work made so strong an appeal tome, and a kindly and friendly confidence soon grew up between us. After aperformance of Tannhäuser, at which he was present, he called on me one morningand declared himself fully and decidedly in favour of my work. The onlyobjection he had to make was that the stretta of the second finale was tooabrupt, a criticism which proved his keenness of perception; and I was able toshow him, by the score, how I had been compelled, much against my inclination,to curtail the opera, and thereby create the position to which he had takenexception. We often met when out walking and, as far as it was possible with aperson so sparing of words, we exchanged views on matters of musical interest.He was looking forward to the production, under my baton, of Beethoven’s NinthSymphony, as he had attended the performances at Leipzig, and had been verymuch disappointed by Mendelssohn’s conducting, which had quite misunderstoodthe time of the first movement. Otherwise his society did not inspire meparticularly, and the fact that he was too conservative to benefit by my viewswas soon shown, more especially in his conception of the poem of Genovefa. Itwas clear that my example had only made a very transient impression on him,only just enough, in fact, to make him think it advisable to write the text ofan opera himself. He afterwards invited me to hear him read his libretto, whichwas a combination of the styles of Hebbel and Tieck. When, however, out of agenuine desire for the success of his work, about which I had seriousmisgivings, I called his attention to some grave defects in it, and suggestedthe necessary alterations, I realised how matters stood with this extraordinaryperson: he simply wanted me to be swayed by himself, but deeply resented anyinterference with the product of his own ideals, so that thenceforward I letmatters alone.
In the following winter, our circle, thanks to the assiduity of Hiller, wasconsiderably widened, and it now became a sort of club whose object was to meetfreely every week in a room at Engel’s restaurant at the Postplatz. Just aboutthis time the famous J. Schnorr of Munich was appointed director of the museumsin Dresden, and we entertained him at a banquet. I had already seen some of hislarge and well-executed cartoons, which made a deep impression on me, not onlyon account of their dimensions, but also by reason of the events they depictedfrom old German history, in which I was at that time particularly interested.It was through Schnorr that I now became acquainted with the ‘Munich School’ ofwhich he was the master. My heart overflowed when I thought what it meant forDresden, if such giants of German art were to shake hands there. I was muchstruck by Schnorr’s appearance and conversation, and I could not reconcile hiswhining pedagogic manner with his mighty cartoons; however, I thought it agreat stroke of luck when he also took to frequenting Engel’s restaurant onSaturdays. He was well versed in the old German legends, and I was delightedwhen they formed the topic of conversation. The famous sculptor, Hänel, usedalso to attend these meetings, and his marvellous talent inspired me with thegreatest respect, although I was not an authority on his work, and could onlyjudge of it by my own feelings. I soon saw that his bearing and manner wereaffected; he was very fond of expressing his opinion and judgment on questionsof art, and I was not in a position to decide whether they were reliable orotherwise. In fact, it often occurred to me that I was listening to aPhilistine swaggerer. It was only when my old friend Pecht, who had alsosettled in Dresden for a time, clearly and emphatically explained to me Hänel’sstanding as an artist, that I conquered all my secret doubts, and tried to findsome pleasure in his works. Rietschel, who was also a member of our society,was the very antithesis of Hänel. I often found it difficult to believe thatthe pale delicate man, with the whining nervous way of expressing himself, wasreally a sculptor; but as similar peculiarities in Schnorr did not prevent mefrom recognising him as a marvellous painter, this helped me to make friendswith Rietschel, as he was quite free from affectation, and had a warmsympathetic soul that drew me ever closer to him. I also remember hearing fromhim a very enthusiastic appreciation of my personality as a conductor. Inspite, however, of being fellow-members of our versatile art club, we neverattained a footing of real comradeship, for, after all, no one thought much ofanybody else’s talents. For instance, Hiller had arranged some orchestralconcerts, and to commemorate them he was entertained at the usual banquet byhis friends, when his services were gratefully acknowledged with due rhetoricalpathos. Yet I never found, in my private intercourse with Hiller’s friends, theleast enthusiasm in regard to his work; on the contrary, I only noticedexpressions of doubt and apprehensive shrugs.
These feted concerts soon came to an end. At our social evenings we neverdiscussed the works of the masters who were present; they were not evenmentioned, and it was soon evident that none of the members knew what to talkabout. Semper was the only man who, in his extraordinary fashion, often soenlivened our entertainments that Rietschel, inwardly sympathetic, thoughpainfully startled, would heartily complain against the unrestrained outburststhat led not infrequently to hot discussions between Semper and myself. Strangeto say, we two always seemed to start from the hypothesis that we wereantagonists, for he insisted upon regarding me as the representative ofmediaeval Catholicism, which he often attacked with real fury. I eventuallysucceeded in persuading him that my studies and inclinations had always led meto German antiquity, and to the discovery of ideals in the early Teutonicmyths. When we came to paganism, and I expressed my enthusiasm for the genuineheathen legends, he became quite a different being, and a deep and growinginterest now began to unite us in such a way that it quite isolated us from therest of the company. It was, however, impossible ever to settle anythingwithout a heated argument, not only because Semper had a peculiar habit ofcontradicting everything flatly, but also because he knew his views wereopposed to those of the entire company. His paradoxical assertions, which wereapparently only intended to stir up strife, soon made me realise, beyond anydoubt, that he was the only one present who was passionately in earnest abouteverything he said, whereas all the others were quite content to let the matterdrop when convenient. A man of the latter type was Gutzkow, who was often withus; he had been summoned to Dresden by the general management of our courttheatre, to act in the capacity of dramatist and adapter of plays. Several ofhis pieces had recently met with great success: Zopf und Schwert, Das Urbilddes Tartuffe, and Uriel Acosta, shed an unexpected lustre on the latestdramatic repertoire, and it seemed as though the advent of Gutzkow wouldinaugurate a new era of glory for the Dresden theatre, where my operas had alsobeen first produced. The good intentions of the management were certainlyundeniable. My only regret on that occasion was that the hopes my old friendLaube entertained of being summoned to Dresden to fill that post wereunrealised. He also had thrown himself enthusiastically into the work ofdramatic literature. Even in Paris I had noticed the eagerness with which heused to study the technique of dramatic composition, especially that of Scribe,in the hope of acquiring the skill of that writer, without which, as he soondiscovered, no poetical drama in German could be successful. He maintained thathe had thoroughly mastered this style in his comedy, Rococo, and he cherishedthe conviction that he could work up any imaginable material into an effectivestage play.
At the same time, he was very careful to show equal skill in the selection ofhis material. In my opinion this theory of his was a complete failure, as hisonly successful pieces were those in which popular interest was excited bycatch-phrases. This interest was always more or less associated with thepolitics of the day, and generally involved some obvious diatribes about‘German unity’ and ‘German Liberalism.’ As this important stimulus was firstapplied by way of experiment to the subscribers to our Residenz Theater, andafterwards to the German public generally, it had, as I have already said, tobe worked out with the consummate skill which, presumably, could only belearned from modern French writers of comic opera.
I was very glad to see the result of this study in Laube’s plays, moreespecially as when he visited us in Dresden, which he often did on the occasionof a new production, he admitted his indebtedness with modest candour, and wasfar from pretending to be a real poet. Moreover, he displayed great skill andan almost fiery zeal, not only in the preparation of his pieces, but also intheir production, so that the offer of a post at Dresden, the hope of which hadbeen held out to him, would at least, from a practical point of view, have beena benefit to the theatre. Finally, however, the choice fell on his rivalGutzkow, in spite of his obvious unsuitability for the practical work ofdramatist. It was evident that even as regards his successful plays his triumphwas mainly due to his literary skill, because these effective plays wereimmediately followed by wearisome productions which made us realise, to ourastonishment, that he himself could not have been aware of the skill he hadpreviously displayed. It was, however, precisely these abstract qualities ofthe genuine man of letters which, in the eyes of many, cast over him the haloof literary greatness; and when Lüttichau, thinking more of a showy reputationthan of permanent benefit to his theatre, decided to give the preference toGutzkow, he thought his choice would give a special impetus to the cause ofhigher culture. To me the appointment of Gutzkow as the director of dramaticart at the theatre was peculiarly objectionable, as it was not long before Iwas convinced of his utter incompetence for the task, and it was probably owingto the frankness with which I expressed my opinion to Lüttichau that oursubsequent estrangement was originally due. I had to complain bitterly of thewant of judgment and the levity of those who so recklessly selected men to fillthe posts of managers and conductors in such precious institutions of art asthe German royal theatres. To obviate the failure I felt convinced must followon this important appointment, I made a special request that Gutzkow should notbe allowed to interfere in the management of the opera; he readily yielded, andthus spared himself great humiliation. This action, however, created a feelingof mistrust between us, though I was quite ready to remove this as far aspossible by coming into personal contact with him whenever opportunity offeredon those evenings when the artists used to gather at the club, as alreadydescribed. I would gladly have made this strange man, whose head was anxiouslybowed down on his breast, relax and unburden himself in his conversations withme, but I was unsuccessful, on account of his constant reserve and suspicion,and his studied aloofness. An opportunity arose for a discussion between uswhen he wanted the orchestra to take a melodramatic part (which they afterwardsdid) in a certain scene of his Uriel Acosta, where the hero had to recant hisalleged heresy. The orchestra had to execute the soft tremolo for a given timeon certain chords, but when I heard the performance it appeared to me absurd,and equally derogatory both for the music and the drama.
On one of these evenings I tried to come to an understanding with Gutzkowconcerning this, and the employment of music generally as a melodramaticauxiliary to the drama, and I discussed my views on the subject in accordancewith the highest principles I had conceived. He met all the chief points of mydiscussion with a nervous distrustful silence, but finally explained that Ireally went too far in the significance which I claimed for music, and that hefailed to understand how music would be degraded if it were applied moresparingly to the drama, seeing that the claims of verse were often treated withmuch less respect when it was used as a mere accessory to operatic music. Toput it practically, in fact, it would be advisable for the librettist not to betoo dainty in this matter; it wasn’t possible always to give the actor abrilliant exit; at the same time, however, nothing could be more painful thanwhen the chief performer made his exit without any applause. In such cases alittle distracting noise in the orchestra really supplied a happy diversion.This I actually heard Gutzkow say; moreover, I saw that he really meant it!After this I felt I had done with him.
It was not long before I had equally little to do with all the painters,musicians, and other zealots in art belonging to our society. At the same time,however, I came into closer contact with Berthold Auerbach. With greatenthusiasm, Alwine Frommann had already drawn my attention to Auerbach’sPastoral Stories. The account she gave of these modest works (for that is howshe characterised them) sounded quite attractive. She said that they had hadthe same refreshing effect on her circle of friends in Berlin as that producedby opening the window of a scented boudoir (to which she compared theliterature they had hitherto been used to), and letting in the fresh air of thewoods. After that I read the Pastoral Stories of the Black Forest, which had soquickly become famous, and I, too, was strongly attracted by the contents andtone of these realistic anecdotes about the life of the people in a localitywhich it was easy enough to identify from the vivid descriptions. As at thistime Dresden seemed to be becoming ever more and more the rendezvous for thelights of our literary and artistic world, Auerbach also reconciled himself totaking up his quarters in this city; and for quite a long time, lived with hisfriend Hiller, who thus again had a celebrity at his side of equal standingwith himself. The short, sturdy Jewish peasant boy, as he was placed torepresent himself to be, made a very agreeable impression. It was only laterthat I understood the significance of his green jacket, and above all of hisgreen hunting-cap, which made him look exactly what the author of SwabianPastoral Stories ought to look like, and this significance was anything but anaive one. The Swiss poet, Gottfried Keller, once told me that, when Auerbachwas in Zürich, and he had decided on taking him up, he (Auerbach) had drawn hisattention to the best way in which to introduce one’s literary effusions to thepublic, and to make money, and he advised him, above all things, to get a coatand cap like his own, for being, as he said, like himself, neither handsome norwell grown, it would be far better deliberately to make himself look rough andqueer; so saying, he placed his cap on his head in such a way as to look alittle rakish. For the time being, I perceived no real affectation in Auerbach;he had assimilated so much of the tone and ways of the people, and had donethis so happily, that, in any case, one could not help asking oneself why, withthese delightful qualities, he should move with such tremendous ease in spheresthat seemed absolutely antagonistic. At all events, he always seemed in histrue element even in those circles which really seemed most opposed to hisassumed character; there he stood in his green coat, keen, sensitive, andnatural, surrounded by the distinguished society that flattered him; and heloved to show letters he had received from the Grand Duke of Weimar and hisanswers to them, all the time looking at things from the standpoint of theSwabian peasant nature which suited him so admirably.
What especially attracted me to him was the fact that he was the first Jew Iever met with whom one could discuss Judaism with absolute freedom. He evenseemed particularly desirous of removing, in his agreeable manner, allprejudice on this score; and it was really touching to hear him speak of hisboyhood, and declare that he was perhaps the only German who had readKlopstock’s Messiah all through. Having one day become absorbed in this work,which he read secretly in his cottage home, he had played the truant fromschool, and when he finally arrived too late at the school-house, his teacherangrily exclaimed: ‘You confounded Jew-boy, where have you been? Lending moneyagain?’ Such experiences had only made him feel pensive and melancholy, but notbitter, and he had even been inspired with real compassion for the coarsenessof his tormentors. These were traits in his character which drew me verystrongly to him. As time went on, however, it seemed to me a serious matterthat he could not get away from the atmosphere of these ideas, for I began tofeel that the universe contained no other problem for him than the elucidationof the Jewish question. One day, therefore, I protested as good-naturedly andconfidentially as I could, and advised him to let the whole problem of Judaismdrop, as there were, after all, many other standpoints from which the worldmight be criticised. Strange to say, he thereupon not only lost hisingeniousness, but also fell to whining in an ecstatic fashion, which did notseem to me very genuine, and assured me that that would be an impossibility forhim, as there was still so much in Judaism which needed his whole sympathy. Icould not help recalling the surprising anguish which he had manifested on thisoccasion, when I learned, in the course of time, that he had repeatedlyarranged Jewish marriages, concerning the happy result of which I heardnothing, save that he had, by this means, made quite a fortune. When, severalyears afterwards, I again saw him in Zürich, I observed that his appearance hadunfortunately changed in a manner quite disconcerting: he looked reallyextraordinarily common and dirty; his former refreshing liveliness had turnedinto the usual Jewish restlessness, and it was easy to see that all he said wasuttered as if he regretted that his words could not be turned to better accountin a newspaper article.
During his time in Dresden, however, Auerbach’s warm agreement with my artisticprojects really did me good, even though it may have been only from his Semiticand Swabian standpoint; so did the novelty of the experience I was at that timeundergoing as an artist, in meeting with ever-increasing regard and recognitionamong people of note, of acknowledged importance and of exceptional culture.If, after the success obtained by Rienzi, I still remained with the circle ofthe real theatrical world, the greater success following on Tannhäusercertainly brought me into contact with such people as I have mentioned above,who, though to be sure they considerably enlarged my ideas, at the same timeimpressed me very unfavourably with what was apparently the pinnacle of theartistic life of the period. At any rate, I felt neither rewarded nor,fortunately, even diverted by the acquaintances I won by the first performanceof my Tannhäuser that winter. On the contrary, I felt an irresistible desire towithdraw into my shell and leave these gay surroundings into which, strangelyenough, I had been introduced at the instigation of Hiller, whom I soonrecognised as being a nonentity. I felt I must quickly compose something, asthis was the only means of ridding myself of all the disturbing and painfulexcitement Tannhäuser had produced in me.
Only a few weeks after the first performances I had worked out the whole of theLohengrin text. In November I had already read this poem to my intimatefriends, and soon afterwards to the Hiller set. It was praised, and pronounced‘effective.’ Schumann also thoroughly approved of it, although he did notunderstand the musical form in which I wished to carry it out, as he saw noresemblance in it to the old methods of writing individual solos for thevarious artists. I then had some fun in reading different parts of my work tohim in the form of arias and cavatinas, after which he laughingly declaredhimself satisfied.
Serious reflection, however, aroused my gravest doubts as to the tragiccharacter of the material itself, and to these doubts I had been led, in amanner both sensible and tactful, by Franck. He thought it offensive to effectElsa’s punishment through Lohengrin’s departure; for although he understoodthat the characteristics of the legend were expressed precisely by this highlypoetical feature, he was doubtful as to whether it did full justice to thedemands of tragic feeling in its relation to dramatic realism. He would havepreferred to see Lohengrin die before our eyes owing to Elsa’s lovingtreachery. As, however, this did not seem feasible, he would have liked to seeLohengrin spell-bound by some powerful motive, and prevented from getting away.Although, of course, I would not agree to any of these suggestions, I went sofar as to consider whether I could not do away with the cruel separation, andstill retain the incident of Lohengrin’s departure, which was essential. I thensought for a means of letting Elsa go away with Lohengrin, as a form of penancewhich would withdraw her also from the world. This seemed more promising to mytalented friend. While I was still very doubtful about all this, I gave my poemto Frau von Lüttichau, so that she might peruse it, and criticise the pointraised by Franck. In a little letter, in which she expressed her pleasure at mypoem, she wrote briefly, but very decidedly, on the knotty question, anddeclared that Franck must be devoid of all poetry if he did not understand thatit was exactly in the way I had chosen, and in no other, that Lohengrin mustdepart. I felt as if a load had fallen from my heart. In triumph I showed theletter to Franck, who, much abashed, and by way of excusing himself, opened acorrespondence with Frau von Lüttichau, which certainly cannot have beenlacking in interest, though I was never able to see any of it. In any case, theupshot of it was that Lohengrin remained as I had originally conceived it.Curiously enough, some time later, I had a similar experience with regard tothe same subject, which again put me in a temporary state of uncertainty. WhenAdolf Stahr gravely raised the same objection to the solution of the Lohengrinquestion, I was really taken aback by the uniformity of opinion; and as, owingto some excitement, I was just then no longer in the same mood as when Icomposed Lohengrin, I was foolish enough to write a hurried letter to Stahr inwhich, with but a few slight reservations, I declared him to be right. I didnot know that, by this, I was causing real grief to Liszt, who was now in thesame position with regard to Stahr as Frau von Lüttichau had been with regardto Franck. Fortunately, however, the displeasure of my great friend at mysupposed treachery to myself did not last long; for, without having got wind ofthe trouble I had caused him, and thanks to the torture I myself was goingthrough, I came to the proper decision in a few days, and, as clear asdaylight, I saw what madness it had been. I was therefore able to rejoice Lisztwith the following laconical protest which I sent him from my Swiss resort:‘Stahr is wrong, and Lohengrin is right.’
For the present I remained occupied with the revision of my poem, for therecould be no question of planning the music to it just now. That peaceful andharmonious state of mind which is so favourable to creative work, and always sonecessary to me for composing, I now had to secure with the greatestdifficulty, for it was one of the things I always had the hardest struggle toobtain. All the experiences connected with the performance of Tannhäuser havingfilled me with true despair as to the whole future of my artistic operations, Isaw it was hopeless to think of its production being extended to other Germantheatres—for I had not been able to achieve this end even with the successfulRienzi. It was perfectly obvious, therefore, that my work would, at the utmost,be conceded a permanent place in the Dresden repertoire. As the result of allthis, my pecuniary affairs, which have already been described, had got intosuch a serious state that a catastrophe seemed inevitable. While I waspreparing to meet this in the best way I could, I tried to stupefy myself, onthe one hand, by plunging into the study of history, mythology, and literature,which were becoming ever dearer and dearer to me, and on the other by workingincessantly at my artistic enterprises. As regards the former, I was chieflyinterested in the German Middle Ages, and tried to make myself familiar withevery point relative to this period. Although I could not set about this taskwith philological precision, I proceeded with such earnestness that I studiedthe German records, published by Grimm, for instance, with the greatestinterest. As I could not put the results of such studies immediately into myscenes, there were many who could not understand why, as an operatic composer,I should waste my time on such barren work. Different people remarked later on,that the personality of Lohengrin had a charm quite its own; but this wasascribed to the happy selection of the subject, and I was specially praised forchoosing it. Material from the German Middle Ages, and later on, subjects fromScandinavian antiquity, were therefore looked forward to by many, and, in theend, they were astonished that I gave them no adequate result of all mylabours. Perhaps it will be of help to them if I now tell them to take the oldrecords and such works to their aid. I forgot at that time to call Hiller’sattention to my documents, and with great pride he seized upon a subject out ofthe history of the Hohenstaufen. As, however, he had no success with his work,he may perhaps think I was a little artful for not having spoken to him of theold records.
Concerning my other duties, my chief undertaking for this winter consisted inan exceptionally carefully prepared performance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony,which took place in the spring on Palm Sunday. This performance involved many astruggle, besides a host of experiences which were destined to exercise astrong influence over my further development. Roughly they were as follows: theroyal orchestra had only one opportunity a year of showing their powersindependently in a musical performance outside the Opera or the church. For thebenefit of the Pension Fund for their widows and orphans, the old so-calledOpera House was given up to a big performance originally only intended fororatorios. Ultimately, in order to make it more attractive, a symphony wasalways added to the oratorio; and, as already mentioned, I had performed onsuch occasions, once the Pastoral Symphony, and later Haydn’s Creation. Thelatter was a great joy to me, and it was on this occasion that I first made itsacquaintance. As we two conductors had stipulated for alternate performances,the Symphony on Palm Sunday of the year 1846 fell to my lot. I had a greatlonging for the Ninth Symphony, and I was led to the choice of this work by thefact that it was almost unknown in Dresden. When the directors of theorchestra, who were the trustees of the Pension Fund, and who had to promoteits increase, got to know of this, such a fright seized them that theyinterviewed the general director, Lüttichau, and begged him, by virtue of hishigh authority, to dissuade me from carrying out my intention. They gave as areason for this request, that the Pension Fund would surely suffer through thechoice of this symphony, as the work was in ill-repute in the place, and wouldcertainly keep people from going to the concert. The symphony had beenperformed many years before by Reissiger at a charity concert, and, as theconductor himself honestly admitted, had been an absolute failure. Now itneeded my whole ardour, and all the eloquence I could command, to prevail overthe doubts of our principal. With the orchestral directors, however, there wasnothing for me to do but quarrel, as I heard that they were complaining allover the town about my indiscretion. In order to add shame to their trouble, Imade up my mind to prepare the public in such a way for the performance, uponwhich I had resolved, and for the work itself, that at least the sensationcaused would lead to a full hall and thus, in a very favourable manner,guarantee satisfactory returns, and contradict their belief that the fund wasmenaced. Thus the Ninth Symphony had, in every conceivable way, become for me apoint of honour, for the success of which I had to exercise all my powers tothe utmost. The committee had misgivings regarding the outlay needed forprocuring the orchestral parts, so I borrowed them from the Leipzig ConcertSociety.
Imagine my feelings, however, on now seeing for the first time since myearliest boyhood the mysterious pages of this score, which I studiedconscientiously! In those days the sight of these same pages had filled me withthe most mystic reveries, and I had stayed up for nights together to copy themout. Just as at the time of my uncertainty in Paris, on hearing the rehearsalof the first three movements performed by the incomparable orchestra of theConservatoire, I had been carried back through years of error and doubt to beplaced in marvellous touch with my earliest days, while all my inmostaspirations had been fruitfully stimulated in a new direction, so now in thesame way the memory of that music was secretly awakened in me as I again sawbefore my own eyes that which in those early days had likewise been only amysterious vision. I had by this time experienced much which, in the depths ofmy soul, drove me almost unconsciously to a process of summing-up, to an almostdespairing inquiry concerning my fate. What I dared not acknowledge to myselfwas the fact of the absolute insecurity of my existence both from the artisticand financial point of view; for I saw that I was a stranger to my own mode oflife as well as to my profession, and I had no prospects whatsoever. Thisdespair, which I tried to conceal from my friends, was now converted intogenuine exaltation, thanks entirely to the Ninth Symphony. It is not likelythat the heart of a disciple has ever been filled with such keen rapture overthe work of a master, as mine was at the first movement of this symphony. Ifany one had come upon me unexpectedly while I had the open score before me, andhad seen me convulsed with sobs and tears as I went through the work in orderto consider the best manner of rendering it, he would certainly have asked withastonishment if this were really fitting behaviour for the Conductor Royal ofSaxony! Fortunately, on such occasions I was spared the visits of our orchestradirectors, and their worthy conductor Reissiger, and even those of F. Hiller,who was so versed in classical music.
In the first place I drew up a programme, for which the book of words for thechorus—always ordered according to custom—furnished me with a good pretext. Idid this in order to provide a guide to the simple understanding of the work,and thereby hoped to appeal not to the critical judgment, but solely to thefeelings, of the audience. This programme, in the framing of which some of thechief passages in Goethe’s Faust were exceedingly helpful to me, was very wellreceived, not only on that occasion in Dresden, but later on in other places.Besides this, I made use of the Dresden Anzeiger, by writing all kinds of shortand enthusiastic anonymous paragraphs, in order to whet the public taste for awork which hitherto had been in ill-repute in Dresden.
Not only did these purely extraneous exertions succeed in making the receiptsof that year by far exceed any that had been taken theretofore, but theorchestra directors themselves, during the remaining years of my stay inDresden, made a point of ensuring similarly large profits by repeatedperformances of the celebrated symphony. Concerning the artistic side of theperformance, I aimed at making the orchestra give as expressive a rendering aspossible, and to this end made all kinds of notes, myself, in the variousparts, so as to make quite sure that their interpretation would be as clear andas coloured as could be desired. It was principally the custom which existedthen of doubling the wind instruments, that led me to a most carefulconsideration of the advantages this system presented, for, in performances ona large scale, the following somewhat crude rule prevailed: all those passagesmarked piano were executed by a single set of instruments, while those markedforte were carried out by a duplicated set. As an instance of the way in whichI took care to ensure an intelligible rendering by this means, I might point toa certain passage in the second movement of the symphony, where the whole ofthe string instruments play the principal and rhythmical figure in C major forthe first time; it is written in triple octaves, which play uninterruptedly inunison and, to a certain degree, serve as an accompaniment to the second theme,which is only performed by feeble wood instruments. As fortissimo is indicatedalike for the whole orchestra, the result in every imaginable rendering must bethat the melody for the wood instruments not only completely disappears, butcannot even be heard through the strings, which, after all, are onlyaccompanying. Now, as I never carried my piety to the extent of takingdirections absolutely literally, rather than sacrifice the effect reallyintended by the master to the erroneous indications given, I made the stringsplay only moderately loudly instead of real fortissimo, up to the point wherethey alternate with the wind instruments in taking up the continuation of thenew theme: thus the motive, rendered as it was as loudly as possible by adouble set of wind instruments, was, I believe for the first time since theexistence of the symphony, heard with real distinctness. I proceeded in thismanner throughout, in order to guarantee the greatest exactitude in thedynamical effects of the orchestra. There was nothing, however difficult, whichwas allowed to be performed in such a way as not to arouse the feelings of theaudience in a particular manner. For example, many brains had been puzzled bythe Fugato in 6/8 time which comes after the chorus, Froh wie seine Sonnenfliegen, in the movement of the finale marked alia marcia. In view of thepreceding inspiriting verses, which seemed to be preparing for combat andvictory, I conceived this Fugato really as a glad but earnest war-song, and Itook it at a continuously fiery tempo, and with the utmost vigour. The dayfollowing the first performance I had the satisfaction of receiving a visitfrom the musical director Anacker of Freiburg, who came to tell me somewhatpenitently, that though until then he had been one of my antagonists, since theperformance of the symphony he certainly reckoned himself among my friends.What had absolutely overwhelmed him, he said, was precisely my conception andinterpretation of the Fugato. Furthermore, I devoted special attention to thatextraordinary passage, resembling a recitative for the ‘cellos and basses,which comes at the beginning of the last movement, and which had once caused myold friend Pohlenz such great humiliation in Leipzig. Thanks to the exceptionalexcellence of our bass players, I felt certain of attaining to absoluteperfection in this passage. After twelve special rehearsals of the instrumentsalone concerned, I succeeded in getting them to perform in a way which soundednot only perfectly free, but which also expressed the most exquisite tendernessand the greatest energy in a thoroughly impressive manner.
From the very beginning of my undertaking I had at once recognised, that theonly method of achieving overwhelming popular success with this symphony was toovercome, by some ideal means, the extraordinary difficulties presented by thechoral parts. I realised that the demands made by these parts could be met onlyby a large and enthusiastic body of singers. It was above all necessary, then,to secure a very good and large choir; so, besides adding the somewhat feebleDreissig ‘Academy of Singing’ to our usual number of members in the theatrechorus, in spite of great difficulties I also enlisted the help of the choirfrom the Kreuzschule, with its fine boys’ voices, and the choir of the Dresdenseminary, which had had much practice in church singing. In a way quite my ownI now tried to get these three hundred singers, who were frequently united forrehearsals, into a state of genuine ecstasy; for instance, I succeeded indemonstrating to the basses that the celebrated passage Seid umschlungen,Millionen, and especially Bruder, uber’m Sternenzelt muss ein guter Vaterwohnen, could not be sung in an ordinary manner, but must, as it were, beproclaimed with the greatest rapture. In this I took the lead in a manner soelated that I really think I literally transported them to a world of emotionutterly strange to them for a while; and I did not desist till my voice, whichhad been heard clearly above all the others, began to be no longerdistinguishable even to myself, but was drowned, so to speak, in the warm seaof sound.
It gave me particular pleasure, with Mitterwurzer’s cooperation, to give a mostoverwhelmingly expressive rendering of the recitative for baritone: Freunde,nicht diese Tone. In view of its exceptional difficulties this passage mightalmost be considered impossible to perform, and yet he executed it in a waywhich showed what fruit our mutual interchange of ideas had borne. I also tookcare that, by means of the complete reconstruction of the hall, I should obtaingood acoustic conditions for the orchestra, which I had arranged according toquite a new system of my own. As may be imagined, it was only with the greatestdifficulty that the money for this could be found; however, I did not give up,and owing to a totally new construction of the platform, I was able toconcentrate the whole of the orchestra towards the centre, and surround it, inamphitheatre fashion, by the throng of singers who were accommodated on seatsvery considerably raised. This was not only of great advantage to the powerfuleffect of the choir, but it also gave great precision and energy to the finelyorganised orchestra in the purely symphonic movements.
Even at the general rehearsal the hall was overcrowded. Reissiger was guilty ofthe incredible stupidity of working up the public mind against the symphony anddrawing attention to Beethoven’s very regrettable error. Gade, on the otherhand, who came to visit us from Leipzig, where he was then conducting theGewandhaus Concerts, assured me after the general rehearsal, that he wouldwillingly have paid double the price of his ticket in order to hear therecitative by the basses once more; whilst Hiller considered that I had gonetoo far in my modification of the tempo. What he meant by this I learnedsubsequently when I heard him conducting intricate orchestral works; but ofthis I shall have more to say later on.
There was no denying that the performance was, on the whole, a success; infact, it exceeded all our expectations, and was particularly well received bythe non-musical public. Among these I remember the philologist Dr. Kochly, whocame to me at the end of the evening and confessed that it was the first timehe had been able to follow a symphonic work from beginning to end withintelligent interest. This experience left me with a pleasant feeling ofability and power, and strongly confirmed me in the belief, that if I onlydesired anything with sufficient earnestness, I was able to achieve it withirresistible and overwhelming success. I now had to consider, however, what thedifficulties were, which hitherto had prevented a similarly happy production ofmy own new conceptions. Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, which was still such aproblem to so many, and had, at all events, never attained to popularity, I hadbeen able to make a complete success; yet, as often as it was put on the stage,my Tannhäuser taught me that the possibilities of its success had yet to bediscovered. How was this to be done? This was and remained the secret questionwhich influenced all my subsequent development.
I dared not, however, indulge at that time in any meditation on this point withthe view of arriving at any particular results, for the real significance of myfailure, of which I was inwardly convinced, stood absolutely bare before mewith all its terrifying lessons. Albeit, I could no longer delay taking eventhe most disagreeable steps with the view of warding off the catastrophe whichmenaced my financial position.
I was led to this, thanks to the influence of a ridiculous omen. My agent, thepurely nominal publisher of my three operas—Rienzi, the Fliegender Holländer,and Tannhäuser—the eccentric court music publisher, C. F. Meser, invited me oneday to the cafe known as the ‘Verderber’ to discuss our money affairs. Withgreat qualms we talked over the possible results of the Annual Easter Fair, andwondered whether they would be tolerably good or altogether bad. I gave himcourage, and ordered a bottle of the best Haut-Sauterne. A venerable flask madeits appearance; I filled the glasses, and we drank to the good success of theFair; when suddenly we both yelled as though we had gone mad, while, withhorror, we tried to rid our mouths of the strong Tarragon vinegar with which wehad been served by mistake. ‘Heavens!’ cried Meser, ‘nothing could be worse!’‘True enough,’ I answered, ‘no doubt there is much that will turn to vinegarfor us.’ My good-humour revealed to me in a flash that I must try some otherway of saving myself than by means of the Easter Fair.
Not only was it necessary to refund the capital which had been got together bydint of ever-increasing sacrifices, in order to defray the expenses of thepublication of my operas; but, owing to the fact that I had been obligedultimately to seek aid from the usurers, the rumour of my debts had spread sofar abroad, that even those friends who had helped me at the time of my arrivalin Dresden were seized with anxiety on my account. At this time I met with areally sad experience at the hands of Madame Schroder-Devrient, who, as theresult of her incomprehensible lack of discretion, did much to bring about myfinal undoing. When I first settled in Dresden, as I have already pointed out,she lent me three thousand marks, not only to help me to discharge my debts,but also to allow me to contribute to the maintenance of my old friend Kietz inParis. Jealousy of my niece Johanna, and suspicion that I had made her (myniece) come to Dresden in order to make it easier for the general management todispense with the services of the great artist, had awakened in this otherwiseso noble-minded woman the usual feelings of animosity towards me, which are sooften met with in the theatrical profession. She had now given up herengagement; she even declared openly that I had been partly instrumental inobtaining her dismissal; and abandoning all friendly regard for me, whereby shedeeply wronged me in every respect, she placed the I.O.U. I had given her inthe hands of an energetic lawyer, and without further ado this man sued me forthe payment of the money. Thus I was forced to make a clean breast ofeverything to Lüttichau, and to beseech him to intervene for me, and ifpossible to obtain a royal advance that would enable me to clear my position,which was so seriously compromised.
My principal declared himself willing to support any request I might wish toaddress to the King on this matter. To this end I had to note down the amountof my debts; but as I soon discovered that the necessary sum could only beassigned to me as a loan from the Theatre Pension Fund, at an interest of fiveper cent., and that I should moreover have to secure the capital of the PensionFund by a life insurance policy, which would cost me annually three per cent,of the capital borrowed, I was, for obvious reasons, tempted to leave out of mypetition all those of my debts which were not of a pressing nature, and for thepayment of which I thought I could count on the receipts which I might finallyexpect from my publishing enterprises. Nevertheless, the sacrifices I had tomake in order to repay the help offered me increased to such an extent, that mysalary of conductor, in itself very slender, promised to be materiallydiminished for some time to come. I was forced to make the most irksome effortsto gather together the necessary sum for the life insurance policy, and wastherefore obliged frequently to appeal to Leipzig. In addition to this, I hadto overcome the most appalling doubts in regard both to my health and to theprobable length of my life, concerning which I fancied I had heard all sorts ofmalicious apprehensions expressed by those who had observed me but casually inthe miserable condition which I was in at that time. My friend Pusinelli, as adoctor who was very intimate with me, eventually managed to give suchsatisfactory information concerning the state of my health, that I succeeded ininsuring my life at the rate of three per cent.
The last of these painful journeys to Leipzig was, at all events, made underpleasant circumstances owing to a kind invitation from the old Maestro LouisSpohr. I was particularly pleased over this, because to me it meant nothingless than an act of reconciliation. As a matter of fact, Spohr had written tome on one occasion, and had declared that, stimulated by the success of myFliegender Holländer and his own enjoyment of it, he had once more decided totake up the career of a dramatic composer, which of recent years had broughthim such scant success. His last work was an opera—Die Kreuz-fahrer—which hehad sent to the Dresden theatre in the course of the preceding year in thehope, as he himself assured me, that I would urge on its production. Afterasking this favour, he drew my attention to the fact that in this work he hadmade an absolutely new departure from his earlier operas, and had kept to themost precise rhythmically dramatic declamation, which had certainly been madeall the more easy for him by the ‘excellent subject.’ Without being actuallysurprised, my horror was indeed great when, after studying not only the text,but also the score, I discovered that the old maestro had been absolutelymistaken in regard to the account he had given me of his work. The custom inforce at that time that the decision concerning the production of works shouldnot, as a rule, rest with one of the conductors alone, did not tend to make meany less fearful of declaring myself emphatically in favour of this work. Inaddition to this, it was Reissiger, who, as he had often boasted, was an oldfriend of Spohr’s, whose turn it was to select and produce a new work.Unfortunately, as I learned later, the general management had returned Spohr’sopera to its author in such a curt manner as to offend him, and he complainedbitterly of this to me. Genuinely concerned at this, I had evidently managed tocalm and appease him, for the invitation mentioned above was clearly a friendlyacknowledgment of my efforts. He wrote that it was very painful for him to haveto touch at Dresden on his way to one of the watering-places; as, however, hehad a real longing to make my acquaintance, he begged me to meet him inLeipzig, where he was going to stay for a few days.
This meeting with him did not leave me unimpressed. He was a tall, stately man,distinguished in appearance, and of a serious and calm temperament. He gave meto understand, in a touching, almost apologetic manner, that the essence of hiseducation and of his aversion from the new tendencies in music, had its originin the first impressions he had received on hearing, as a very young boy,Mozart’s Magic Flute, a work which was quite new at that time, and which had agreat influence on his whole life. Regarding my libretto to Lohengrin, which Ihad left behind for him to read, and the general impression which my personalacquaintance had made on him, he expressed himself with almost surprisingwarmth to my brother-in-law, Hermann Brockhaus, at whose house we had beeninvited to dine, and where, during the meal, the conversation was mostanimated. Besides this, we had met at real musical evenings at the conductorHauptmann’s as well as at Mendelssohn’s, on which occasion I heard the mastertake the violin in one of his own quartettes. It was precisely in these circlesthat I was impressed by the touching and venerable dignity of his absolutelycalm demeanour. Later on, I learned from witnesses—for whose testimony, be itsaid, I cannot vouch—that Tannhäuser, when it was performed at Cassel, hadcaused him so much confusion and pain that he declared he could no longerfollow me, and feared that I must be on the wrong road.
In order to recover from all the hardships and cares I had gone through, I nowmanaged to obtain a special favour from the management, in the form of a threemonths’ leave, in which to improve my health in rustic retirement, and to getpure air to breathe while composing some new work. To this end I had chosen apeasant’s house in the village of Gross-Graupen, which is half-way betweenPillnitz and the border of what is known as ‘Saxon Switzerland.’ Frequentexcursions to the Porsberg, to the adjacent Liebethaler, and to the far distantbastion helped to strengthen my unstrung nerves. While I was first planning themusic to Lohengrin, I was disturbed incessantly by the echoes of some of theairs in Rossini’s William Tell, which was the last opera I had had to conduct.At last I happened to hit on an effective means of stopping this annoyingobtrusion: during my lonely walks I sang with great emphasis the first themefrom the Ninth Symphony, which had also quite lately been revived in my memory.This succeeded! At Pirna, where one can bathe in the river, I was surprised, onone of my almost regular evening constitutionals, to hear the air from thePilgrim’s Chorus out of Tannhäuser whistled by some bather, who was invisibleto me. This first sign of the possibility of popularising the work, which I hadwith such difficulty succeeded in getting performed in Dresden, made animpression on me which no similar experience later on has ever been able tosurpass. Sometimes I received visits from friends in Dresden, and among themHans von Bulow, who was then sixteen years old, came accompanied by Lipinsky.This gave me great pleasure, because I had already noticed the interest whichhe took in me. Generally, however, I had to rely only on my wife’s company, andduring my long walks I had to be satisfied with my little dog Peps. During thissummer holiday, of which a great part of the time had at the beginning to bedevoted to the unpleasant task of arranging my business affairs, and also tothe improvement of my health, I nevertheless succeeded in making a sketch ofthe music to the whole of the three acts of Lohengrin, although this cannot besaid to have consisted of anything more than a very hasty outline.
With this much gained, I returned in August to Dresden, and resumed my dutiesas conductor, which every year seemed to become more and more burdensome to me.Moreover, I immediately plunged once more into the midst of troubles which hadonly just been temporarily allayed. The business of publishing my operas, onthe success of which I still counted as the only means of liberating me from mydifficult position, demanded ever-fresh sacrifices if the enterprise were to bemade worth while. But as my income was now very much reduced, even the smallestoutlays necessarily led me into ever-new and more painful complications; and Ionce more lost all courage.
On the other hand, I tried to strengthen myself by again working energeticallyat Lohengrin. While doing this, I proceeded in a manner that I have not sincerepeated. I first of all completed the third act, and in view of the criticismalready mentioned of the characters and conclusion of this act, I determined totry to make it the very pivot of the whole opera. I wished to do this, if onlyfor the sake of the musical motive appearing in the story of the Holy Grail;but in other respects the plan struck me as perfectly satisfactory.
Owing to previous suggestions on my part, Gluck’s Iphigenia in Aulis was to beproduced this winter. I felt it my duty to give more care and attention to thiswork, which interested me particularly on account of its subject, than I hadgiven to the study of the Armida. In the first place, I was upset by thetranslation in which the opera with the Berlin score was presented to us. Inorder not to be led into false interpretations through the instrumentaladditions which I considered very badly applied in this score, I wrote for theoriginal edition from Paris. When I had made a thorough revision of thetranslation, with a view merely to the correctness of declamation, I wasspurred on by my increasing interest to revise the score itself. I tried tobring the poem as far as possible into agreement with Euripides’ play of thesame name, by the elimination of everything which, in deference to Frenchtaste, made the relationship between Achilles and Iphigenia one of tender love.The chief alteration of all was to cut out the inevitable marriage at the end.For the sake of the vitality of the drama I tried to join the arias andchoruses, which generally followed immediately upon each other without rhyme orreason, by connecting links, prologues and epilogues. In this I did my best, bythe use of Gluck’s themes, to make the interpolations of a strange composer asunnoticeable as possible. In the third act alone was I obliged to giveIphigenia, as well as Artemis, whom I had myself introduced, recitatives of myown composition. Throughout the rest of the work I revised the wholeinstrumentation more or less thoroughly, but only with the object of making theexisting version produce the effect I desired. It was not till the end of theyear that I was able to finish this tremendous task, and I had to postpone thecompletion of the third act of Lohengrin, which I had already begun, until theNew Year.
The first thing to claim my attention at the beginning of the year (1847) wasthe production of Iphigenia. I had to act as stage manager in this case, andwas even obliged to help the scene-painters and the mechanicians over thesmallest details. Owing to the fact that the scenes in this opera weregenerally strung together somewhat clumsily and without any apparentconnection, it was necessary to recast them completely, in order so to animatethe representation as to give to the dramatic action the life it lacked. A gooddeal of this faultiness of construction seemed to me due to the manyconventional practices which were prevalent at the Paris Opera in Gluck’s time.Mitterwurzer was the only actor in the whole cast who gave me any pleasure. Inthe role of Agamemnon he showed a thorough grasp of that character, and carriedout my instructions and suggestions to the letter, so that he succeeded ingiving a really splendid and intelligent rendering of the part. The success ofthe whole performance was far beyond my expectations, and even the directorswere so surprised at the exceptional enthusiasm aroused by one of Gluck’soperas, that for the second performance they, on their own initiative, had myname put on the programme as ‘Reviser.’ This at once drew the attention of thecritics to this work, and for once they almost did me justice; my treatment ofthe overture, the only part of the opera which these gentlemen heard renderedin the usual trivial way, was the only thing that they could find fault with. Ihave discussed and given an accurate account of all that relates to this in aspecial article on ‘Gluck’s Overture to Iphigenia in Aulis’ and I only wish toadd here that the musician who made such strange comments on this occasion wasFerdinand Hiller.
As in former years, the winter meetings of the various artistic elements inDresden which Hiller had inaugurated, continued to take place; but they nowassumed more the character of ‘salons’ in Hiller’s own house, and it seemed tome intended solely for the purpose of laying the foundations for a generalrecognition of Hiller’s artistic greatness. He had already founded, among themore wealthy patrons of art, the chief of whom was the banker Kaskel, a societyfor running subscription concerts. As it was impossible for the royal orchestrato be placed at his disposal for this purpose, he had to content himself withmembers of the town and military bands for his orchestra, and it cannot bedenied that, thanks to his perseverance, he attained a praiseworthy result. Ashe produced many compositions which were still unknown in Dresden, especiallyfrom the domain of more modern music, I was often tempted to go to hisconcerts. His chief bait to the general public, however, seemed to lie in thefact that he presented unknown singers (among whom, unfortunately, Jenny Lindwas not to be found) and virtuosos, one of which, Joachim, who was then veryyoung, I became acquainted with.
Hiller’s treatment of those works with which I was already well acquainted,showed what his musical power was really worth. The careless and indifferentmanner in which he interpreted a Triple Concerto by Sebastian Bach positivelyastounded me. In the tempo di minuetto of the Eighth Symphony of Beethoven, Ifound that Hiller’s rendering was even more astonishing than Reissiger’s andMendelssohn’s. I promised to be present at the performance of this symphony ifI could rely on his giving a correct rendering of the tempo of the thirdphrase, which was generally so painfully distorted, He assured me that hethoroughly agreed with me about it, and my disappointment at the performancewas all the greater when I found the well-known waltz measure adopted again.When I called him to account about it he excused himself with a smile, sayingthat he had been seized with a fit of temporary abstraction just at thebeginning of the phrase in question, which had made him forget his promise. Forinaugurating these concerts, which, as a matter of fact, only lasted for twoseasons, Hiller was given a banquet, which I also had much pleasure inattending.
People in these circles were surprised at that time to hear me speak, oftenwith great animation, about Greek literature and history, but never aboutmusic. In the course of my reading, which I zealously pursued, and which drewme away from my professional activities to retirement and solitude, I was atthat time impelled by my spiritual needs to turn my attention once more to asystematic study of this all-important source of culture, with the object offilling the perceptible gap between my boyhood’s knowledge of the eternalelements of human culture and the neglect of this field of learning due to thelife I had been obliged to lead. In order to approach the real goal of mydesires—the study of Old and Middle High German—in the right frame of mind, Ibegan again from the beginning with Greek antiquity, and was now filled withsuch overwhelming enthusiasm for this subject that, whenever I entered intoconversation, and by hook or by crook had managed to get it round to thistheme, I could only speak in terms of the strongest emotion. I occasionally metsome one who seemed to listen to what I had to say; on the whole, however,people preferred to talk to me only about the theatre because, since myproduction of Gluck’s Iphigenia, they thought themselves justified in thinkingI was an authority on this subject. I received special recognition from a manto whom I quite rightly gave the credit of being at least as well versed asmyself in the matter. This was Eduard Devrient, who had been forced at thattime to resign his position as stage manager-in-chief owing to a plot againsthim on the part of the actors, headed by his own brother Emil. We were broughtinto closer sympathy by our conversations in connection with this, which ledhim into dissertations on the triviality and thorough hopelessness of our wholetheatrical life, especially under the ruining influence of ignorant courtmanagers, which could never be overcome.
We were also drawn together by his intelligent understanding of the part I hadplayed in the production of Iphigenia, which he compared with the Berlinproduction of the same piece, that had been utterly condemned by him. He wasfor a long time the only man with whom I could discuss, seriously and indetail, the real needs of the theatre and the means by which its defects mightbe remedied. Owing to his longer and more specialised experience, there wasmuch he could tell me and make clear to me; in particular he helped mesuccessfully to overcome the idea that mere literary excellence is enough forthe theatre, and confirmed my conviction that the path to true prosperity layonly with the stage itself and with the actors of the drama.
From this time forward, till I left Dresden, my intercourse with EduardDevrient grew more and more friendly, though his dry nature and obviouslimitations as an actor had attracted me but little before. His highlymeritorious work, Die Geschichte der deutschen Schauspielkunst (‘History ofGerman Dramatic Art’), which he finished and published about that time, threw afresh and instructive light on many problems which exercised my mind, andhelped me to master them for the first time.
At last I managed once more to resume my task of composing the third act ofLohengrin, which had been interrupted in the middle of the Bridal Scene, and Ifinished it by the end of the winter. After the repetition, by special request,of the Ninth Symphony at the concert on Palm Sunday had revived me, I tried tofind comfort and refreshment for the further progress of my new work bychanging my abode, this time without asking permission. The old Marcolinipalace, with a very large garden laid out partly in the French style, wassituated in an outlying and thinly populated suburb of Dresden.
It had been sold to the town council, and a part of it was to be let. Thesculptor, Hänel, whom I had known for a long time, and who had given me as amark of friendship an ornament in the shape of a perfect plaster cast of one ofthe bas-reliefs from Beethoven’s monument representing the Ninth Symphony, hadtaken the large rooms on the ground floor of a side-wing of this palace for hisdwelling and studio. At Easter I moved into the spacious apartments, above him,the rent of which was extremely low, and found that the large garden plantedwith glorious trees, which was placed at my disposal, and the pleasantstillness of the whole place, not only provided mental food for the wearyartist, but at the same time, by lessening my expenses, improved my straitenedfinances. We soon settled down quite comfortably in the long row of pleasantrooms without having incurred any unnecessary expense, as Minna was verypractical in her arrangements. The only real inconvenience which in the courseof time I found our new home possessed, was its inordinate distance from thetheatre. This was a great trial to me after fatiguing rehearsals and tiringperformances, as the expense of a cab was a serious consideration. But we werefavoured by an exceptionally fine summer, which put me in a happy frame ofmind, and soon helped to overcome every inconvenience.
At this time I insisted with the utmost firmness on refraining from taking anyfurther share in the management of the theatre, and I had most cogent reasonsto bring forth in defence of my conduct. All my endeavours to set in order thewilful chaos which prevailed in the use of the costly artistic materials at thedisposal of this royal institution were repeatedly thwarted, merely because Iwished to introduce some method into the arrangements. In a carefully writtenpamphlet which, in addition to my other work, I had compiled during the pastwinter, I had drawn up a plan for the reorganisation of the orchestra, and hadshown how we might increase the productive power of our artistic capital bymaking a more methodical use of the royal funds intended for its maintenance,and showing greater discretion regarding salaries. This increase in theproductive power would raise the artistic spirit as well as improve theeconomic position of the members of the orchestra, for I should have liked themat the same time to form an independent concert society. In such a capacity itwould have been their task to present to the people of Dresden, in the bestpossible way, a kind of music which they had hitherto hardly had theopportunity of enjoying at all. It would have been possible for such a union,which, as I pointed out, had so many external circumstances in its favour, toprovide Dresden with a suitable concert-hall. I hear, however, that such aplace is wanting to this day.
With this object in view I entered into close communication with architects andbuilders, and the plans were completed, according to which the scandalousbuildings facing a wing of the renowned prison opposite the Ostra Allee, andconsisting of a shed for the members of the theatre and a public wash-house,were to be pulled down and replaced by a beautiful building, which, besidescontaining a large concert-hall adapted to our requirements, would also havehad other large rooms which could have been, let out on hire at a profit. Thepracticality of these plans was disputed by no one, as even the administratorsof the orchestra’s widows’ fund saw in them an opportunity for the safe andadvantageous laying out of capital; yet they were returned to me, after longconsideration on the part of the general management, with thanks and anacknowledgment of my careful work, and the curt reply that it was thoughtbetter for things to remain as they were.
All my proposals for meeting the useless waste and drain upon our artisticcapital by a more methodical arrangement, met with the same success in everydetail that I suggested. I had also found out by long experience that everyproposal which had to be discussed and decided upon in the most tiringcommittee meetings, as for instance the starting of a repertoire, might at anymoment be overthrown and altered for the worse by the temper of a singer or theplan of a junior business inspector. I was therefore driven to renounce mywasted efforts and, after many a stormy discussion and outspoken expression ofmy sentiments, I withdrew from taking any part whatever in any branch of themanagement, and limited myself entirely to holding rehearsals and conductingperformances of the operas provided for me.
Although my relations with Lüttichau grew more and more strained on thisaccount, for the time being it mattered little whether my conduct pleased himor not, as otherwise my position was one which commanded respect, on account ofthe ever-increasing popularity of Tannhäuser and Rienzi, which were presentedduring the summer to houses packed with distinguished visitors, and wereinvariably chosen for the gala performances.
By thus going my own way and refusing to be interfered with, I succeeded thissummer, amid the delightful and perfect seclusion of my new home, in preservingmyself in a frame of mind exceedingly favourable to the completion of myLohengrin. My studies, which, as I have already mentioned, I pursued eagerly atthe same time as I was working on my opera, made me feel more light-heartedthan I had ever done before. For the first time I now mastered AEschylus withreal feeling and understanding. Droysen’s eloquent commentaries in particularhelped to bring before my imagination the intoxicating effect of the productionof an Athenian tragedy, so that I could see the Oresteia with my mind’s eye, asthough it were actually being performed, and its effect upon me wasindescribable. Nothing, however, could equal the sublime emotion with which theAgamemnon trilogy inspired me, and to the last word of the Eumenides I lived inan atmosphere so far removed from the present day that I have never since beenreally able to reconcile myself with modern literature. My ideas about thewhole significance of the drama and of the theatre were, without a doubt,moulded by these impressions. I worked my way through the other tragedians, andfinally reached Aristophanes. When I had spent the morning industriously uponthe completion of the music for Lohengrin, I used to creep into the depths of athick shrubbery in my part of the garden to get shelter from the summer heat,which was becoming more intense every day. My delight in the comedies ofAristophanes was boundless, when once his Birds had plunged me into the fulltorrent of the genius of this wanton favourite of the Graces, as he used tocall himself with conscious daring. Side by side with this poet I read theprincipal dialogues of Plato, and from the Symposium I gained such a deepinsight into the wonderful beauty of Greek life that I felt myself more trulyat home in ancient Athens than in any conditions which the modern world has tooffer.
As I was following out a settled course of self-education, I did not wish topursue my way further in the leading-strings of any literary history, and Iconsequently turned my attention from the historical studies, which seemed tobe my own peculiar province, and in which department Droysen’s history ofAlexander and the Hellenistic period, as well as Niebuhr and Gibbon, were ofgreat help to me, and fell back once more upon my old and trusty guide, JakobGrimm, for the study of German antiquity. In my efforts to master the myths ofGermany more thoroughly than had been possible in my former perusal of theNibelung and the Heldenbuch, Mone’s particularly suggestive commentary on thisHeldensage filled me with delight, although stricter scholars regarded thiswork with suspicion on account of the boldness of some of its statements. Bythis means I was drawn irresistibly to the northern sagas; and I now tried, asfar as was possible without a fluent knowledge of the Scandinavian languages,to acquaint myself with the Edda, as well as with the prose version whichexisted of a considerable portion of the Heldensage.
Read by the light of Mone’s Commentaries, the Wolsungasaga had a decidedinfluence upon my method of handling this material. My conceptions as to theinner significance of these old-world legends, which had been growing for along time, gradually gained strength and moulded themselves with the plasticforms which inspired my later works.
All this was sinking into my mind and slowly maturing, whilst with unfeigneddelight I was finishing the music of the first two acts of Lohengrin, whichwere now at last completed. I now succeeded in shutting out the past andbuilding up for myself a new world of the future, which presented itself withever-growing clearness to my mind as the refuge whither I might retreat fromall the miseries of modern opera and theatre life. At the same time, my healthand temper were settling down into a mood of almost unclouded serenity, whichmade me oblivious for a long time of all the worries of my position. I used towalk every day up into the neighbouring hills, which rose from the banks of theElbe to the Plauenscher Grand. I generally went alone, except for the companyof our little dog Peps, and my excursions always resulted in producing asatisfactory number of ideas. At the same time, I found I had developed acapacity, which I had never possessed before, for good-tempered intercoursewith the friends and acquaintances who liked to come from time to time to theMarcolini garden to share my simple supper. My visitors used often to find meperched on a high branch of a tree, or on the neck of the Neptune which was thecentral figure of a large group of statuary in the middle of an old fountain,unfortunately always dry, belonging to the palmy days of the Marcolini estate.I used to enjoy walking with my friends up and down the broad footpath of thedrive leading to the real palace, which had been laid especially for Napoleonin the fatal year 1813, when he had fixed his headquarters there.
By August, the last month of summer, I had completely finished the compositionof Lohengrin, and felt that it was high time for me to have done so, as theneeds of my position demanded imperatively that I should give my most seriousattention to improving it, and it became a matter of supreme importance for meonce more to take steps for having my operas produced in the German theatres.
Even the success of Tannhäuser in Dresden, which became more obvious every day,did not attract the smallest notice anywhere else. Berlin was the only placewhich had any influence in the theatrical world of Germany, and I ought longbefore to have given my undivided attention to that city. From all I had heardof the special tastes of Friedrich Wilhelm IV., I felt perfectly justified inassuming that he would feel sympathetically inclined towards my later works andconceptions if I could only manage to bring them to his notice in the rightlight. On this hypothesis I had already thought of dedicating Tannhäuser tohim, and to gain permission to do so I had to apply to Count Redern, the courtmusical director. From him I heard that the King could only accept thededication of works which had actually been performed in his presence, and ofwhich he thus had a personal knowledge. As my Tannhäuser had been refused bythe managers of the court theatre because it was considered too epic in form,the Count added that if I wished to remain firm in my resolve, there was onlyone way out of the difficulty, and that was to adapt my opera as far aspossible to a military band, and try to bring it to the King’s notice onparade. This drove me to determine upon another plan of attack on Berlin.
After this experience I saw that I must open my campaign there with the operathat had won the most decided triumph in Dresden. I therefore obtained anaudience of the Queen of Saxony, the sister of the King of Prussia, and beggedher to use her influence with her brother to obtain a performance in Berlin byroyal command of my Rienzi, which was also a favourite with the court ofSaxony. This manœuvre was successful, and I soon received a communication frommy old friend Küstner to say that the production of Rienzi was fixed for a veryearly date at the Berlin Court Theatre, and at the same time expressing thehope that I would conduct my work in person. As a very handsome author’sroyalty had been paid by this theatre, at the instigation of Küstner, on theoccasion of the production of his old Munich friend Lachner’s opera, Katharinavon Cornaro, I hoped to realise a very substantial improvement in my financesif only the success of Rienzi in this city in any degree rivalled that inDresden. But my chief desire was to make the acquaintance of the King ofPrussia, so that I might read him the text of my Lohengrin, and arouse hisinterest in my work. This from various signs I flattered myself was perfectlypossible, in which case I intended to beg him to command the first performanceof Lohengrin to be given at his court theatre.
After my strange experiences as to the way in which my success in Dresden hadbeen kept secret from the rest of Germany, it seemed to me a matter of vitalimportance to make the future centre of my artistic enterprises the only placewhich exercised any influence on the outside world, and as such I was forced toregard Berlin. Inspired by the success of my recommendation to the Queen ofPrussia, I hoped to gain access to the King himself, which I regarded as a mostimportant step. Full of confidence, and in excellent spirits, I set out forBerlin in September, trusting to a favourable turn of Fortune’s wheel, in thefirst place for the rehearsals of Rienzi, though my interests were no longercentred in this work.
Berlin made the same impression on me as on the occasion of my former visit,when I saw it again after my long absence in Paris. Professor Werder, my friendof the Fliegender Holländer, had taken lodgings for me in advance in therenowned Gensdarmeplatz, but when I looked at the view from my windows everyday I could not believe that I was in a city which was the very centre ofGermany. Soon, however, I was completely absorbed by the cares of the task Ihad in hand.
I had nothing to complain of with regard to the official preparations forRienzi, but I soon noticed that it was looked upon merely as a conductor’sopera, that is to say, all the materials to hand were duly placed at mydisposal, but the management had not the slightest intention of doing anythingmore for me. All the arrangements for my rehearsals were entirely upset as soonas a visit from Jenny Lind was announced, and she occupied the Royal Operaexclusively for some time.
During the delay thus caused I did all I could to attain my main object—anintroduction to the King—and for this purpose made use of my formeracquaintance with the court musical director, Count Redern. This gentlemanreceived me at once with the greatest affability, invited me to dinner and asoiree, and entered into a hearty discussion with me about the steps necessaryfor attaining my purpose, in which he promised to do his utmost to help me. Ialso paid frequent visits to Sans-Souci, in order to pay my respects to theQueen and express my thanks to her. But I never got further than an interviewwith the ladies-in-waiting, and I was advised to put myself into communicationwith M. Illaire, the head of the Royal Privy Council. This gentleman seemed tobe impressed by the seriousness of my request, and promised to do what he couldto further my wish for a personal introduction to the King. He asked what myreal object was, and I told him it was to get permission from the King to readmy libretto Lohengrin to him. On the occasion of one of my oft-repeated visitsfrom Berlin, he asked me whether I did not think it would be advisable to bringa recommendation of my work from Tieck. I was able to tell him that I hadalready had the pleasure of bringing my case to the notice of the old poet, wholived near Potsdam as a royal pensioner.
I remembered very well that Frau von Lüttichau had sent the themes Lohengrinand Tannhäuser to her old friend some years ago, when these matters were firstmentioned between us. When I called upon Tieck, I was welcomed by him almost asa friend, and I found my long talks with him exceedingly valuable. AlthoughTieck had perhaps gained a somewhat doubtful reputation for the leniency withwhich he would give his recommendation for the dramatic works of those whoapplied to him, yet I was pleased by the genuine disgust with which he spoke ofour latest dramatic literature, which was modelling itself on the style ofmodern French stagecraft, and his complaint at the utter lack of any truepoetic feeling in it was heartfelt. He declared himself delighted with my poemof Lohengrin, but could not understand how all this was to be set to musicwithout a complete change in the conventional structure of an opera, and onthis score he objected to such scenes as that between Ortrud and Frederick atthe beginning of the second act. I thought I had roused him to a realenthusiasm when I explained how I proposed to solve these apparentdifficulties, and also described my own ideals about musical drama. But thehigher I soared the sadder he grew when I had once made known to him my hope ofsecuring the patronage of the King of Prussia for these conceptions, and theworking out of my scheme for an ideal drama. He had no doubt that the Kingwould listen to me with the greatest interest, and even seize upon my ideaswith warmth, only I must not entertain the smallest hope of any practicalresult, unless I wished to expose myself to the bitterest disappointment. ‘Whatcan you expect from a man who to-day is enthusiastic about Gluck’s Iphigenia inTauris, and to-morrow mad about Donizetti’s Lucrezia Borgia?’ he said. Tieck’sconversation about these and similar topics was much too entertaining andcharming for me to give any serious weight to the bitterness of his views. Hegladly promised to recommend my poem, more particularly to Privy CouncillorIllaire, and dismissed me with hearty goodwill and his sincere though anxiousblessing. The only result of all my labours was that the desired invitationfrom the King still hung fire. As the rehearsals for Rienzi, which had beenpostponed on account of Jenny Lind’s visit, were being carried on seriouslyagain, I made up my mind to take no further trouble before the performance ofmy opera, as I thought myself, at any rate, justified in counting on thepresence of the monarch on the first night, as the piece was being played athis express command, and at the same time I hoped this would conduce to thefulfilment of my main object. However, the nearer we came to the event thelower did the hopes I had built upon it sink. To play the part of the hero Ihad to be satisfied with a tenor who was absolutely devoid of talent, and farbelow the average. He was a conscientious, painstaking man, and had moreoverbeen strongly recommended to me by my kind host, the renowned Meinhard. After Ihad taken infinite pains with him, and had in consequence, as so often happens,conjured up in my mind certain illusions as to what I might expect from hisacting, I was obliged, when it came to the final test of the dress rehearsal,to confess my true opinion. I realised that the scenery, chorus, ballet, andminor parts were on the whole excellent, but that the chief character, aroundwhom in this particular opera everything centred, faded into an insignificantphantom. The reception which this opera met with at the hands of the publicwhen it was produced in October was also due to him; but in consequence of thefairly good rendering of a few brilliant passages, and more especially onaccount of the enthusiastic recognition of Frau Koster in the part of Adriano,it might have been concluded from all the external signs that the opera hadbeen fairly successful. Nevertheless, I knew very well that this seemingtriumph could have no real substance, as only the immaterial parts of my workcould reach the eyes and ears of the audience; its essential spirit had notentered their hearts. Moreover, the Berlin reviewers in their usual way begantheir attacks immediately, with the view of demolishing any success my operamight have won, so that after the second performance, which I also conductedmyself, I began to wonder whether my desperate labours were really worth while.
When I asked the few intimate friends I had their opinion on this point, Ielicited much valuable information. Among these friends I must mention, in thefirst place, Hermann Franck, whom I found again. He had lately settled inBerlin, and did much to encourage me. I spent the most enjoyable part of thosesad two months in his company, of which, however, I had but too little. Ourconversation generally turned upon reminiscences of the old days, and on totopics which had no connection with the theatre, so that I was almost ashamedto trouble him with my complaints on this subject, especially as they concernedmy worries about a work which I could not pretend was of any practicalimportance to the stage. He for his part soon arrived at the conclusion that ithad been foolish of me to choose my Rienzi for this occasion, as it was anopera which appealed merely to the general public, in preference to myTannhäuser, which might have educated a party in Berlin useful to my higheraims. He maintained that the very nature of this work would have aroused afresh interest in the drama in the minds of people who, like himself, were nolonger to be counted among regular theatre-goers, precisely because they hadgiven up all hope of ever finding any nobler ideals of the stage.
The curious information as to the character of Berlin art in other respects,which Werder gave me from time to time, was most discouraging. With regard tothe public, he told me once that at a performance of an unknown work, it wasquite useless for me to expect a single member of the audience from the stallsto the gallery to take his seat with any better object in view than to pick asmany holes as possible in the production. Although Werder did not wish todiscourage me in any of my endeavours, he felt himself obliged to warn mecontinually not to expect anything above the average from the cultured societyof Berlin. He liked to see proper respect paid to the really considerable giftsof the King; and when I asked him how he thought the latter would receive myideas about the ennobling of opera, he answered, after having listenedattentively to a long and fiery tirade on my part: ‘The King would say to you,“Go and consult Stawinsky!”’ This was the opera manager, a fat, smug creaturewho had grown rusty in following out the most jog-trot routine. In short,everything I learned was calculated to discourage me. I called on BernhardMarx, who some years ago had shown a kindly interest in my FliegenderHolländer, and was courteously received by him. This man, who in his earlierwritings and musical criticisms had seemed to me filled with a fire of energy,now struck me as extraordinarily limp and listless when I saw him by the sideof his young wife, who was radiantly and bewitchingly beautiful. From hisconversation I soon learned that he also had abandoned even the remotest hopeof success for any efforts directed towards the object so dear to both ourhearts, on account of the inconceivable shallowness of all the officialsconnected with the head authority. He told me of the extraordinary fate whichhad befallen a scheme he had brought to the notice of the King for founding aschool of music. In a special audience the King had gone into the matter withthe greatest interest, and noticed the minutest detail, so that Marx feltjustified in entertaining the strongest possible hopes of success. However, allhis labours and negotiations about the business, in the course of which he wasdriven from pillar to post, proved utterly futile, until at last he was told tohave an interview with a certain general. This personage, like the King, hadMarx’s proposals explained to him in the minutest detail, and expressed hiswarmest sympathy with the undertaking. ‘And there,’ said Marx, at the end ofthis long rigmarole, ‘the matter ended, and I never heard another word aboutit.’
One day I learned that Countess Rossi, the renowned Henriette Sontag, who wasliving in quiet seclusion in Berlin, had pleasant recollections of me inDresden, and wished me to visit her. She had at this time already fallen intothe unfortunate position which was so detrimental to her artistic career. Shetoo complained bitterly of the general apathy of the influential classes inBerlin, which effectually prevented any artistic aims from being realised. Itwas her opinion that the King found a sort of satisfaction in knowing that thetheatre was badly managed, for though he never opposed any criticisms which hereceived on the subject, he likewise never supported any proposal for itsimprovement. She expressed a wish to know something of my latest work, and Igave her my poem of Lohengrin for perusal. On the occasion of my next morningcall she told me she would send me an invitation to a musical evening which shewas going to have at her house in honour of the Grand Duke ofMecklenburg-Strelitz, her elderly patron, and she also gave me back themanuscript of Lohengrin, with the assurance that it had appealed to her verymuch, and that while she was reading it she had often seen the little fairiesand elves dancing about in front of her. As in the old days I had been heartilyencouraged by the warm and friendly sympathy of this naturally cultured woman,I now felt as if cold water had been suddenly poured down my back. I soon tookmy leave, and never saw her again. Indeed, I had no particular object in doingso, as the promised invitation never came. Herr E. Kossak also sought me out,and although our acquaintance did not lead to much, I was sufficiently kindlyreceived by him to give him my poem of Lohengrin to read. I went one day byappointment to see him, and found that his room had just been scrubbed withboiling water. The steam from this operation was so unbearable that it hadalready given him a headache, and was not less disagreeable to me. He lookedinto my face with an almost tender expression when he gave me back themanuscript of my poem, and assured me, in accents which admitted of no doubt ofhis sincerity, that he thought it ‘very pretty.’
I found my casual intercourse with H. Truhn rather more entertaining. I used totreat him to a good glass of wine at Lutter and Wegener’s, where I wentoccasionally on account of its association with Hoffmann, and he would thenlisten with apparently growing interest to my ideas as to the possibledevelopment of opera and the goal at which we should aim. His comments weregenerally witty and very much to the point, and his lively and animated wayspleased me very much. After the production of Rienzi, however, he too, as acritic, joined the majority of scoffers and detractors. The only person whosupported me stoutly but uselessly, through thick and thin, was my old friendGaillard. His little music-shop was not a success, his musical journal hadalready failed, so that he was only able to help me in small ways.Unfortunately I discovered not only that he was the author of many exceedinglydubious dramatic works, for which he wished to gain my support, but also thathe was apparently in the last stages of the disease from which he wassuffering, so that the little intercourse I had with him, in spite of all hisfidelity and devotion, only exercised a melancholy and depressing influenceupon me.
But as I had embarked upon this Berlin enterprise in contradiction to all myinmost wishes, and prompted solely by the desire of winning the success sovital to my position, I made up my mind to make a personal appeal to Rellstab.
As in the case of the Fliegender Holländer he had taken exception moreparticularly to its ‘nebulousness’ and ‘lack of form,’ I thought I might withadvantage point out to him the brighter and clearer outline of Rienzi. Heseemed to be pleased at my thinking I could get anything out of him, but toldme at once of his firm conviction that any new art form was utterly impossibleafter Gluck, and that the only thing that the best of good luck and hard workwas capable of producing was meaningless bombast. I then realised that inBerlin all hope had been abandoned. I was told that Meyerbeer was the only manwho had been able in any way to master the situation.
This former patron of mine I met once more in Berlin, and he declared that hestill took an interest in me. As soon as I arrived I called on him, but in thehall I found his servant busy packing up trunks, and learned that Meyerbeer wasjust going away. His master confirmed this assertion, and regretted that hewould not be able to do anything for me, so I had to say good-bye andhow-do-you-do at the same time. For some time I thought he really was away, butafter a few weeks I learned to my surprise that he was still staying in Berlinwithout letting himself be seen by any one, and at last he made his appearanceagain at one of the rehearsals of Rienzi. What this meant I only discoveredlater from a rumour which was circulated among the initiated, and imparted tome by Eduard von Bulow, my young friend’s father. Without having the slightestidea how it originated, I learned, about the middle of my stay in Berlin, fromthe conductor Taubert, that he had heard on very good authority that I wastrying for a director’s post at the court theatre, and had good expectations ofsecuring the appointment in addition to special privileges. In order to remainon good terms with Taubert, as it was very necessary for me to do, I had togive him the most solemn assurances that such an idea had never even entered myhead, and that I would not accept such a position if it were offered to me. Onthe other hand, all my endeavours to get access to the King continued to befruitless. My chief mediator, to whom I always turned, was still Count Redern,and although my attention had been called to his staunch adherence toMeyerbeer, his extraordinary open and friendly manner always strengthened mybelief in his honesty. At last the only medium that remained open to me was thefact that the King could not possibly stay away from the performance of Rienzi,given at his express command, and on this conviction I based all further hopeof approaching him. Whereupon Count Redern informed me, with an expression ofdeep despair, that on the very day of the first performance the monarch wouldbe away on a hunting party. Once more I begged him to make very effort in hispower to secure the King’s presence, at least at the second performance, and atlength my inexhaustible patron told me that he could not make head or tail ofit, but his Majesty seemed to have conceived an utter disinclination to accedeto my wish; he himself had heard these hard words fall from the royal lips: ‘Ohbother! have you come to me again with your Rienzi?’
At this second performance I had a pleasant experience. After the impressivesecond act the public showed signs of wishing to call me, and as I went fromthe orchestra to the vestibule, in order to be ready if necessary, my footslipped on the smooth parquet, and I might have had perhaps a serious fall hadI not felt my arm grasped by a strong hand. I turned, and recognised the CrownPrince of Prussia,[14] who hadcome out of his box, and who at once seized the opportunity of inviting me tofollow him to his wife, who wished to make my acquaintance. She had only justarrived in Berlin, and told me that she had heard my opera for the first timethat evening, and expressed her appreciation of it. She had, however, long agoreceived very favourable reports of me and my artistic aims from a commonfriend, Alwine Frommann. The whole tenor of this interview, at which the Princewas present, was unusually friendly and pleasant.
[14]This Prince subsequently became the Emperor William the First. He was given thetitle of Crown Prince in 1840 on the death of his father, Frederick WilliamIII., as he was then heir-presumptive to his brother, Frederick William IV.,whose marriage was without issue.—EDITOR.
It was indeed my old friend Alwine who in Berlin had not only followed all myfortunes with the greatest sympathy, but had also done all in her power to giveme consolation and courage to endure. Almost every evening, when the day’sbusiness made it possible, I used to visit her for an hour of recreation, andgain strength from her ennobling conversation for the struggle against thereverses of the following day. I was particularly pleased by the warm andintelligent sympathy which she and our mutual friend Werder devoted toLohengrin, the object of all my labours at that time. On the arrival of herfriend and patroness, the Crown Princess, which had been delayed till now, shehoped to hear something more definite as to how my affairs stood with the King,although she intimated to me that even this great lady was in deep disfavour,and could only bring her influence to bear upon the King by observing thestrictest etiquette. But from this source also no news reached me till it wastime for me to leave Berlin and I could postpone my departure no longer.
As I had to conduct a third performance of Rienzi, and there still remained aremote possibility of receiving a sudden command to Sans-Souci, I accordinglyfixed on a date which would be the very latest I could wait to ascertain thefate of the projects I had nearest to heart. This period passed by, and I wasforced to realise that my hopes of Berlin were wholly shattered.
I was in a very depressed state when I made up my mind to this conclusion. Ican seldom remember having been so dreadfully affected by the influence of coldand wet weather and an eternally grey sky as during those last wretched weeksin Berlin, when everything that I heard, in addition to my own privateanxieties, weighed upon me with a leaden weight of discouragement.
My conversations with Hermann Franck about the social and political situationhad assumed a peculiarly gloomy tone, as the King of Prussia’s efforts tosummon a united conference had failed. I was among those who had at first beeninclined to see a hopeful significance in this undertaking, but it was a shockto have all the intimate details relating to the project clearly set before meby so well informed a man as Franck. His dispassionate views on this subject,as well as on the Prussian State in particular, which was supposed to berepresentative of German intelligence, and was universally considered to be amodel of order and good government, so completely disillusioned me anddestroyed all the favourable and hopeful opinions I had formed of it, that Ifelt as if I had plunged into chaos, and realised the utter futility ofexpecting a prosperous settlement of the German question from this quarter. Ifin the midst of my misery in Dresden I had founded great hopes from gaining theKing of Prussia’s sympathy for my ideas, I could no longer close my eyes to thefearful hollowness which the state of affairs disclosed to me on every side.
In this despairing mood I felt but little emotion when, on going to saygood-bye to Count Redern, he told me with a very sad face the news, which hadjust arrived, of Mendelssohn’s death. I certainly did not realise this strokeof fate, which Redern’s obvious grief first brought to my notice. At allevents, he was spared more detailed and heartfelt explanation of my ownaffairs, which he had so much at heart.
The only thing that remained for me to do in Berlin was to try and make mymaterial success balance my material loss. For a stay of two months, duringwhich my wife and my sister Clara had been with me, lured on by the hope thatthe production of Rienzi in Berlin would be a brilliant success, I found my oldfriend, Director Küstner, by no means inclined to compensate me. From hiscorrespondence with me he could prove up to the hilt that legally he had onlyexpressed the desire for my co-operation in studying Rienzi, but had given meno positive invitation. As I was prevented by Count Redern’s grief overMendelssohn’s death from going to him for help in these trivial privateconcerns, there was no alternative but for me to accept with a good graceKüstner’s beneficence in paying me on the spot the royalties on the threeperformances which had already taken place. The Dresden authorities weresurprised when I found myself obliged to beg an advance of income from them inorder to conclude this brilliant undertaking in Berlin.
As I was travelling with my wife in the most horrible weather through thedeserted country on my way home, I fell into a mood of the blackest despair,which I thought I might perhaps survive once in a lifetime but never again.Nevertheless, it amused me, as I sat silently looking out of the carriage intothe grey mist, to hear my wife enter into a lively discussion with a commercialtraveller who, in the course of friendly conversation, had spoken in adisparaging way about the ‘new opera Rienzi.’ My wife, with great heat and evenpassion, corrected various mistakes made by this hostile critic, and to hergreat satisfaction made him confess that he had not heard the opera himself,but had only based his opinion upon hearsay and the reviews. Whereupon my wifepointed out to him most earnestly that ‘he could not possibly know whose futurehe might not injure by such irresponsible comment.’
These were the only cheering and consoling impressions which I carried backwith me to Dresden, where I soon felt the direct results of the reverses I hadsuffered in Berlin in the condolences of my acquaintances. The papers hadspread abroad the news that my opera had been a dismal failure. The mostpainful part of the whole proceeding was that I had to meet these expressionsof pity with a cheerful countenance and the assurance that things were by nomeans so bad as had been made out, but that, on the contrary, I had had manypleasant experiences.
This unaccustomed effort placed me in a position strangely similar to that inwhich I found Hiller on my return to Dresden. He had given a performance of hisnew opera, Conradin von Hohenstaufen, here just about this time. He had keptthe composition of this work a secret from me, and had hoped to make a decidedhit with it after the three performances which took place in my absence. Boththe poet and the composer thought that in this work they had combined thetendencies and effects of my Rienzi with those of my Tannhäuser in a mannerpeculiarly suited to the Dresden public. As he was just setting out forDusseldorf, where he had been appointed concert-director, he commended his workwith great confidence to my tender mercies, and regretted not having the powerof appointing me the conductor of it. He acknowledged that he owed his greatsuccess partly to the wonderfully happy rendering of the male part of Conradinby my niece Johanna. She, in her turn, told me with equal confidence thatwithout her Hiller’s opera would not have had such an extraordinary triumph. Iwas now really anxious to see this fortunate work and its wonderful staging formyself; and this I was able to do, as a fourth performance was announced afterHiller and his family had left Dresden for good. When I entered the theatre atthe beginning of the overture to take my place in the stalls, I was astonishedto find all the seats, with a few scarcely noticeable exceptions, absolutelyempty. At the other end of my row I saw the poet who had written the libretto,the gentle painter Reinike. We moved, naturally, towards the middle of thespace and discussed the strange position in which we found ourselves. He pouredout melancholy complaints to me about Hiller’s musical setting to his poetry;the secret of the mistake which Hiller had made about the success of his workhe did not explain, and was evidently very much upset at the conspicuousfailure of the opera. It was from another quarter that I learned how it hadbeen possible for Hiller to deceive himself in such an extraordinary way. FrauHiller, who was of Polish origin, had managed at the frequent Polish gatheringswhich took place in Dresden to persuade a large contingent of her countrymen,who were keen theatre-goers, to attend her husband’s opera. On the first nightthese friends, with their usual enthusiasm, incited the public to applaud, buthad themselves found so little pleasure in the work that they had stayed awayfrom the second performance, which was otherwise badly attended, so that theopera could only be considered a failure. By commandeering all the help thatcould possibly be got from the Poles by way of applause, every effort was madeto secure a third performance on a Sunday, when the theatre generally filled ofits own accord. This object was achieved, and the Polish theatre aristocracy,with the charity that was habitual to them, fulfilled their duty towards theneedy couple in whose drawing-room they had often spent such pleasant evenings.
Once more the composer was called before the curtain, and everything went offwell. Hiller thereupon placed his confidence in the verdict on the thirdperformance, according to which his opera was an undoubted success, just as hadbeen the case with my Tannhäuser. The artificiality of this proceeding was,however, exposed by this fourth performance, at which I was present, and atwhich no one was under an obligation to the departed composer to attend. Evenmy niece was disgusted with it, and thought that the best singer in the worldcould not make a success of such a tedious opera. Whilst we were watching thismiserable performance I managed to point out to the poet some weaknesses andfaults that were to be found in the subject-matter. The latter reported mycriticisms to Hiller, whereupon I received a warm and friendly letter fromDusseldorf, in which Hiller acknowledged the mistake he had made in rejectingmy advice on this point. He gave me plainly to understand that it was not toolate to alter the opera according to my suggestions; I should thus have had theinestimable benefit of having such an obviously well-intentioned, and, in itsway, so significant, a work in the repertoire, but I never got so far as that.
On the other hand, I experienced the small satisfaction of hearing the newsthat two performances of my Rienzi had taken place in Berlin, for the successof which Conductor Taubert, as he informed me himself, thought he had won somecredit on account of the extremely effective combinations he had arranged. Inspite of this, I was absolutely convinced that I must abandon all hope of anylasting and profitable success from Berlin, and I could no longer hide fromLüttichau that, if I were to continue in the discharge of my duties with thenecessary good spirits, I must insist on a rise of salary, as, beyond myregular income, I could not rely on any substantial success wherewith to meetmy unlucky publishing transactions. My income was so small that I could noteven live on it, but I asked nothing more than to be placed on an equal footingwith my colleague Reissiger, a prospect which had been held out to me from thebeginning.
At this juncture Lüttichau saw a favourable opportunity for making me feel mydependence on his goodwill, which could only be secured by my showing duedeference to his wishes. After I had laid my case before the King, at apersonal interview, and asked for the favour of the moderate increase in incomewhich was my object, Lüttichau promised to make the report he was obliged togive of me as favourable as possible. How great was my consternation andhumiliation when one day he opened our interview by telling me that his reporthad come back from the King. In it was set forth that I had unfortunatelyoverestimated my talent on account of the foolish praise of various friends ina high position (among whom he counted Frau v. Konneritz), and had thus beenled to consider that I had quite as good a right to success as Meyerbeer. I hadthereby caused such serious offence that it might, perhaps, be consideredadvisable to dismiss me altogether. On the other hand, my industry and mypraiseworthy performance with regard to the revision of Gluck’s Iphigenia,which had been brought to the notice of the management, might justify my beinggiven another chance, in which case my material condition must be given dueconsideration. At this point I could read no further, and stupefied by surpriseI gave my patron back the paper. He tried at once to remove the obviously badimpression it had made upon me by telling me that my wish had been granted, andI could draw the nine hundred marks belonging to me at once from the bank. Itook my leave in silence, and pondered over what course of action I must pursuein face of this disgrace, as it was quite out of the question for me to acceptthe nine hundred marks.
But in the midst of these adversities a visit of the King of Prussia to Dresdenwas one day announced, and at the same time by his special request aperformance of Tannhäuser was arranged. He really did make his appearance inthe theatre at this performance in the company of the royal family of Saxony,and stayed with apparent interest from beginning to end. On this occasion theKing gave a curious explanation for having stayed away from the performances ofRienzi in Berlin, which was afterwards reported to me. He said he had deniedhimself the pleasure of hearing one of my operas in Berlin, because it wasimportant to get a good impression of them, and he knew that in his own theatrethey would only be badly produced. This strange event had, at any rate, theresult of giving me back sufficient self-confidence to accept the nine hundredmarks of which I was in such desperate need.
Lüttichau also seemed to make a point of winning back my trust to some extent,and I gathered from his calm friendliness that I must suppose this whollyuncultured man had no consciousness of the outrage he had done me. He returnedto the idea of having orchestral concerts, in accordance with the suggestions Ihad made in my rejected report on the orchestra, and in order to induce me toarrange such musical performances in the theatre, said the initiative had comefrom the management and not from the orchestra itself. As soon as I discoveredthat the profits were to go to the orchestra I willingly entered into the plan.By a special device of my own the stage of the theatre was made into aconcert-hall (afterwards considered first-class) by means of a sounding boardenclosing the whole orchestra, which proved a great success. In future sixperformances were to take place during the winter months. This time, however,as it was the end of the year, and we only had the second half of the winterbefore us, subscription tickets were issued for only three concerts, and thewhole available space in the theatre was filled by the public. I found thepreparations for this fairly diverting, and entered upon the fateful year 1848in a rather more reconciled and amiable frame of mind.
Early in the New Year the first of these orchestral concerts took place, andbrought me much popularity on account of its unusual programme. I haddiscovered that if any real significance were to be given to these concerts, indistinction to those consisting of heterogeneous scraps of music of everydifferent species under the sun, and which are so opposed to all seriousartistic taste, we could only afford to give two kinds of genuine musicalternately if a good effect was to be produced. Accordingly between twosymphonies I placed one or two longer vocal pieces, which were not to be heardelsewhere, and these were the only items in the whole concert. After the MozartSymphony in D major, I made all the musicians move from their places to makeroom for an imposing choir, which had to sing Palestrina’s Stabat Mater, froman adaptation of the original recitative, which I had carefully revised, andBach’s Motet for eight voices: Singet dem Herrn ein neues Lied (‘Sing unto theLord a new song’); thereupon I let the orchestra again take its place to playBeethoven’s Sinfonia Eroica, and with that to end the concert.
This success was very encouraging, and disclosed to me a somewhat consolingprospect of increasing my influence as musical conductor at a time when mydisgust was daily growing stronger at the constant meddling with our operarepertoire, which made me lose more and more influence as compared with thewishes of my would-be prima donna niece, whom even Tichatschek supported.Immediately on my return from Berlin I had begun the orchestration ofLohengrin, and in all other respects had given myself up to greaterresignation, which made me feel I could face my fate calmly, when I suddenlyreceived a very disturbing piece of news.
In the beginning of February my mother’s death was announced to me. I at oncehastened to her funeral at Leipzig, and was filled with deep emotion and joy atthe wonderfully calm and sweet expression of her face. She had passed thelatter years of her life, which had before been so active and restless, incheerful ease, and at the end in peaceful and almost childlike happiness. Onher deathbed she exclaimed in humble modesty, and with a bright smile on herface: ‘Oh! how beautiful! how lovely! how divine! Why do I deserve suchfavour?’ It was a bitterly cold morning when we lowered the coffin into thegrave in the churchyard, and the hard, frozen lumps of earth which we scatteredon the lid, instead of the customary handful of dust, frightened me by the loudnoise they made. On the way home to the house of my brother-in-law, HermannBrockhaus, where the whole family were to gather together for an hour, Laube,of whom my mother had been very fond, was my only companion. He expressed hisanxiety at my unusually exhausted appearance, and when he afterwardsaccompanied me to the station, we discussed the unbearable burden which seemedto us to lie like a dead weight on every noble effort made to resist thetendency of the time to sink into utter worthlessness. On my return to Dresdenthe realisation of my complete loneliness came over me for the first time withfull consciousness, as I could not help knowing that with the loss of my motherevery natural bond of union was loosened with my brothers and sisters, each ofwhom was taken up with his or her own family affairs. So I plunged dully andcoldly into the only thing which could cheer and warm me, the working out of myLohengrin and my studies of German antiquity.
Thus dawned the last days of February, which were to plunge Europe once moreinto revolution. I was among those who least expected a probable or evenpossible overthrow of the political world. My first knowledge of such thingshad been gained in my youth at the time of the July Revolution, and the longand peaceful reaction that followed it. Since then I had become acquainted withParis, and from all the signs of public life which I saw there, I thought allthat had occurred had been merely the preliminaries of a great revolutionarymovement. I had been present at the erection of the forts detaches aroundParis, which Louis Philippe had carried out, and been instructed about thestrategic value of the various fixed sentries scattered about Paris, and Iagreed with those who considered that everything was ready to make even anattempt at a rising on the part of the populace of Paris quite impossible.When, therefore, the Swiss War of Separation at the end of the previous year,and the successful Sicilian Revolution at the beginning of the New Year, turnedall men’s eyes in great excitement to watch the effect of these risings onParis, I did not take the slightest interest in the hopes and fears which werearoused. News of the growing restlessness in the French capital did indeedreach us, but I disputed Röckel’s belief that any significance could beattached to it. I was sitting in the conductor’s desk at a rehearsal of Marthawhen, during an interval, Röckel, with the peculiar joy of being in the right,brought me the news of Louis Philippe’s flight, and the proclamation of theRepublic in Paris. This made a strange and almost astonishing impression on me,although at the same time the doubt as to the true significance of these eventsmade it possible for me to smile to myself. I too caught the fever ofexcitement which had spread everywhere. The German March days were coming, andfrom all directions ever more alarming news kept coming in. Even within thenarrow confines of my native Saxony serious petitions were framed, which theKing withstood for a long time; even he was deceived, in a way which he wassoon to acknowledge, as to the meaning of this commotion and the temper thatprevailed in the country.
On the evening of one of these really anxious days, when the very air was heavyand full of thunder, we gave our third great orchestral concert, at which theKing and his court were present, as on the two previous occasions. For theopening of this one I had chosen Mendelssohn’s Symphony in A minor, which I hadplayed on the occasion of his funeral. The mood of this piece, which even inthe would-be joyful phrases is always tenderly melancholy, correspondedstrangely with the anxiety and depression of the whole audience, which was moreparticularly accentuated in the demeanour of the royal family. I did notconceal from Lipinsky, the leader of the orchestra, my regret at the mistake Ihad made in the arrangement of that day’s programme, as Beethoven’s FifthSymphony, also in a minor key, was to follow this minor symphony. With a merrytwinkle in his eyes the eccentric Pole comforted me by exclaiming: ‘Oh, let usplay only the first two movements of the Symphony in C minor, then no one willknow whether we have played Mendelssohn in the major or the minor key.’Fortunately before these two movements began, to our great surprise, a loudshout was raised by some patriotic spirit in the middle of the audience, whocalled out ‘Long live the King!’ and the cry was promptly repeated with unusualenthusiasm and energy on all sides. Lipinsky was perfectly right: the symphony,with the passionate and stormy excitement of the first theme, swelled out likea hurricane of rejoicing, and had seldom produced such an effect on theaudience as on that night. This was the last of the newly inaugurated concertsthat I ever conducted in Dresden.
Shortly after this the inevitable political changes took place. The Kingdismissed his ministry and elected a new one, consisting partly of Liberals andpartly even of really enthusiastic Democrats, who at once proclaimed thewell-known regulations, which are the same all over the world, for founding athoroughly democratic constitution. I was really touched by this result, and bythe heartfelt joy which was evident among the whole population, and I wouldhave given much to have been able to gain access to the King, and convincemyself of his hearty confidence in the people’s love for him, which seemed tome so desirable a consummation. In the evening the town was gaily illuminated,and the King drove through the streets in an open carriage. In the greatestexcitement I went out among the dense crowds and followed his movements, oftenrunning where I thought it likely that a particularly hearty shout mightrejoice and reconcile the monarch’s heart. My wife was quite frightened whenshe saw me come back late at night, tired out and very hoarse from shouting.
The events which took place in Vienna and Berlin, with their apparentlymomentous results, only moved me as interesting newspaper reports, and themeeting of a Frankfort parliament in the place of the dissolved Bundestagsounded strangely pleasant in my ears. Yet all these significant occurrencescould not tear me for a single day from my regular hours of work. With immense,almost overweening satisfaction, I finished, in the last days of this eventfuland historic month of March, the score of Lohengrin with the orchestration ofthe music up to the vanishing of the Knight of the Holy Grail into the remoteand mystic distance.
About this time a young Englishwomen, Madame Jessie Laussot, who had married aFrenchman in Bordeaux, one day presented herself at my house in the company ofKarl Ritter, who was barely eighteen years of age. This young man, who was bornin Russia of German parents, was a member of one of those northern families whohad settled down permanently in Dresden, on account of the pleasant artisticatmosphere of that place. I remembered that I had seen him once before not longafter the first performance of Tannhäuser, when he asked me for my autographfor a copy of the score of that opera, which was on sale at the music-shop. Inow learned that this copy really belonged to Frau Laussot, who had beenpresent at those performances, and who was now introduced to me. Overcome withshyness, the young lady expressed her admiration in a way I had neverexperienced before, and at the same time told me how great was her regret atbeing called away by family affairs from her favourite home in Dresden with theRitter family, who, she gave me to understand, were deeply devoted to me. Itwas with a strange, and in its way quite a new, sensation that I bade farewellto this young lady. This was the first time since my meeting with AlwineFrommann and Werder, when the Fliegender Holländer was produced, that I cameacross this sympathetic tone, which seemed to come like an echo from some oldfamiliar past, but which I never heard close at hand. I invited young Ritter tocome and see me whenever he liked, and to accompany me sometimes on my walks.His extraordinary shyness, however, seemed to prevent him from doing this, andI only remember seeing him very occasionally at my house. He used to turn upmore often with Hans von Bulow, whom he seemed to know pretty well, and who hadalready entered the Leipzig University as a student of law. This well-informedand talkative young man showed his warm and hearty devotion to me more openly,and I felt bound to reciprocate his affection. He was the first person who mademe realise the genuine character of the new political enthusiasm. On his hat,as well as on his father’s, the black, red, and gold cockade was paraded beforemy eyes.
Now that I had finished my Lohengrin, and had leisure to study the course ofevents, I could no longer help myself sympathising with the ferment aroused bythe birth of German ideals and the hopes attached to their realisation. My oldfriend Franck had already imbued me with a fairly sound political judgment,and, like many others, I had grave doubts as to whether the German parliamentnow assembling would serve any useful purpose. Nevertheless, the temper of thepopulace, of which there could be no question, although it might not have beengiven very obvious expression, and the belief, everywhere prevalent, that itwas impossible to return to the old conditions, could not fail to exercise itsinfluence upon me. But I wanted actions instead of words, and actions whichwould force our princes to break for ever with their old traditions, which wereso detrimental to the cause of the German commonwealth. With this object I feltinspired to write a popular appeal in verse, calling upon the German princesand peoples to inaugurate a great crusade against Russia, as the country whichhad been the prime instigator of that policy in Germany which had so fatallyseparated the monarchs from their subjects. One of the verses ran as follows:—
The old fight against the East Returns again to-day.The people’s sword must not rust Who freedom wish for aye.
As I had no connection with political journals, and had learned by chance thatBerthold Auerbach was on the staff of a paper in Mannheim, where the waves ofrevolution ran high, I sent him my poem with the request to do whatever hethought best with it, and from that day to this I have never heard or seenanything of it.
Whilst the Frankfort Parliament continued to sit on from day to day, and itseemed idle to conjecture whither this big talk by small men would lead, I wasmuch impressed by the news which reached us from Vienna. In the May of thisyear an attempt at a reaction, such as had succeeded in Naples and remainedindecisive in Paris, had been triumphantly nipped in the bud by the enthusiasmand energy of the Viennese people under the leadership of the students’ band,who had acted with such unexpected firmness. I had arrived at the conclusionthat, in matters directly concerning the people, no reliance could be placed onreason or wisdom, but only on sheer force supported by fanaticism or absolutenecessity; but the course of events in Vienna, where I saw the youth of theeducated classes working side by side with the labouring man, filled me withpeculiar enthusiasm, to which I gave expression in another popular appeal inverse. This I sent to the Oesterreichischen Zeitung, where it was printed intheir columns with my full signature.
In Dresden two political unions had been formed, as a result of the greatchanges that had taken place. The first was called the Deutscher Verein (GermanUnion), whose programme aimed at ‘a constitutional monarchy on the broadestdemocratic foundation.’ The names of its principal leaders, among which, inspite of its broad democratic foundation, my friends Eduard Devrient andProfessor Rietschel had the courage openly to appear, guaranteed the safety ofits objects. This union, which tried to include every element that regarded areal revolution with abhorrence, conjured into existence an opposition clubwhich called itself the Vaterlands-Verein (Patriotic Union). In this the‘democratic foundation’ seemed to be the chief basis, and the ‘constitutionalmonarchy’ only provided the necessary cloak.
Röckel canvassed passionately for the latter, as he seemed to have lost allconfidence in the monarchy. The poor fellow was, indeed, in a very bad way. Hehad long ago given up all hope of rising to any position in the musical world;his directorship had become pure drudgery, and was, unfortunately, so badlypaid that he could not possibly keep himself and his yearly increasing familyon the income he derived from his post. He always had an unconquerable aversionfrom teaching, which was a fairly profitable employment in Dresden among themany wealthy visitors. So he went on from bad to worse, running miserably intodebt, and for a long time saw no hope for his position as the father of afamily except in emigration to America, where he thought he could secure alivelihood for himself and his dependants by manual labour, and for hispractical mind by working as a farmer, from which class he had originallysprung. This, though tedious, would at least be certain. On our walks he had oflate been entertaining me almost exclusively with ideas he had gleaned fromreading books on farming, doctrines which he applied with zeal to theimprovement of his encumbered position. This was the mood in which theRevolution of 1848 found him, and he immediately went over to the extremesocialist side, which, owing to the example set by Paris, threatened to becomeserious. Every one who knew him was utterly taken aback at the apparently vitalchange which had so suddenly taken place in him, when he declared that he hadat last found his real vocation—that of an agitator.
His persuasive faculties, on which, however, he could not rely sufficiently forplatform purposes, developed in private intercourse into stupefying energy. Itwas impossible to stop his flow of language with any objection, and those hecould not draw over to his cause he cast aside for ever. In his enthusiasmabout the problems which occupied his mind day and night, he sharpened hisintellect into a weapon capable of demolishing every foolish objection, andsuddenly stood in our midst like a preacher in the wilderness. He was at homein every department of knowledge. The Vaterlands-Verein had elected a committeefor carrying into execution a plan for arming the populace; this includedRöckel and other thoroughgoing democrats, and, in addition, certain militaryexperts, among whom was my old friend Hermann Muller, the lieutenant of theGuards who had once been engaged to Schroder-Devrient. He and another officernamed Zichlinsky were the only members of the Saxon army who joined thepolitical movement. The part I played in the meetings of this committee, as ineverything else, was dictated by artistic motives. As far as I can remember,the details of this plan, which at last became a nuisance, afforded very soundfoundation for a genuine arming of the people, though it was impossible tocarry it out during the political crisis.
My interest and enthusiasm about the social and political problems which wereoccupying the whole world increased every day, until public meetings andprivate intercourse, and the shallow platitudes which formed the stapleeloquence of the orators of the day, proved to me the terrible shallowness ofthe whole movement.
If only I could rest assured that, while such senseless confusion was the orderof the day, people well versed in these matters would withhold from anydemonstration (which to my great regret I observed in Hermann Franck, and toldhim of, openly), then, on the contrary, I should feel myself compelled, as soonas the opportunity arose, to discuss the purport of such questions and problemsaccording to my judgment. Needless to say, the newspapers played an excitingand prominent part on this occasion. Once, when I went incidentally (as I mightgo to see a play) to a meeting of the Vaterlands-Verein, when they wereassembled in a public garden, they chose for the subject of their discussion,‘Republic or Monarchy?’ I was astonished to hear and to read with whatincredible triviality it was carried on, and how the sum-total of theirexplanation was, that, to be sure, a republic is best, but, at the worst, onecould put up with a monarchy if it were well conducted. As the result of manyheated discussions on this point, I was incited to lay bare my views on thesubject in an article which I published in the DRESDENER ANZEIGER, but which Idid not sign. My special aim was to turn the attention of the few who reallytook the matter seriously, from the external form of the government to itsintrinsic value. When I had pursued and consistently discussed the utmostidealistic conclusions of all that which, to my mind, was necessary andinseparable from the perfect state and from social order, I inquired whether itwould not be possible to realise all this with a king at the head, and enteredso deeply into the matter as to portray the king in such a fashion, that heseemed even more anxious than any one else that his state should be organisedon genuinely republican lines, in order that he might attain to the fulfilmentof his own highest aims. I must own, however, that I felt bound to urge thisking to assume a much more familiar attitude towards his people than the courtatmosphere and the almost exclusive society of his nobles would seem to renderpossible. Finally, I pointed to the King of Saxony as being specially chosen byFate to lead the way in the direction I had indicated, and to give the exampleto all the other German princes. Röckel considered this article a trueinspiration from the Angel of Propitiation, but as he feared that it would notmeet with proper recognition and appreciation in the paper, he urged me tolecture on it publicly at the next meeting of the Vaterlands-Verein for heattached great importance to my discoursing on the subject personally. Quiteuncertain as to whether I could really persuade myself to do this, I attendedthe meeting, and there, owing to the intolerable balderdash uttered by acertain barrister named Blode and a master-furrier Klette, whom at that timeDresden venerated as a Demosthenes and a Cleon, I passionately decided toappear at this extraordinary tribunal with my paper, and to give a veryspirited reading of it to about three thousand persons.
The success I had was simply appalling. The astounded audience seemed toremember nothing of the speech of the Orchestral Conductor Royal save theincidental attack I had made upon the court sycophants. The news of thisincredible event spread like wildfire. The next day I rehearsed Rienzi, whichwas to be performed the following evening. I was congratulated on all sidesupon my self-sacrificing audacity. On the day of the performance, however, Iwas informed by Eisolt, the attendant of the orchestra, that the plans had beenchanged, and he gave me to understand that thereby there hung a tale. Trueenough, the terrible sensation I had made became so great, that the directorsfeared the most unheard-of demonstrations at any performance of Rienzi. Then aperfect storm of derision and vituperation broke loose in the press, and I wasbesieged on all sides to such an extent that it was useless to think ofself-defence. I had even offended the Communal Guard of Saxony, and waschallenged by the commander to make a full apology. But the most inexorableenemies I made were the court officials, especially those holding a minoroffice, and to this day I still continue to be persecuted by them. I learnedthat, as far as it lay in their power, they incessantly besought the King, andfinally the director, to deprive me at once of my office. On account of this Ithought it necessary to write to the monarch personally, in order to explain tohim that my action was to be regarded more in the light of a thoughtlessindiscretion than as a culpable offence. I sent this letter to Herr vonLüttichau, begging him to deliver it to the King, and to arrange at the sametime a short leave for me, so that the provoking disturbance should have achance of dying down during my absence from Dresden. The striking kindness andgoodwill which Herr von Lüttichau showed me on this occasion made no littleimpression upon me, and this I took no pains to conceal from him. As in thecourse of time, however, his ill-controlled rage at various things, andespecially at a good deal that he had misunderstood in my pamphlet, brokeloose, I learned that it was not from any humane motives that he had spoken insuch a propitiatory manner to me, but rather by desire of the King himself. Onthis point I received most accurate information, and heard that when everybody,and even von Lüttichau himself, were besieging the King to visit me withpunishment, the King had forbidden any further talk on the subject. After thisvery encouraging experience, I flattered myself that the King had understoodnot only my letter, but also my pamphlet, better than many others.
In order to change my mind a little, I determined for the present (it was thebeginning of July) to take advantage of the short period of leave granted tome, by going to Vienna. I travelled by way of Breslau, where I looked up an oldfriend of my family, the musical director Mosewius, at whose house I spent anevening. We had a most lively conversation, but, unfortunately, were unable tosteer clear of the stirring political questions of the day. What interested memost was his exceptionally large, or even, if I remember rightly, completecollection of Sebastian Bach’s cantatas in most excellent copies. Besides this,he related, with a humour quite his own, several amusing musical anecdoteswhich were a pleasant memory for many a year. When Mosewius returned my visitin the course of the summer at Dresden, I played a part of the first act ofLohengrin on the piano for him, and the expression of his genuine astonishmentat this conception was very gratifying to me. In later years, however, I foundthat he had spoken somewhat scoffingly about me; but I did not stop to reflectas to the truth of this information, or as to the real character of the man,for little by little I had had to accustom myself to the most inconceivablethings. At Vienna the first thing I did was to call on Professor Fischhof, as Iknew that he had in his keeping important manuscripts, chiefly by Beethoven,among which the original of the C minor Sonata, opus 111, I was particularlycurious to see. Through this new friend, whom I found somewhat dry, I made theacquaintance of Herr Vesque von Puttlingen, who, as the composer of a mostinsignificant opera (Joan of Arc), which had been performed in Dresden, hadwith cautious good taste adopted only the last two syllables of Beethoven’sname—Haven. One day we were at his house to dinner, and I then recognised inhim a former confidential official of Prince Metternich, who now, with hisribbon of black, red, and gold, followed the current of the age, apparentlyquite convinced. I made another interesting acquaintance in the person of Herrvon Fonton, the Russian state councillor, and attache at the Russian Embassy inVienna. I frequently met this man, both at Fischhof’s house and on excursionsinto the surrounding country; and it was interesting to me for the first timeto run up against a man who could so strongly profess his faith in thepessimistic standpoint, that a consistent despotism guarantees the only orderof things which can be tolerated. Not without interest, and certainly notwithout intelligence—for he boasted of having been educated at the mostenlightened schools in Switzerland—he listened to my enthusiastic narration ofthe art ideal which I had in my mind, and which was destined to exercise agreat and decided influence upon the human race. As he had to allow that therealisation of this ideal could not be effected through the strength ofdespotism, and as he was unable to foresee any rewards for my exertions, by thetime we came to the champagne he thawed to such a degree of affable good-natureas to wish me every success. I learned later on that this man, of whose talentand energetic character I had at the time no small opinion, was last heard ofas being in great distress.
Now, as I never undertook anything whatever without some serious object inview, I had made up my mind to avail myself of this visit to Vienna, in orderto try in some practical manner to promote my ideas for the reform of thetheatre. Vienna seemed to me specially suitable for this purpose, as at that,time it had five theatres, all totally different in character, which weredragging on a miserable existence. I quickly worked out a plan, according towhich these various theatres might be formed into a sort of co-operativeorganisation, and placed under one administration composed not only of activemembers, but also of all those having any literary connection with the theatre.With a view to submitting my plan to them, I then made inquiries about personswith such capacities as seemed most likely to answer my requirements. BesidesHerr Friedrich Uhl, whom I had got to know at the very beginning throughFischer, and who did me very good service, I was told of a Herr Franck (thesame, I presume, who later on published a big epic work called Tannhäuser), anda Dr. Pacher, an agent of Meyerbeer’s, and a pettifogger of whose acquaintancelater on I was to have no reason to be proud. The most sympathetic, andcertainly the most important, of those chosen by me for the conference meetingat Fischhof’s house, was undoubtedly Dr. Becher, a passionate and exceedinglycultivated man. He was the only one present who seriously followed the readingof my plan, although, of course, he by no means agreed with everything. Iobserved in him a certain wildness and vehemence, the impression of whichreturned to me very vividly some months later, when I heard of his being shotas a rebel who had participated in the October Insurrection at Vienna. For thepresent, then, I had to satisfy myself with having read the plan of my theatrereform to a few attentive listeners. All seemed to be convinced that the timewas not opportune for putting forward such peaceable schemes of reform. On theother hand, Uhl thought it right to give me an idea of what was at present allthe rage in Vienna, by taking me one evening to a political club of the mostadvanced tendencies. There I heard a speech by Herr Sigismund Englander, whoshortly afterwards attracted much attention in the political monthly papers;the unblushing audacity with which he and others expressed themselves thatevening with regard to the most dreaded persons in public power astounded mealmost as much as the poverty of the political views expressed on thatoccasion. By way of contrast I received a very nice impression of HerrGrillparzer, the poet, whose name was like a fable to me, associated as it was,from my earliest days, with his Ahnfrau. I approached him also with respect tothe matter of my theatre reform. He seemed quite disposed to listen in afriendly manner to what I had to say to him; he did not, however, attempt toconceal his surprise at my direct appeals and the personal demands I made ofhim. He was the first playwright I had ever seen in an official uniform.
After I had paid an unsuccessful visit to Herr Bauernfeld, relative to the samebusiness, I concluded that Vienna was of no more use for the present, and gavemyself up to the exceptionally stimulating impressions produced by the publiclife of the motley crowd, which of late had undergone such marked changes. Ifthe student band, which was always represented in great numbers in the streets,had already amused me with the extraordinary constancy with which its memberssported the German colours, I was very highly diverted by the effect producedwhen at the theatres I saw even the ices served by attendants in the black,red, and gold of Austria. At the Karl Theatre, in the Leopold quarter of thetown, I saw a new farce, by Nestroy, which actually introduced the character ofPrince Metternich, and in which this statesman, on being asked whether he hadpoisoned the Duke of Reichstadt, had to make his escape behind the wings as anunmasked sinner. On the whole, the appearance of this imperial city—usually sofond of pleasure—impressed one with a feeling of youthful and powerfulconfidence. And this impression was revived in me when I heard of the energeticparticipation of the youthful members of the population, during those fatefulOctober days, in the defence of Vienna against the troops of PrinceWindischgratz.
On the homeward journey I touched at Prague, where I found my old friend Kittl(who had grown very much more corpulent) still in the most terrible frightabout the riotous events which had taken place there. He seemed to be ofopinion that the revolt of the Tschech party against the Austrian Governmentwas directed at him personally, and he thought fit to reproach himself with theterrible agitation of the time, which he believed he had specially inflamed byhis composition of my operatic text of Die Franzosen vor Nizza, out of which akind of revolutionary air seemed to have become very popular. To my greatpleasure, on my homeward journey I had the company of Hänel the sculptor, whomI met on the steamer. There travelled with us also a Count Albert Nostitz, withwhom he had just settled up his business concerning the statue of the EmperorCharles IV., and he was in the gayest mood, as the extremely insecure state ofAustrian paper money had led to his being paid at a great profit to himself, insilver coin in accordance with his agreement. I was very pleased to find that,thanks to this circumstance, he was in such a confident mood, and so free fromprejudice, that on, arriving at Dresden he accompanied me the whole way—a verylong distance—from the landing-stage at which we had left the steamer to myhouse, in an open carriage; and this despite the fact that he very well knewthat, only a few weeks before, I had caused a really terrible stir in this verycity.
As far as the public were concerned, the storm seemed quite to have died down,and I was able to resume my usual occupations and mode of life without anyfurther trouble. I am sorry to say, however, that my old worries and anxietiesstarted afresh; I stood in great need of money, and had not the vaguest notionwhither to go in search of it. I then examined very thoroughly the answer I hadreceived during the preceding winter to my petition for a higher salary. I hadleft it unread, as the modifications made in it had already disgusted me. If Ihad till now believed that it was Herr von Lüttichau who had brought about theincrease of salary I had demanded, in the shape of a supplement which I was toreceive annually—in itself a humiliating thing—I now saw to my horror that allthe time there had been no mention save of one single supplement, and thatthere was nothing to show that this should be repeated annually. On learningthis, I saw that I should now be at the hopeless disadvantage of coming toolate with a remonstrance if I should attempt to make one; so there was nothingleft for me but to submit to an insult which, under the circumstances, wasquite unprecedented. My feelings towards Herr von Lüttichau, which shortlybefore had been rather warm owing to his supposed kind attitude towards meduring the last disturbance, now underwent a serious change, and I soon had anew reason (actually connected with the above-mentioned affair) for altering myfavourable opinion of him, and for turning finally against him for good andall. He had informed me that the members of the Imperial Orchestra had sent hima deputation demanding my instant dismissal, as they thought that it affectedtheir honour to be any longer under a conductor who had compromised himselfpolitically to the extent which I had. He also informed me that he had not onlyreprimanded them very severely, but that he had also been at great pains topacify them concerning me. All this, which Lüttichau had put in a highlyfavourable light, had latterly made me feel very friendly towards him. Then,however, as the result of inquiries into the matter, I heard accidentallythrough members of the orchestra that the facts of the case were almost exactlythe reverse. What had happened was this, that the members of the ImperialOrchestra had been approached on all sides by the officials of the court, andhad been not only earnestly requested to do what Lüttichau had declared theyhad done of their own accord, but also threatened with the displeasure of theKing, and of incurring the strongest suspicion if they refused to comply. Inorder to protect themselves against this intrigue, and to avoid all evilconsequences should they not take the required step, the musicians had turnedto their principal, and had sent him a deputation, through which they declaredthat, as a corporation of artists, they did not in the least feel called uponto mix themselves up in a matter that did not concern them. Thus the halo withwhich my former attachment to Herr von Lüttichau had surrounded him at lastdisappeared for good and all, and it was chiefly my shame at having been sovery much upset by his false conduct that now inspired me for ever with suchbitter feelings for this man. What determined this feeling even more than theinsults I had suffered, was the recognition of the fact that I was now utterlyincapable of ever being able to enlist his influence in the cause of theatricalreform, which was so dear to me. It was natural that I should learn to attachever less and less importance to the mere retention of the post of orchestralconductor on so extraordinarily inadequate and reduced a salary; and in keepingto this office, I merely bowed to what was an inevitable though purelyaccidental circumstance of a wretched fate. I did nothing to make the post moreintolerable, but, at the same time, I moved not a finger to ensure itspermanence.
The very next thing I must do was to attempt to establish my hopes of a largerincome, so sadly doomed hitherto, upon a very much sounder basis. In thisrespect it occurred to me that I might consult my friend Liszt, and beg him tosuggest a remedy for my grievous position. And lo and behold, shortly afterthose fateful March days, and not long before the completion of my Lohengrinscore, to my very great delight and astonishment, the very man I wanted walkedinto my room. He had come from Vienna, where he had lived through the‘Barricade Days,’ and he was going on to Weimar, where he intended to settlepermanently. We spent an evening together at Schumann’s, had a little music,and finally began a discussion on Mendelssohn and Meyerbeer, in which Liszt andSchumann differed so fundamentally that the latter, completely losing histemper, retired in a fury to his bedroom for quite a long time. This incidentdid indeed place us in a somewhat awkward position towards our host, but itfurnished us with a most amusing topic of conversation on the way home, I haveseldom seen Liszt so extravagantly cheerful as on that night, when, in spite ofthe cold and the fact that he was clad only in ordinary evening-dress, heaccompanied first the music director Schubert, and then myself, to ourrespective homes. Subsequently I took advantage of a few days’ holiday inAugust to make an excursion to Weimar, where I found Liszt permanentlyinstalled and, as is well known, enjoying a life of most intimate intercoursewith the Grand Duke. Even though he was unable to help me in my affairs, exceptby giving me a recommendation which finally proved useless, his reception of meon this short visit was so hearty and so exceedingly stimulating, that it leftme profoundly cheered and encouraged. On returning to Dresden I tried as far aspossible to curtail my expenses and to live within my means; and, as everymeans of assistance failed me, I resorted to the expedient of sending out acircular letter addressed jointly to my remaining creditors, all of whom werereally friends; and in this I told them frankly of my situation, and enjoinedthem to relinquish their demands for an indefinite time, till my affairs took aturn for the better, as without this I should certainly never be in a positionto satisfy them. By this means they would, at all events, be in a position tooppose my general manager, whom I had every reason to suspect of evil designs,and who would have been only too glad to seize any signs of hostility towardsme, on the part of my creditors, as a pretext for taking the worst stepsagainst me. The assurance I required was given me unhesitatingly; my friendPusinelli, and Frau Klepperbein (an old friend of my mother’s), even going sofar as to declare that they were prepared to give up all claim to the moneythey had lent me. Thus, in some measure reassured, and with my positionrelative to Lüttichau so far improved that I could consult my own wishes as towhether and when I should give up my post entirely, I now continued to fulfilmy duties as a conductor as patiently and conscientiously as I was able, whilewith great zeal I also resumed my studies, which were carrying me ever furtherand further afield.
Thus settled, I now began to watch the wonderful developments in the fate of myfriend Röckel. As every day brought fresh rumours of threatened reactionarycoups d’etat and similar violent outbreaks, which Röckel thought it right toprevent, he drew up an appeal to the soldiers of the army of Saxony, in whichhe explained every detail of the cause for which he stood, and which he thenhad printed and distributed broadcast. This was too flagrant a misdeed for thepublic prosecutors: he was therefore immediately placed under arrest, and hadto remain three days in gaol while an action for high treason was lodgedagainst him. He was only released when the solicitor Minkwitz stood bail forthe requisite three thousand marks (equal to L150). This return home to hisanxious wife and children was celebrated by a little public festival, which thecommittee of the Vaterlands-Verein had arranged in his honour, and theliberated man was greeted as the champion of the people’s cause. On the otherhand, however, the general management of the court theatre, who had beforesuspended him temporarily, now gave him his final dismissal. Röckel let a fullbeard grow, and began the publication of a popular journal called theVolksblatt, of which he was sole editor. He must have counted on its success tocompensate him for the loss of his salary as musical director, for he at oncehired an office in the Brudergasse for his undertaking. This paper succeeded inattracting the attention of a great many people to its editor, and showed uphis talents in quite a new light, he never got involved in his style orindulged in any elaboration of words, but confined himself to matters ofimmediate importance and general interest; it was only after having discussedthem in a calm and sober fashion, that he led up from them to furtherdeductions of still greater interest connected with them. The individualarticles were short, and never contained anything superfluous, in addition towhich they were so clearly written, that they made an instructive andconvincing appeal to the most uneducated mind. By always going to the root ofthings, instead of indulging in circumlocutions which, in politics, have causedsuch great confusion in the minds of the uneducated masses, he soon had a largecircle of readers, both among cultivated and uncultivated people. The onlydrawback was that the price of the little weekly paper was too small to yieldhim a corresponding profit. Moreover, it was necessary to warn him that if thereactionary party should ever come into power again, it could never possiblyforgive him for this newspaper. His younger brother, Edward, who was paying avisit at the time in Dresden, declared himself willing to accept a post aspiano-teacher in England, which, though most uncongenial to him, would belucrative and place him in a position to help Röckel’s family, if, as seemedprobable, he met his reward in prison or on the gallows. Owing to hisconnection with various societies, his time was so much taken up that myintercourse with him was limited to walks, which became more and more rare. Onthese occasions I often got lost in the most wildly speculative and profounddiscussions, while this wonderfully exciteable man always remained calmlyreflective and clear-headed. First and foremost, he had planned a drasticsocial reform of the middle classes—as at present constituted—by aiming at acomplete alteration of the basis of their condition. He constructed a totallynew moral order of things, founded on the teaching of Proudhon and othersocialists regarding the annihilation of the power of capital, by immediatelyproductive labour, dispensing with the middleman. Little by little he convertedme, by most seductive arguments, to his own views, to such an extent that Ibegan to rebuild my hopes for the realisation of my ideal in art upon them.Thus there were two questions which concerned me very nearly: he wished toabolish matrimony, in the usual acceptation of the word, altogether. Ithereupon asked him what he thought the result would be of promiscuousintercourse with women of a doubtful character. With amiable indignation hegave me to understand that we could have no idea about the purity of morals ingeneral, and of the relations of the sexes in particular, so long as we wereunable to free people completely from the yoke of the trades, guilds, andsimilar coercive institutions. He asked me to consider what the only motivewould be which would induce a woman to surrender herself to a man, when notonly the considerations of money, fortune, position, and family prejudices, butalso the various influences necessarily arising from these, had disappeared.When I, in my turn, asked him whence he would obtain persons of great intellectand of artistic ability, if everybody were to be merged in the working classes,he met my objection by replying, that owing to the very fact that everybodywould participate in the necessary labour according to his strength andcapacity, work would cease to be a burden, and would become simply anoccupation which would finally assume an entirely artistic character. Hedemonstrated this on the principle that, as had already been proved, a field,worked laboriously by a single peasant, was infinitely less productive thanwhen cultivated by several persons in a scientific way. These and similarsuggestions, which Röckel communicated to me with a really delightfulenthusiasm, led me to further reflections, and gave birth to new plans uponwhich, to my mind, a possible organisation of the human race, which wouldcorrespond to my highest ideals in art, could alone be based. In reference tothis, I immediately turned my thoughts to what was close at hand, and directedmy attention to the theatre. The motive for this came not only from my ownfeelings, but also from external circumstances. In accordance with the latestdemocratic suffrage laws, a general election seemed imminent in Saxony; theelection of extreme radicals, which had now taken place nearly everywhere else,showed us that if the movement lasted, there would be the most extraordinarychanges even in the administration of the revenue. Apparently a generalresolution had been passed to subject the Civil List to a strict revision; allthat was deemed superfluous in the royal household was to be done away with;the theatre, as an unnecessary place of entertainment for a depraved portion ofthe public, was threatened with the withdrawal of the subsidy granted it fromthe Civil List. I now resolved, in view of the importance which I attached tothe theatre, to suggest to the ministers that they should inform the members ofparliament, that if the theatre in its present condition were not worth anysacrifice from the state, it would sink to still more doubtful tendencies—andmight even become dangerous to public morals—if deprived of that state controlwhich had for its aim the ideal, and, at the same time, felt itself called uponto place culture and education under its beneficial protection. It was of thehighest importance to me to secure an organisation of the theatre, which wouldmake the carrying out its loftiest ideals not only a possibility but also acertainty. Accordingly I drew up a project by which the same sum as that whichwas allotted from the Civil List for the support of a court theatre should beemployed for the foundation and upkeep of a national theatre for the kingdom ofSaxony. In showing the practical nature of the well-planned particulars of myscheme, I defined them with such great precision, that I felt assured my workwould serve as a useful guide to the ministers as to how they should put thismatter before parliament. The point now was to have a personal interview withone of the ministers, and it occurred to me that the best man to apply to inthe matter would be Herr von der Pfordten, the Minister of Education. Althoughhe already enjoyed the reputation of being a turncoat in politics, and was saidto be struggling to efface the origin of his political promotion, which hadtaken place at a time of great agitation, the mere fact of his having formerlybeen a professor was sufficient to make me suppose that he was a man with whomI could discuss the question that I had so much at heart. I learned, however,that the real art institutions of the kingdom, such, for instance, as theAcademy of Fine Arts, to whose number I so ardently desired to see the theatreadded, belonged to the department of the Minister of the Interior. To thisman—the worthy though not highly cultivated or artistic Herr Oberlander—Isubmitted my plans, not, however, without having first made myself known toHerr von der Pfordten, in order, for the reasons above stated, to command myproject to him. This man, who apparently was very busy, received me in a politeand reassuring manner; but his whole bearing, indeed the very expression of hisface, seemed to destroy all hopes I might ever have cherished of finding in himthat understanding which I had expected. The minister Oberlander, on the otherhand, earned my confidence by the straightforward earnestness with which hepromised a thorough inquiry into the matter. Unfortunately, however, at thesame time, he informed me with the most simple frankness, that he couldentertain but very little hope of getting the King’s authorisation for anyunusual treatment of a question hitherto given over to routine. It must beunderstood that the relations of the King to his ministers were both strainedand unconfidential, and that this was more especially so in the case ofOberlander, who never approached the monarch on any other business than thatwhich the strictest discharge of his current duties rendered indispensable. Hetherefore thought it would be better if my plan could be brought forward, inthe first place, by the Chamber of Deputies. As, in the event of the new CivilList being discussed, I was particularly anxious to avoid the question of thecontinuation of the court theatre being treated in the ignorant andshortsighted radical fashion, which was to be feared above all, I did notdespair of making the acquaintance of some of the most influential among thenew members of parliament. In this wise I found myself suddenly plunged intoquite a new and strange world, and became acquainted with persons and opinions,the very existence of which until then I had not even suspected. I found itsomewhat trying always to be obliged to meet these gentlemen at their beer andshrouded in the dense clouds of their tobacco smoke, and to have to discusswith them matters which, though very dear to me, must have seemed a littlefantastic to their mind. After a certain Herr von Trutschler, a very handsome,energetic man, whose seriousness was almost gloomy, had listened to me calmlyfor some time, and had told me that he no longer knew anything about the state,but only about society, and that the latter would know, without either his ormy aid, how it should act in regard to art and to the theatre, I was filledwith such extraordinary feelings, half mingled with shame, that there and thenI gave up, not only all my exertions, but all my hopes as well. The onlyreminder I ever had of the whole affair came some while, after when, on meetingHerr von Lüttichau, I quickly gathered from his attitude to me that he had gotwind of the episode, and that it only inspired him with fresh hostility towardsme.
During my walks, which I now took absolutely alone, I thought ever moredeeply—and much to the relief of my mind—over my ideas concerning that state ofhuman society for which the boldest hopes and efforts of the socialists andcommunists, then busily engaged in constructing their system, offered me butthe roughest foundation. These efforts could begin to have some meaning andvalue for me only when they had attained to that political revolution andreconstruction which they aimed at; for it was only then that I, in my turn,could start my reforms in art.
At the same time my thoughts were busy with a drama, in which the EmperorFrederick I. (surnamed ‘Barbarossa’) was to be the hero. In it the model rulerwas portrayed in a manner which lent him the greatest and most powerfulsignificance. His dignified resignation at the impossibility of making hisideals prevail was intended not only to present a true transcript of thearbitrary multifariousness of the things of this world, but also to arousesympathy for the hero. I wished to carry out this drama in popular rhyme, andin the style of the German used by our epic poets of the Middle Ages, and inthis respect the poem Alexander, by the priest Lambert, struck me as a goodexample; but I never got further with this play than to sketch its outline inthe broadest manner possible. The five acts were planned in the followingmanner: Act i. Imperial Diet in the Roncaglian fields, a demonstration of thesignificance of imperial power which should extend even to the investiture ofwater and air; Act ii. the siege and capture of Milan; Act iii. revolt of Henrythe Lion and his overthrow at Ligano; Act iv. Imperial Diet in Augsburg, thehumiliation and punishment of Henry the Lion; Act v. Imperial Diet and grandcourt assembly at Mainz; peace with the Lombards, reconciliation with the Pope,acceptance of the Cross, and the departure for the East. I lost all interest,however, in the carrying out of this dramatic scheme directly I discovered itsresemblance to the subject-matter of the Nibelungen and Siegfried myths, whichpossessed a more powerful attraction for me. The points of similarity which Irecognised between the history and the legend in question then induced me towrite a treatise on the subject; and in this I was assisted by some stimulatingmonographs (found in the royal library), written by authors whose names havenow escaped my memory, but which taught me in a very attractive manner aconsiderable amount about the old original kingdom of Germany. Later on Ipublished this fairly extensive essay with the title of Die Nibelungen, but inworking it out I finally lost all inclination to elaborate the historicalmaterial for a real drama.
In direct connection with this I began to sketch a clear summary of the formwhich the old original Nibelungen myth had assumed in my mind in its immediateassociation with the mythological legend of the gods—a form which, though fullof detail, was yet much condensed in its leading features. Thanks to this work,I was able to convert the chief part of the material itself into a musicaldrama. It was only by degrees, however, and after long hesitation that I daredto enter more deeply into my plans for this work; for the thought of thepractical realisation of such a work on our stage literally appalled me. I mustconfess that it required all the despair which I then felt of ever having thechance of doing anything more for our theatre, to give me the necessary courageto begin upon this new work. Until that time I simply allowed myself to drift,while I meditated listlessly upon the possibility of things pursuing theircourse further under the existing circumstances. In regard to Lohengrin, I hadgot to that point when I hoped for nothing more than the best possibleproduction of it at the Dresden theatre, and felt that I should have to besatisfied in all respects, and for all time, if I were able to achieve eventhat. I had duly announced the completion of the score to Herr von Lüttichau;but, in consideration of the unfavourable nature of my circumstances at thetime, I had left it entirely to him to decide when my work should be produced.
Meanwhile the time arrived when the keeper of the Archives of the RoyalOrchestra called to mind that it was just three hundred years since this royalinstitution had been founded, and that a jubilee would therefore have to becelebrated. To this end a great concert festival was planned, the programme ofwhich was to be made up of the compositions of all the Saxon orchestralconductors that had lived since the institution had been founded. The wholebody of musicians, with both their conductors at their head, were first topresent their grateful homage to the King in Pillnitz; and on this occasion amusician was, for the first time, to be elevated to the rank of Knight of theCivil Order of Merit of Saxony. This musician was my colleague Reissiger. Untilthen he had been treated by the court, and by the manager himself, in the mostscornful manner possible, but had, owing to his conspicuous loyalty at thiscritical time, especially to me, found exceptional favour in the eyes of ourcommittees. When he appeared before the public decorated with the wonderfulorder, he was greeted with great jubilation by the loyal audience that filledthe theatre on the evening of the festival concert. His overture to Yelva wasalso received with a perfect uproar of enthusiastic applause, such as had neverfallen to his lot; whereas the finale of the first act from Lohengrin, whichwas produced as the work of the youngest conductor, was accorded only anindifferent reception. This was all the more strange as I was quiteunaccustomed to such coolness in regard to my work on the part of the Dresdenpublic. Following upon the concert, there was a festive supper, and when thiswas over, as all kinds of speeches were being made, I freely proclaimed to theorchestra, in a loud and decided tone, my views as to what was desirable fortheir perfection in the future. Hereupon Marschner, who, as a former musicalconductor in Dresden, had been invited to the jubilee celebrations, expressedthe opinion that I should do myself a great deal of harm by holding too good anopinion of the musicians. He said I ought just to consider how uncultivatedthese people were with whom I had to deal; he pointed out that they weretrained simply for the one instrument they played; and asked me whether I didnot think that by discoursing to them on the aspirations of art I would producenot only confusion, but even perhaps bad blood? Far more pleasant to me thanthese festivities is the remembrance of the quiet memorial ceremony whichunited us on the morning of the Jubilee Day, with the object of placing wreathson Weber’s grave. As nobody could find a word to utter, and even Marschner wasable to give expression only to the very driest and most trivial of speechesabout the departed master, I felt it incumbent upon me to say a few heartfeltwords concerning the memorial ceremony for which we were gathered together.This brief spell of artistic activity was speedily broken by fresh excitements,which kept pouring in upon us from the political world. The events of Octoberin Vienna awakened our liveliest sympathy, and our walls daily blazed with redand black placards, with summonses to march on Vienna, with the curse of ‘RedMonarchy,’ as opposed to the hated ‘Red Republic,’ and with other equallystartling matter. Except for those who were best informed as to the course ofevents—and who certainly did not swarm in our streets—these occurrences arousedgreat uneasiness everywhere. With the entry of Windischgratz into Vienna, theacquittal of Frobel and the execution of Blum, it seemed as though even Dresdenwere on the eve of an explosion. A vast demonstration of mourning was organisedfor Blum, with an endless procession through the streets. At the head marchedthe ministry, among whom the people were particularly glad to see Herr von derPfordten taking a sympathetic share in the ceremony, as he had already becomean object of suspicion to them. From that day gloomy forebodings of disastergrew ever more prevalent on every side. People even went so far as to say, withlittle attempt at circumlocution, that the execution of Blum had been an act offriendship on the part of the Archduchess Sophia to her sister, the Queen ofSaxony, for during his agitation in Leipzig the man had made himself both hatedand feared. Troops of Viennese fugitives, disguised as members of the studentbands, began to arrive in Dresden, and made a formidable addition to itspopulation, which from this time forth paraded the streets with ever-increasingconfidence. One day, as I was on my way to the theatre to conduct a performanceof Rienzi, the choir-master informed me that several foreign gentlemen had beenasking for me. Thereupon half a dozen persons presented themselves, greeted meas a brother democrat, and begged me to procure them free entrance tickets.Among them I recognised a former dabbler in literature, a man named Hafner, alittle hunchback, in a Calabrian hat cocked at a terrific angle, to whom I hadbeen introduced by Uhl on the occasion of my visit to the Vienna politicalclub. Great as was my embarrassment at this visit, which evidently astonishedour musicians, I felt in no wise compelled to make any compromising admission,but quietly went to the booking-office, took six tickets and handed them to mystrange visitors, who parted from me before all the world with much heartyshaking of hands. Whether this evening call improved my position as musicalconductor in Dresden in the minds of the theatrical officials and others, maywell be doubted; but, at all events, on no occasion was I so frantically calledfor after every act as at this particular performance of Rienzi.
Indeed, at this time I seemed to have won over to my side a party of almostpassionate adherents among the theatre-going public, in opposition to theclique which had shown such marked coldness on the occasion of the gala concertalready mentioned. It mattered not whether Tannhäuser or Rienzi were beingplayed, I was always greeted with special applause; and although the politicaltendencies of this party may have given our management some cause for alarm,yet it forced them to regard me with a certain amount of awe. One day Lüttichauproposed to have my Lohengrin performed at an early date. I explained myreasons for not having offered it to him before, but declared myself ready tofurther his wishes, as I considered the opera company was now sufficientlypowerful. The son of my old friend, F. Heine, had just returned from Paris,where he had been sent by the Dresden management to study scene-painting underthe artists Desplechin and Dieterle. By way of testing his powers, with a viewto an engagement at the Dresden Royal Theatre, the task of preparing suitablescenery for this opera was entrusted to him. He had already asked permission todo this for Lohengrin at the instigation of Lüttichau, who wished to callattention to my latest work. Consequently, when I gave my consent, youngHeine’s wish was granted.
I regarded this turn of events with no little satisfaction, believing that inthe study of this particular work I should find a wholesome and effectivediversion from all the excitement and confusion of recent events. My horror,therefore, was all the greater, when young Wilhelm Heine one day came to myroom with the news that the scenery for Lohengrin had been suddenlycountermanded, and instructions given him to prepare for another opera. I didnot make any remark, nor ask the reason for this singular behaviour. Theassurances which Luttichan afterwards made to my wife—if they were reallytrue—made me regret having laid the chief blame for this mortification at hisdoor, and having thereby irrevocably alienated my sympathy from him. When sheasked him about this many years later, he assured her that he had found thecourt vehemently hostile to me, and that his well-meant attempts to produce mywork had met with insuperable obstacles.
However that may have been, the bitterness I now experienced wrought a decisiveeffect upon my feelings. Not only did I relinquish all hope of a reconciliationwith the theatre authorities by a splendid production of my Lohengrin, but Idetermined to turn my back for ever on the theatre, and to make no furtherattempt to meddle with its concerns. By this act I expressed not merely myutter indifference as to whether I kept my position as musical conductor or no,but my artistic ambitions also entirely cut me off from all possibility of evercultivating modern theatrical conditions again.
I at once proceeded to execute my long-cherished plans for Siegfried’s Tod,which I had been half afraid of before. In this work I no longer gave a thoughtto the Dresden or any other court theatre in the world; my sole preoccupationwas to produce something that should free me, once and for all, from thisirrational subservience. As I could get nothing more from Röckel in thisconnection, I now corresponded exclusively with Eduard Devrient on mattersconnected with the theatre and dramatic art. When, on the completion of mypoem, I read it to him, he listened with amazement, and at once realised thefact that such a production would be an absolute drug in the modern theatricalmarket, and he naturally could not agree to let it remain so. On the otherhand, he tried so far to reconcile himself to my work as to try and make itless startling and more adapted for actual production. He proved the sincerityof his intentions by pointing out my error in asking too much of the public,and requiring it to supply from its own knowledge many things necessary for aright under-standing of my subject-matter, at which I had only hinted in briefand scattered suggestions. He showed me, for instance, that before Siegfriedand Brunhilda are displayed in a position of bitter hostility towards eachother, they ought first to have been presented in their true and calmerrelationship. I had, in fact, opened the poem of SIEGFRIED’S TOD with thosescenes which now form the first act of the GOTTERDAMMERUNG. The details ofSiegfried’s relation to Brunhilda had been merely outlined to the listeners ina lyrico-episodical dialogue between the hero’s wife, whom he had left behindin solitude, and a crowd of Valkyries passing before her rock. To my great joy,Devrient’s hint on this point directed my thoughts to those scenes which Iafterwards worked out in the prologue of this drama.
This and other matters of a similar nature brought me into intimate contactwith Eduard Devrient, and made our intercourse much more lively and pleasant.He often invited a select circle of friends to attend dramatic readings at hishouse in which I gladly took part, for I found, to my surprise, that his giftfor declamation, which quite forsook him on the stage, here stood out in strongrelief. It was, moreover, a consolation to pour into a sympathetic ear myworries about my growing unpopularity with the director. Devrient seemedparticularly anxious to prevent a definite breach; but of this there was littlehope. With the approach of winter the court had returned to town, and once morefrequented the theatre, and various signs of dissatisfaction in high quarterswith my behaviour as conductor began to be manifested. On one occasion theQueen thought that I had conducted NORMA badly, and on another that I ‘hadtaken the time wrongly’ in ROBERT THE DEVIL. As Luettichau had to communicatethese reprimands to me, it was natural that our intercourse at such timesshould hardly be of a nature to restore our mutual satisfaction with eachother.
Notwithstanding all this, it still seemed possible to prevent matters fromcoming to a crisis, though everything continued in a state of agitatinguncertainty and fermentation. At all events the forces of reaction, which wereholding themselves in readiness on every side, were not yet sufficientlycertain that the hour of their triumph had come as not to consider it advisablefor the present, at least, to avoid all provocation. Consequently ourmanagement did not meddle with the musicians of the royal orchestra, who, inobedience to the spirit of the times, had formed a union for debate and theprotection of their artistic and civic interests. In this matter one of ouryoungest musicians, Theodor Uhlig, had been particularly active. He was a youngman, still in his early twenties, and was a violinist in the orchestra. Hisface was strikingly mild, intelligent and noble, and he was conspicuous amonghis fellows on account of his great seriousness and his quiet but unusuallyfirm character. He had particularly attracted my notice on several occasions byhis quick insight and extensive knowledge of music. As I recognised in him aspirit keenly alert in every direction, and unusually eager for culture, it wasnot long before I chose him as my companion in my regular walks—a habit I stillcontinued to cultivate—and on which Roeckel had hitherto accompanied me. Heinduced me to come to a meeting of this union of the orchestral company, inorder that I might form an opinion about it, and encourage and support sopraiseworthy a movement. On this occasion I communicated to its members thecontents of my memorandum to the director, which had been rejected a yearbefore, and in which I had made suggestions for reforms in the band, and I alsoexplained further intentions and plans arising therefrom. At the same time Iwas obliged to confess that I had lost all hope of carrying out any projects ofthe kind through the general management, and must therefore recommend them totake the initiative vigorously into their own hands. They acclaimed the ideawith enthusiastic approval. Although, as I have said before, Luettichau leftthese musicians unmolested in their more or less democratic union, yet he tookcare to be informed through spies of what took place at their highlytreasonable gatherings. His chief instrument was a bugler named Lewy, who, muchto the disgust of all his comrades in the orchestra, was in particularly highfavour with the director. He consequently received precise, or ratherexaggerated, accounts of my appearance there, and thought it was now high timeto let me once more feel the weight of his authority. I was officially summonedto his presence, and had to listen to a long and wrathful tirade which he hadbeen bottling up for some time about several matters. I also learned that heknew all about the plan of theatre reform which I had laid before the ministry.This knowledge he betrayed in a popular Dresden phrase, which until then I hadnever heard; he knew very well, he said, that in a memorandum respecting thetheatre I had ‘made him look ridiculous’ (ihm an den Laden gelegt). In answerto this I did not refrain from telling him how I intended to act inretaliation, and when he threatened to report me to the King and demand mydismissal, I calmly replied that he might do as he pleased, as I was wellassured that I could rely on his Majesty’s justice to hear, not only hischarges, but also my defence. Moreover, I added, this was the only befittingmanner for me to discuss with the King the many points on which I had tocomplain, not only in my own interests, but also in those of the theatre and ofart. This was not pleasant hearing for Lüttichau, and he asked how it waspossible for him to try and co-operate with me, when I for my part had openlydeclared (to use his own expression) that all labour was wasted upon him(Hopfen und Malz verloren seien). We had at last to part with mutual shruggingsof the shoulder. My conduct seemed to trouble my former patron, and hetherefore enlisted the tact and moderation of Eduard Devrient in his service,and asked him to use his influence with me to facilitate some furtherarrangement between us. But, in spite of all his zeal, Devrient had to admitwith a smile, after we had discussed his message, that nothing much could bedone; and as I persisted in my refusal to meet the director again inconsultation respecting the service of the theatre, he had at last to recognisethat his own wisdom would have to help him out of the difficulty.
Throughout the whole period during which I was fated to fill the post ofconductor at Dresden, the effects of this dislike on the part of the court andthe director continued to make themselves felt in everything. The orchestralconcerts, which had been organised by me in the previous winter, were this yearplaced under Reissiger’s control, and at once sank to the usual level ofordinary concerts. Public interest quickly waned, and the undertaking couldonly with difficulty be kept alive. In opera I was unable to carry out theproposed revival of the Fliegender Holländer, for which I had found inMitterwurzer’s maturer talent an admirable and promising exponent. My nieceJohanna, whom I had destined for the part of Senta, did not like the role,because it offered little opportunity for splendid costumes. She preferredZAMPA and FAVORITA, partly to please her new protector, my erstwhile RIENZIenthusiast, Tichatschck, partly for the sake of THREE BRILLIANT COSTUMES whichthe management had to furnish for each of these parts. In fact, these tworingleaders of the Dresden opera of that day had formed an alliance ofrebellion against my vigorous rule in the matter of operatic repertoire. Theiropposition, to my great discomfiture, was crowned by success when they securedthe production of this FAVORITA of Donizetti’s, the arrangement of which I hadonce been obliged to undertake for Schlesinger in Paris. I had at firstemphatically refused to have anything to do with this opera, although itsprincipal part suited my niece’s voice admirably, even in her father’sjudgment. But now that they knew of my feud with the director, and of myvoluntary loss of influence, and finally of my evident disgrace, they thoughtthe opportunity ripe for compelling me to conduct this tiresome work myself, asit happened to be my turn.
Besides this, my chief occupation at the royal theatre during this periodconsisted in conducting Flotow’s opera MARTHA, which, although it failed toattract the public, was nevertheless produced with excessive frequency, owingto its convenient cast. On reviewing the results of my labours in Dresden—whereI had now been nearly seven years—I could not help feeling humiliated when Iconsidered the powerful and energetic impetus I knew I had given in manydirections to the court theatre, and I found myself obliged to confess that,were I now to leave Dresden, not, the smallest trace of my influence wouldremain behind. From various signs I also gathered that, if ever it should cometo a trial before the King between the director and myself, even if his Majestywere in my favour, yet out of consideration for the courtier the verdict wouldgo against me.
Nevertheless, on Palm Sunday of the new year, 1849, I received ample amends. Inorder to ensure liberal receipts, our orchestra had again decided to produceBeethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Every one did his utmost to make this one of ourfinest performances, and the public took up the matter with real enthusiasm.Michael Bakunin, unknown to the police, had been present at the publicrehearsal. At its close he walked unhesitatingly up to me in the orchestra, andsaid in a loud voice, that if all the music that had ever been written werelost in the expected world-wide conflagration, we must pledge ourselves torescue this symphony, even at the peril of our lives. Not many weeks after thisperformance it really seemed as though this world-wide conflagration wouldactually be kindled in the streets of Dresden, and that Bakunin, with whom Ihad meanwhile become more closely associated through strange and unusualcircumstances, would undertake the office of chief stoker.
It was long before this date that I first made the acquaintance of this mostremarkable man. For years I had come across his name in the newspapers, andalways under extraordinary circumstances. He turned up in Paris at a Polishgathering, but although he was a Russian, he declared that it mattered littlewhether a man were a Russian or a Pole, so long as he wanted to be a free man,and that this was all that mattered. I heard afterwards, through GeorgeHerwegh, that he had renounced all his sources of income as a member of aninfluential Russian family, and that one day, when his entire fortune consistedof two francs, he had given them away to a beggar on the boulevard, because itwas irksome to him to be bound by this possession to take any thought for themorrow. I was informed of his presence in Dresden one day by Röckel, after thelatter had become a rampant republican. He had taken the Russian into hishouse, and invited me to come and make his acquaintance. Bakunin was at thattime being persecuted by the Austrian government for his share in the eventswhich took place in Prague in the summer of 1848, and because he was a memberof the Slav Congress which had preceded them. He had consequently sought refugein our city, as he did not wish to settle too far from the Bohemian frontier.The extraordinary sensation he had created in Prague arose from the fact that,when the Czechs sought the protection of Russia against the dreaded Germanisingpolicy of Austria, he conjured them to defend themselves with fire and swordagainst those very Russians, and indeed against any other people who livedunder the rule of a despotism like that of the Tsars. This superficialacquaintance with Balumin’s aims had sufficed to change the purely nationalprejudices of the Germans against him into sympathy. When I met him, therefore,under the humble shelter of Röckel’s roof, I was immediately struck by hissingular and altogether imposing personality. He was in the full bloom ofmanhood, anywhere between thirty and forty years of age. Everything about himwas colossal, and he was full of a primitive exuberance and strength. I nevergathered that he set much store by my acquaintance. Indeed, he did not seem tocare for merely intellectual men; what he demanded was men of reckless energy.As I afterwards perceived, theory in this case had more weight with him thanpurely personal sentiment; and he talked much and expatiated freely on thematter. His general mode of discussion was the Socratic method, and he seemedquite at his ease when, stretched on his host’s hard sofa, he could arguediscursively with a crowd of all sorts of men on the problems of revolution. Onthese occasions he invariably got the best of the argument. It was impossibleto triumph against his opinions, stated as they were with the utmostconviction, and overstepping in every direction even the extremest bounds ofradicalism. So communicative was he, that on the very first evening of ourmeeting he gave me full details about the various stages of his development, hewas a Russian officer of high birth, but smarting under the yoke of thenarrowest martial tyranny, he had been led by a study of Rousseau’s writings toescape to Germany under pretence of taking furlough. In Berlin he had flunghimself into the study of philosophy with all the zest of a barbarian newlyawakened to civilisation. Hegel’s philosophy was the one which was the rage atthat moment, and he soon became such an expert in it, that he had been able tohurl that master’s most famous disciples from the saddle of their ownphilosophy, in a thesis couched in terms of the strictest Hegelian dialectic.After he had got philosophy off his chest, as he expressed it, he proceeded toSwitzerland, where he preached communism, and thence wandered over France andGermany back to the borderland of the Slav world, from which quarter he lookedfor the regeneration of humanity, because the Slavs had been less enervated bycivilisation. His hopes in this respect were centred in the more stronglypronounced Slav type characteristic of the Russian peasant class. In thenatural detestation of the Russian serf for his cruel oppressor the nobleman,he believed he could trace a substratum of simple-minded brotherly love, andthat instinct which leads animals to hate the men who hunt them. In support ofthis idea he cited the childish, almost demoniac delight of the Russian peoplein fire, a quality on which Rostopschin calculated in his strategic burning ofMoscow. He argued that all that was necessary to set in motion a world-widemovement was to convince the Russian peasant, in whom the natural goodness ofoppressed human nature had preserved its most childlike characteristics, thatit was perfectly right and well pleasing to God for them to burn their lords’castles, with everything in and about them. The least that could result fromsuch a movement would be the destruction of all those things which, rightlyconsidered, must appear, even to Europe’s most philosophical thinkers, the realsource of all the misery of the modern world. To set these destructive forcesin action appeared to him the only object worthy of a sensible man’s activity.(Even while he was preaching these horrible doctrines, Bakunin, noticing thatmy eyes troubled me, shielded them with his outstretched hand from the nakedlight for a full hour, in spite of my protestations.) This annihilation of allcivilisation was the goal upon which his heart was set. Meanwhile it amused himto utilise every lever of political agitation he could lay hands on for theadvancement of this aim, and in so doing he often found cause for ironicalmerriment. In his retreat he received people belonging to every shade ofrevolutionary thought. Nearest to him stood those of Slav nationality, becausethese, he thought, would be the most convenient and effective weapons he coulduse in the uprooting of Russian despotism. In spite of their republic and theirsocialism a la Proudhon, he thought nothing of the French, and as for theGermans, he never mentioned them to me. Democracy, republicanism, and anythingelse of the kind he regarded as unworthy of serious consideration.
Every objection raised by those who had the slightest wish to reconstruct whathad been demolished, he met with overwhelming criticism. I well remember on oneoccasion that a Pole, startled by his theories, maintained that there must bean organised state to guarantee the individual in the possession of the fieldshe had cultivated. ‘What!’ he answered; ‘would you carefully fence in yourfield to provide a livelihood for the police again!’ This shut the mouth of theterrified Pole. He comforted himself by saying that the creators of the neworder of things would arise of themselves, but that our sole business in themeantime was to find the power to destroy. Was any one of us so mad as to fancythat he would survive the desired destruction? We ought to imagine the whole ofEurope with St. Petersburg, Paris, and London transformed into a vastrubbish-heap. How could we expect the kindlers of such a fire to retain anyconsciousness after so vast a devastation? He used to puzzle any who professedtheir readiness for self-sacrifice by telling them it was not the so-calledtyrants who were so obnoxious, but the smug Philistines. As a type of these hepointed to a Protestant parson, and declared that he would not believe he hadreally reached the full stature of a man until he saw him commit his ownparsonage, with his wife and child, to the flames.
I was all the more perplexed for a while, in the face of such dreadful ideas,by the fact that Bakunin in other respects proved a really amiable andtender-hearted man. He was fully alive to my own anxiety and despair withregard to the risk I ran of forever destroying my ideals and hopes for thefuture of art. It is true, he declined to receive any further instructionconcerning these artistic schemes, and would not even look at my work on theNibelungen saga. I had just then been inspired by a study of the Gospels toconceive the plan of a tragedy for the ideal stage of the future, entitledJesus of Nazareth. Bakunin begged me to spare him any details; and when Isought to win him over to my project by a few verbal hints, he wished me luck,but insisted that I must at all costs make Jesus appear as a weak character. Asfor the music of the piece, he advised me, amid all the variations, to use onlyone set of phrases, namely: for the tenor, ‘Off with His head!’; for thesoprano, ‘Hang Him!’; and for the basso continuo, ‘Fire! fire!’ And yet I feltmore sympathetically drawn towards this prodigy of a man when I one day inducedhim to hear me play and sing the first scenes of my Fliegender Holländer. Afterlistening with more attention than most people gave, he exclaimed, during amomentary pause, ‘That is stupendously fine!’ and wanted to hear more.
As his life of permanent concealment was very dull, I occasionally invited himto spend an evening with me. For supper my wife set before him finely cutslices of sausage and meat, which he at once devoured wholesale, instead ofspreading them frugally on his bread in Saxon fashion. Noticing Minna’s alarmat this, I was guilty of the weakness of telling him how we were accustomed toconsume such viands, whereupon he reassured me with a laugh, saying that it wasquite enough, only he would like to eat what was set before him in his own way.I was similarly astonished at the manner in which he drank wine from ourordinary-sized small glasses. As a matter of fact he detested wine, which onlysatisfied his craving for alcoholic stimulants in such paltry, prolonged, andsubdivided doses; whereas a stiff glass of brandy, swallowed at a gulp, at onceproduced the same result, which, after all, was only temporarily attained.Above all, he scorned the sentiment which seeks to prolong enjoyment bymoderation, arguing that a true man should only strive to still the cravings ofnature, and that the only real pleasure in life worthy of a man was love.
These and other similar little characteristics showed clearly that in thisremarkable man the purest impulses of an ideal humanity conflicted strangelywith a savagery entirely inimical to all civilisation, so that my feelingsduring my intercourse with him fluctuated between involuntary horror andirresistible attraction. I frequently called for him to share my lonelywanderings. This he gladly did, not only for the sake of necessary bodilyexercise, but also because he could do so in this part of the world withoutfear of meeting his pursuers. My attempts during our conversations to instructhim more fully regarding my artistic aims remained quite unavailing as long aswe were unable to quit the field of mere discussion. All these things seemed tohim premature. He refused to admit that out of the very needs of the evilpresent all laws for the future would have to be evolved, and that these,moreover, must be moulded upon quite different ideas of social culture. Seeingthat he continued to urge destruction, and again destruction, I had at last toinquire how my wonderful friend proposed to set this work of destruction inoperation. It then soon became clear, as I had suspected it would, and as theevent soon proved, that with this man of boundless activity everything restedupon the most impossible hypotheses. Doubtless I, with my hopes of a futureartistic remodelling of human society, appeared to him to be floating in thebarren air; yet it soon became obvious to me that his assumptions as to theunavoidable demolition of all the institutions of culture were at least equallyvisionary. My first idea was that Bakunin was the centre of an internationalconspiracy; but his practical plans seem originally to have been restricted toa project for revolutionising Prague, where he relied merely on a union formedamong a handful of students. Believing that the time had now come to strike ablow, he prepared himself one evening to go there. This proceeding was not freefrom danger, and he set off under the protection of a passport made out for anEnglish merchant. First of all, however, with the view of adapting himself tothe most Philistine culture, he had to submit his huge beard and bushy hair tothe tender mercies of the razor and shears. As no barber was available, Röckelhad to undertake the task. A small group of friends watched the operation,which had to be executed with a dull razor, causing no little pain, under whichnone but the victim himself remained passive. We bade farewell to Bakunin withthe firm conviction that we should never see him again alive. But in a week hewas back once more, as he had realised immediately what a distorted account hehad received as to the state of things in Prague, where all he found ready forhim was a mere handful of childish students. These admissions made him the buttof Röckel’s good-humoured chaff, and after this he won the reputation among usof being a mere revolutionary, who was content with theoretical conspiracy.Very similar to his expectations from the Prague students were his presumptionswith regard to the Russian people. These also afterwards proved to be entirelygroundless, and based merely on gratuitous assumptions drawn from the supposednature of things. I consequently found myself driven to explain the universalbelief in the terrible dangerousness of this man by his theoretical views, asexpressed here and elsewhere, and not as arising from any actual experience ofhis practical activity. But I was soon to become almost an eye-witness of thefact that his personal conduct was never for a moment swayed by prudence, suchas one is accustomed to meet in those whose theories are not seriously meant.This was shortly to be proved in the momentous insurrection of May, 1849.
The winter of this year, up to the spring of 1849, passed in a many-sideddevelopment of my position and temper, as I have described them, that is tosay, in a sort of dull agitation. My latest artistic occupation had been thefive-act drama, Jesus of Nazareth, just mentioned. Henceforth I lingered on ina state of brooding instability, full of expectation, yet without any definitewish. I felt fully convinced that my activity in Dresden, as an artist, hadcome to an end, and I was only waiting for the pressure of circumstances toshake myself free. On the other hand, the whole political situation, both inSaxony and the rest of Germany, tended inevitably towards a catastrophe. Day byday this drew nearer, and I flattered myself into regarding my own personalfate as interwoven with this universal unrest. Now that the powers of reactionwere everywhere more and more openly bracing themselves for conflict, the finaldecisive struggle seemed indeed close at hand. My feelings of partisanship werenot sufficiently passionate to make me desire to take any active share in theseconflicts. I was merely conscious of an impulse to give myself up recklessly tothe stream of events, no matter whither it might lead.
Just at this moment, however, an entirely new influence forced itself in a moststrange fashion into my fortunes, and was at first greeted by me with a smileof scepticism. Liszt wrote announcing an early production in Weimar of myTannhäuser under his own conductorship—the first that had taken place outsideDresden—and he added with great modesty that this was merely a fulfilment ofhis own personal desire. In order to ensure success he had sent a specialinvitation to Tichatschek to be his guest for the two first performances. Whenthe latter returned he said that the production had, on the whole, been asuccess, which surprised me very much. I received a gold snuff-box from theGrand Duke as a keepsake, which I continued to use until the year 1864. Allthis was new and strange to me, and I was still inclined to regard thisotherwise agreeable occurrence as a fleeting episode, due to the friendlyfeeling of a great artist. ‘What does this mean for me?’ I asked myself. ‘Hasit come too early or too late?’ But a very cordial letter from Liszt induced meto visit Weimar for a few days later on, for a third performance of Tannhausar,which was to be carried out entirely by native talent, with a view to thepermanent addition of this opera to the repertoire. For this purpose I obtainedleave of absence from my management for the second week in May.
Only a few days elapsed before the execution of this little plan; but they weredestined to be momentous ones. On the 1st of May the Chambers were dissolved bythe new Beust ministry, which the King had charged with carrying out hisproposed reactionary policy. This event imposed upon me the friendly task ofcaring for Röckel and his family. Hitherto his position as a deputy hadshielded him from the danger of criminal prosecution; but as soon as theChambers were dissolved this protection was withdrawn, and he had to escape byflight from being arrested again. As I could do little to help him in thismatter, I promised at least to provide for the continued publication of hispopular Volksblatt, mainly because the proceeds from this would support hisfamily. Scarcely was Röckel safely across the Bohemian frontier, while I wasstill toiling at great inconvenience to myself in the printer’s office, inorder to provide material for an issue of his paper, when the long-expectedstorm burst over Dresden. Emergency deputations, nightly mob demonstrations,stormy meetings of the various unions, and all the other signs that precede aswift decision in the streets, manifested themselves. On the 3rd May thedemeanour of the crowds moving in our thoroughfares plainly showed that thisconsummation would soon be reached, as was undoubtedly desired. Each localdeputation which petitioned for the recognition of the German constitution,which was the universal cry, was refused an audience by the government, andthis with a peremptoriness which at last became startling. I was present oneafternoon at a committee meeting of the Vaterlands-Verein, although merely as arepresentative of Röckel’s Volksblatt, for whose continuance, both fromeconomic as well as humane motives, I felt pledged. Here I was at once absorbedin watching the conduct and demeanour of the men whom popular favour had raisedto the leadership of such unions. It was quite evident that events had passedbeyond the control of these persons; more particularly were they utterly at aloss as to how to deal with that peculiar terrorism exerted by the lowerclasses which is always so ready to react upon the representatives ofdemocratic theories. On every side I heard a medley of wild proposals andhesitating responses. One of the chief subjects under debate was the necessityof preparing for defence. Arms, and how to procure them, were eagerlydiscussed, but all in the midst of great disorder; and when at last theydiscovered that it was time to break up, the only impression I received was oneof the wildest confusion. I loft the hall with a young painter named Kaufmann,from whose hand I had previously seen a series of cartoons in the Dresden ArtExhibition, illustrating ‘The History of the Mind.’ One day I had seen the Kingof Saxony standing before one of these, representing the torture of a hereticunder the Spanish Inquisition, and observed him turn away with a disapprovingshake of the head from so abstruse a subject. I was on my way home, deep inconversation with this man, whose pale face and troubled look betrayed that heforesaw the disaster that was imminent, when, just as we reached the Postplatz,near the fountain erected from Semper’s design, the clang of bells from theneighbouring tower of St. Ann’s Church suddenly sounded the tocsin of revolt.With a terrified cry, ‘Good God, it has begun!’ my companion vanished from myside. He wrote to me—afterwards to say that he was living as a fugitive inBerne, but I never saw his face again.
The clang of this bell, so close at hand, made a profound impression upon mealso. It was a very sunny afternoon, and I at once noticed the same phenomenonwhich Goethe describes in his attempt to depict his own sensations during thebombardment of Valmy. The whole square looked as though it were illuminated bya dark yellow, almost brown, light, such as I had once before seen in Magdeburgduring an eclipse of the sun. My most pronounced sensation beyond this was oneof great, almost extravagant, satisfaction. I felt a sudden strange longing toplay with something hitherto regarded as dangerous and important. My firstidea, suggested probably by the vicinity of the square, was to inquire atTichatschek’s house for the gun which, as an enthusiastic Sunday sportsman, hewas accustomed to use. I only found his wife at home, as he was away on aholiday tour. Her evident terror as to what was going to happen provoked me touncontrollable laughter. I advised her to lodge her husband’s gun in a place ofsafety, by handing it to the committee of the Vaterlands-Verein in return for areceipt, as it might otherwise soon be requisitioned by the mob. I have sincelearned that my eccentric behaviour on this occasion, was afterwards reckonedagainst me as a serious crime. I then returned to the streets, to see whetheranything beyond a ringing of bells and a yellowish eclipse of the sun might begoing on in the town, I first made my way to the Old Market-place, where Inoticed a group of men gathered round a vociferous orator. It was also anagreeable surprise to me to see Schroder-Devrient descending at the door of ahotel. She had just arrived from Merlin, and was keenly excited by the newswhich had reached her, that the populace had already been fired upon. As shehad only recently seen an abortive insurrection crushed by arms in Berlin, shewas indignant to find the same things happening in her ‘peaceful Dresden’ asshe termed it.
When she turned to me from the stolid crowd, which had complacently beenlistening to her passionate outpourings, she seemed relieved at finding someone to whom she could appeal to oppose these horrible proceedings with all hismight. I met her on another occasion at the house of my old friend Heine, whereshe had taken refuge. When she noticed my indifference she again adjured me touse every possible effort to prevent the senseless, suicidal conflict. I heardafterwards that a charge of high treason on account of sedition had beenbrought against Schroder-Devrient by reason of her conduct in regard to thismatter. She had to prove her innocence in a court of law, so as to establishbeyond dispute her claim to the pension which she had been promised by contractfor her many years’ service in Dresden as an opera-singer.
On the 3rd of May I betook myself direct to that quarter of the town where Iheard unpleasant rumours of a sanguinary conflict having taken place. Iafterwards learned that the actual cause of the dispute between the civil andmilitary power had arisen when the watch had been changed in front of theArsenal. At that moment the mob, under a bold leader, had seized theopportunity to take forcible possession of the armoury. A display of militaryforce was made, and the crowd was fired upon by a few cannon loaded withgrape-shot. As I approached the scene of operations through the RampischeGasse, I met a company of the Dresden Communal Guards, who, although they werequite innocent, had apparently been exposed to this fire. I noticed that one ofthe citizen guards, leaning heavily on the arm of a comrade, was trying tohurry along, in spite of the fact that his right leg seemed to be dragginghelplessly behind him. Some of the crowd, seeing the blood on the pavementbehind him, shouted ‘He is bleeding.’ In the midst of this excitement Isuddenly became conscious of the cry raised on all sides: ‘To the barricades!to the barricades!’ Driven by a mechanical impulse I followed the stream ofpeople, which moved once more in the direction of the Town Hall in the OldMarket-place. Amid the terrific tumult I particularly noticed a significantgroup stretching right across the street, and striding along the Rosmaringasse.It reminded me, though the simile was rather exaggerated, of the crowd that hadonce stood at the doors of the theatre and demanded free entrance to Rienzi;among them was a hunchback, who at once suggested Goethe’s Vansen in Egmont,and as the revolutionary cry rose about his ears, I saw him rub his handstogether in great glee over the long-desired ecstasy of revolt which he hadrealised at last.
I recollect quite clearly that from that moment I was attracted by surprise andinterest in the drama, without feeling any desire to join the ranks of thecombatants. However, the agitation caused by my sympathy as a mere spectatorincreased with every step I felt impelled to take. I was able to press rightinto the rooms of the town council, escaping notice in the tumultuous crowd,and it seemed to me as if the officials were guilty of collusion with the mob.I made my way unobserved into the council-chamber; what I saw there was utterdisorder and confusion. When night fell I wandered slowly through the hastilymade barricades, consisting chiefly of market stalls, back to my house in thedistant Friedrichstrasse, and next morning I again watched these amazingproceedings with sympathetic interest.
On Thursday, 4th May, I could see that the Town Hall was gradually becoming theundoubted centre of the revolution. That section of the people who had hopedfor a peaceful understanding with the monarch was thrown into the utmostconsternation by the news that the King and his whole court, acting on theadvice of his minister Beust, had left the palace, and had gone by ship downthe Elbe to the fortress of Konigstein. In those circumstances the town councilsaw they were no longer able to face the situation, and thereupon took part insummoning those members of the Saxon Chamber who were still in Dresden. Theselatter now assembled in the Town Hall to decide what steps should be taken forthe protection of the state. A deputation was sent to the ministry, butreturned with the report that they were nowhere to be found. At the same momentnews arrived from all sides that, in accordance with a previous compact, theKing of Prussia’s troops would advance to occupy Dresden. A general outcryimmediately arose for measures to be adopted to prevent this incursion offoreign troops.
Simultaneously with this, came the intelligence of the national uprising inWurtemberg, where the troops themselves had frustrated the intentions of thegovernment by their declaration of fidelity to the parliament, and the ministryhad been compelled against their will to acknowledge the Pan-GermanConstitution. The opinion of our politicians, who were assembled inconsultation, was that the matter might still be settled by peaceful means, ifit were possible to induce the Saxon troops to take up a similar attitude, asby this means the King would at least be placed under the wholesome necessityof offering patriotic resistance to the Prussian occupation of his country.
Everything seemed to depend on making the Saxon battalions in Dresdenunderstand the paramount importance of their action. As this seemed to me theonly hope of an honourable peace in this senseless chaos, I confess that, onthis one occasion, I did allow myself to be led astray so far as to organise ademonstration which, however, proved futile.
I induced the printer of Röckel’s Volksblatt, which was for the moment at astandstill, to employ all the type he would have used for his next number, inprinting in huge characters on strips of paper the words: Seid Ihr mit unsgegen fremde Truppen? (‘Are you on our side against the foreign troops?’).Placards bearing these words were fixed on those barricades which it wasthought would be the first to be assaulted, and were intended to bring theSaxon troops to a halt if they were commanded to attack the revolutionaries. Ofcourse no one took any notice of these placards except intending informers. Onthat day nothing but confused negotiations and wild excitement took place whichthrew no light on the situation. The Old Town of Dresden, with its barricades,was an interesting enough sight for the spectators. I looked on with amazementand disgust, but my attention was suddenly distracted by seeing Bakunin emergefrom his hiding-place and wander among the barricades in a black frockcoat. ButI was very much mistaken in thinking he would be pleased with what he saw; herecognised the childish inefficiency of all the measures that had been takenfor defence, and declared that the only satisfaction he could feel in the stateof affairs was that he need not trouble about the police, but could calmlyconsider the question of going elsewhere, as he found no inducement to takepart in an insurrection conducted in such a slovenly fashion. While he walkedabout, smoking his cigar, and making fun of the naivete of the Dresdenrevolution, I watched the Communal Guards assembling under arms in front of theTown Hall at the summons of their commandant. From the ranks of its mostpopular corps, the Schützen-Compagnie, I was accosted by Rietschel, who wasmost anxious about the nature of the rising, and also by Semper. Rietschel, whoseemed to think I was better informed of the facts than he was, assured me thathe felt his position was a very difficult one. He said the select company towhich he belonged was very democratic, and as his professorship at the FineArts Academy placed him in a peculiar position, he did not know how toreconcile the sentiments he shared with his company with his duty as a citizen.The word ‘citizen’ amused me; I glanced sharply at Semper and repeated the word‘citizen.’ Semper responded with a peculiar smile, and turned away withoutfurther comment.
The next day (Friday the 5th of May), when I again took my place as apassionately interested spectator of the proceedings at the Town Hall, eventstook a decisive turn. The remnant of the leaders of the Saxon people thereassembled thought it advisable to constitute themselves into a provisionalgovernment, as there was no Saxon government in existence with whichnegotiations could be conducted. Professor Kochly, who was an eloquent speaker,was chosen to proclaim the new administration. He performed this solemnceremony from the balcony of the Town Hall, facing the faithful remnant of theCommunal Guards and the not very numerous crowd. At the same time the legalexistence of the Pan-German Constitution was proclaimed, and allegiance to itwas sworn by the armed forces of the nation. I recollect that these proceedingsdid not seem to me imposing, and Bakunin’s reiterated opinion about theirtriviality gradually became more comprehensible. Even from a technical point ofview these reflections were justified when, to my great amusement and surprise,Semper, in the full uniform of a citizen guard, with a hat bedecked with thenational colours, asked for me at the Town Hall, and informed me of theextremely faulty construction of the barricades in the Wild Strufergasse andthe neighbouring Brudergasse. To pacify his artistic conscience as an engineerI directed him to the office of the ‘Military Commission for the Defence.’ Hefollowed my advice with conscientious satisfaction; possibly he obtained thenecessary authorisation to give instructions for the building of suitable worksof defence at that neglected point. After that I never saw him again inDresden; but I presume that he carried out the strategic works entrusted to himby that committee with all the conscientiousness of a Michael Angelo or aLeonardo da Vinci.
The rest of the day passed in continuous negotiations over the truce which, byarrangement with the Saxon troops, was to last until noon of the next day. Inthis business I noticed the very pronounced activity of a former collegefriend, Marschall von Bieberstein, a lawyer who, in his capacity as seniorofficer of the Dresden Communal Guard, distinguished himself by his boundlesszeal amid the shouts of a mighty band of fellow-orators. On that day a certainHeinz, formerly a Greek colonel, was placed in command of the armed forces.These proceedings did not seem at all satisfactory to Bakunin, who put in anoccasional appearance. While the provisional government placed all its hopes onfinding a peaceful settlement of the conflict by moral persuasion, he, on thecontrary, with his clear vision foresaw a well-planned military attack by thePrussians, and thought it could only be met by good strategic measures. Hetherefore urgently pressed for the acquisition of some experienced Polishofficers who happened to be in Dresden, as the Saxon revolutionaries appearedto be absolutely lacking in military tactics. Everybody was afraid to take thiscourse; on the other hand, great expectations were entertained fromnegotiations with the Frankfort States Assembly, which was on its last legs.Everything was to be done as far as possible in legal form. The time passedpleasantly enough. Elegant ladies with their cavaliers promenaded thebarricaded streets during those beautiful spring evenings. It seemed to belittle more than an entertaining drama. The unaccustomed aspect of things evenafforded me genuine pleasure, combined with a feeling that the whole thing wasnot quite serious, and that a friendly proclamation from the government wouldput an end to it. So I strolled comfortably home through the numerousbarricades at a late hour, thinking as I went of the material for a drama,Achilleus, with which I had been occupied for some time.
At home I found my two nieces, Clara and Ottilie Brockhaus, the daughters of mysister Louisa. They had been living for a year with a governess in Dresden, andtheir weekly visits and contagious good spirits delighted me. Every one was ina high state of glee about the revolution; they all heartily approved of thebarricades, and felt no scruples about desiring victory for their defenders.Protected by the truce, this state of mind remained undisturbed the whole ofFriday (5th May). From all parts came news which led us to believe in auniversal uprising throughout Germany. Baden and the Palatinate were in thethroes of a revolt on behalf of the whole of Germany. Similar rumours came infrom free towns like Breslau. In Leipzig, volunteer student corps had musteredcontingents for Dresden, which arrived amid the exultation of the populace. Afully equipped defence department was organised at the Town Hall, and youngHeine, disappointed like myself in his hopes of the performance of Lohengrin,had also joined this body. Vigorous promises of support came from the SaxonErzgebirge, as well as announcements that armed contingents were forthcoming.Every one thought, therefore, that if only the Old Town were kept wellbarricaded, it could safely defy the threat of foreign occupation. Early onSaturday, 6th May, it was obvious that the situation was becoming more serious.Prussian troops had marched into the New Town, and the Saxon troops, which ithad not been considered advisable to use for an attack, were kept loyal to theflag. The truce expired at noon, and the troops, supported by several guns, atonce opened the attack on one, of the principal positions held by the people onthe Neumarkt.
So far I had entertained no other conviction than that the matter would bedecided in the most summary fashion as soon as it came to an actual conflict,for there was no evidence in the state of my own feelings (or, indeed, in whatI was able to gather independently of them) of that passionate seriousness ofpurpose, without which tests as severe as this have never been successfullywithstood. It was irritating to me, while I heard the sharp rattle of fire, tobe unable to gather anything of what was going on, and I thought by climbingthe Kreuz tower I might get a good view. Even from this elevation I could notsee anything clearly, but I gathered enough to satisfy myself that after anhour of heavy firing the advance artillery of the Prussian troops had retired,and had at last been completely silenced, their withdrawal being signalled by aloud shout of jubilation from the populace. Apparently the first attack hadexhausted itself; and now my interest in what was going on began to assume amore and more vivid hue. To obtain information in greater detail I hurried backto the Town Hall. I could extract nothing, however, from the boundlessconfusion which I met, until at last I came upon Bakunin in the midst of themain group of speakers. He was able to give me an extraordinarily accurateaccount of what had happened. Information had reached headquarters from abarricade in the Neumarkt where the attack was most serious, that everythinghad been in a state of confusion there before the onslaught of the troops;thereupon my friend Marschall von Bieberstein, together with Leo vonZichlinsky, who were officers in the citizen corps, had called up somevolunteers and conducted them to the place of danger. Kreis-Amtmann Heubner ofFreiberg, without a weapon to defend himself, and with bared head, jumpedimmediately on to the top of the barricade, which had just been abandoned byall its defenders. He was the sole member of the provisional government toremain on the spot, the leaders, Todt and Tschirner, having disappeared at thefirst sign of a panic. Heubner turned round to exhort the volunteers toadvance, addressing them in stirring words. His success was complete, thebarricade was taken again, and a fire, as unexpected as it was fierce, wasdirected upon the troops, which, as I myself saw, were forced to retire.Bakunin had been in close touch with this action, he had followed thevolunteers, and he now explained to me that however narrow might be thepolitical views of Heubner (he belonged to the moderate Left of the SaxonChamber), he was a man of noble character, at whose service he had immediatelyplaced his own life.
Bakunin had only needed this example to determine his own line of conduct; hehad decided to risk his neck in the attempt and to ask no further questions.Heubner too was now bound to recognise the necessity for extreme measures, andno longer recoiled from any proposal on the part of Bakunin which was directedto this end. The military advice of experienced Polish officers was brought tobear on the commandant, whose incapacity had not been slow to reveal itself;Bakunin, who openly confessed that he understood nothing of pure strategy,never moved from the Town Hall, but remained at Heubner’s side, giving adviceand information in every direction with wonderful sangfroid. For the rest ofthe day the battle confined itself to skirmishes by sharpshooters from thevarious positions. I was itching to climb the Kreuz tower again, so as to getthe widest possible survey over the whole field of action. In order to reachthis tower from the Town Hall, one had to pass through a space which was undera cross-fire of rifle-shots from the troops posted in the royal palace. At amoment when this square was quite deserted, I yielded to my daring impulse, andcrossed it on my way to the Kreuz tower at a slow pace, remembering that insuch circumstances the young soldier is advised never to hurry, because by sodoing he may draw the shot upon himself. On reaching this post of vantage Ifound several people who had gathered there, some of them driven by a curiositylike my own, others in obedience to an order from the headquarters of therevolutionaries to reconnoitre the enemy’s movements. Amongst them I made theacquaintance of a schoolmaster called Berthold, a man of quiet and gentledisposition, but full of conviction and determination. I lost myself in anearnest philosophical discussion with him which extended to the widest spheresof religion. At the same time he showed a homely anxiety to protect us from thecone-shaped bullets of the Prussian sharpshooters by placing us ingeniouslybehind a barricade consisting of one of the straw mattresses which he hadcajoled out of the warder. The Prussian sharpshooters were posted on thedistant tower of the Frauenkirche, and had chosen the height occupied by us astheir target. At nightfall I found it impossible to make up my mind to go homeand leave my interesting place of refuge, so I persuaded the warder to send asubordinate to Friedrichstadt with a few lines to my wife, and withinstructions to ask her to let me have some necessary provisions. Thus I spentone of the most extraordinary nights of my life, taking turns with Berthold tokeep watch and sleep, close beneath the great bell with its terrible groaningclang, and with the accompaniment of the continuous rattle of the Prussian shotas it beat against the tower walls.
Sunday (the 7th of May) was one of the most beautiful days in the year. I wasawakened by the song of a nightingale, which rose to our ears from the Schützegarden close by. A sacred calm and peacefulness lay over the town and the widesuburbs of Dresden, which were visible from my point of vantage. Towardssunrise a mist settled upon the outskirts, and suddenly through its folds wecould hear the music of the Marseillaise making its way clearly and distinctlyfrom the district of the Tharanderstrasse. As the sound drew nearer and nearer,the mist dispersed, and the glow of the rising sun spread a glittering lightupon the weapons of a long column which was winding its way towards the town.It was impossible not to feel deeply impressed at the sight of this continuousprocession. Suddenly a perception of that element which I had so long missed inthe German people was borne in upon me in all its essential freshness and vitalcolour. The fact that until this moment I had been obliged to resign myself toits absence, had contributed not a little to the feelings by which I had beenswayed. Here I beheld some thousand men from the Erzgebirge, mostly miners,well armed and organised, who had rallied to the defence of Dresden. Soon wesaw them march up the Altmarkt opposite the Town Hall, and after receiving ajoyful welcome, bivouac there to recover from their journey. Reinforcementscontinued to pour in the whole day long, and the heroic achievement of theprevious day now received its reward in the shape of a universal elevation ofspirits. A change seemed to have been made in the plan of attack by thePrussian troops. This could be gathered from the fact that numeroussimultaneous attacks, but of a less concentrated type, were made upon variouspositions. The troops which had come to reinforce us brought with them foursmall cannon, the property of a certain Herr Thade von Burgk, whoseacquaintance I had made before on the occasion of the anniversary of thefounding of the Dresden Choral Society, when he had made a speech which waswell intentioned but wearisome to the point of being ludicrous. Therecollection of this speech returned to me with peculiar irony, now that hiscannon were being fired from the barricade upon the enemy. I felt a stilldeeper impression, however, when, towards eleven o’clock, I saw the old OperaHouse, in which a few weeks ago I had conducted the last performance of theNinth Symphony, burst into flames. As I have had occasion to mention before,the danger from fire to which this building was exposed, full as it was withwood and all kind of textile fabric, and originally built only for a temporarypurpose, had always been a subject of terror and apprehension to those whovisited it.
I was told that the Opera House had been set alight on strategical grounds, inorder to face a dangerous attack on this exposed side, and also to protect thefamous ‘Semper’ barricade from an overpowering surprise. From this I concludedthat reasons of this kind act as far more powerful motives in the world thanaesthetic considerations. For a long time men of taste had vainly cried aloudfor abolition of this ugly building which was such an eyesore by the side ofthe elegant proportions of the Zwinger Gallery in its neighbourhood. In a fewmoments the Opera House (which as regards size was, it is true, an imposingedifice), together with its highly inflammable contents, was a vast sea offlames. When this reached the metal roofs of the neighbouring wings of theZwinger, and enveloped them in wonderful bluish waves of fire, the firstexpression of regret made itself audible amongst the spectators. What adisaster! Some thought that the Natural History collection was in danger;others maintained that it was the Armoury, upon which a citizen soldierretorted that if such were the case, it would be a very good job if the‘stuffed noblemen’ were burnt to cinders. But it appeared that a keen sense ofthe value of art knew how to curb the fire’s lust for further dominion, and, asa matter of fact, it did but little damage in that quarter. Finally our post ofobservation, which until now had remained comparatively quiet, was filleditself with swarms and swarms of armed men, who had been ordered thither todefend the approach from the church to the Altmarkt, upon which an attack wasfeared from the side of the ill-secured Kreuzgasse. Unarmed men were now in theway; moreover, I had received a message from my wife summoning me home afterthe long and terrible anxiety she had suffered.
At last, after meeting with innumerable obstacles and overcoming a host ofdifficulties, I succeeded, by means of all sorts of circuitous routes, inreaching my remote suburb, from which I was cut off by the fortified portionsof the town, and especially by a cannonade directed from the Zwinger. Mylodgings were full to overflowing with excited women who had collected roundMinna; among them the panic-stricken wife of Röckel, who suspected her husbandof being in the very thick of the fight, as she thought that on the receipt ofthe news that Dresden had risen he would probably have returned. As a matter offact, I had heard a rumour that Röckel had arrived on this very day, but as yetI had not obtained a glimpse of him. My young nieces helped once more to raisemy spirits. The firing had put them into a high state of glee, which to someextent infected my wife, as soon as she was reassured as to my personal safety.All of them were furious with the sculptor Hänel, who had never ceasedinsisting upon the expedience of bolting the house to prevent an entry of therevolutionaries. All the women without exception were joking about his abjectterror at the sight of some men armed with scythes who had appeared in thestreet In this way Sunday passed like a sort of family jollification.
On the following morning (Monday, 8th May) I tried again to get information asto the state of affairs by forcing my way to the Town Hall from my house, whichwas cut off from the place of action. As in the course of my journey I wasmaking my way over a barricade near St. Ann’s Church, one of the Communal Guardshouted out to me, ‘Hullo, conductor, your der Freude schöner Götterfunken[15] has indeed set fire to things.The rotten building is rased to the ground.’ Obviously the man was anenthusiastic member of the audience at my last performance of the NinthSymphony. Coming upon me so unexpectedly, this pathetic greeting filled me witha curious sense of strength and freedom. A little further on, in a lonely alleyin the suburb of Plauen, I fell in with the musician Hiebendahl, the firstoboist in the royal orchestra, and a man who still enjoyed a very highreputation; he was in the uniform of the Communal Guards, but carried no gun,and was chatting with a citizen in a similar costume. As soon as he saw me, hefelt he must immediately make an appeal to me to use my influence againstRöckel, who, accompanied by ordnance officers of the revolutionary party, wasinstituting a search for guns in this quarter. As soon as he realised that Iwas making sympathetic inquiries about Röckel, he drew back frightened, andsaid to me in tones of the deepest anxiety: ‘But, conductor, have you nothought for your position, and what you may lose by exposing yourself in thisfashion?’ This remark had the most drastic effect upon me; I burst into a loudlaugh, and told him that my position was not worth a thought one way or theother. This indeed was the expression of my real feelings, which had long beensuppressed, and now broke out into almost jubilant utterance. At that moment Icaught sight of Röckel, with two men of the citizen army who were carrying someguns, making his way towards me. He gave me a most friendly greeting, butturned at once to Hiebendahl and his companion and asked him why he was idlingabout here in uniform instead of being at his post. When Hiebendahl made theexcuse that his gun had been requisitioned, Röckel cried out to him, ‘You’re afine lot of fellows!’ and went away laughing. He gave me a brief account as weproceeded of what had happened to him since I had lost sight of him, and thusspared me the obligation of giving him a report of his Volksblatt. We wereinterrupted by an imposing troop of well-armed young students of the gymnasiumwho had just entered the city and wished to have a safe conduct to their placeof muster. The sight of these serried ranks of youthful figures, numberingseveral hundreds, who were stepping bravely to their duty, did not fail to makethe most elevating impression upon me. Röckel undertook to accompany them overthe barricade in safety to the mastering place in front of the Town Hall. Hetook the opportunity of lamenting the utter absence of true spirit which he hadhitherto encountered in those in command. He had proposed, in case ofextremity, to defend the most seriously threatened barricades by tiring themwith pitch brands; at the mere word the provisional government had fallen intoa veritable state of panic. I let him go his way in order that I might enjoythe privilege of a solitary person and reach the Town Hall by a short cut, andit was not until thirteen years later that I again set eyes upon him.
[15]These words refer to the opening of the Ninth Symphony chorus: ‘Freude, Freude,Freude, schöner götterfunken Tochter aus Elysium’—(Praise her, praise oh praiseJoy, the god-descended daughter of Elysium.) English version by NataliaMacfarren.—Editor.
In the Town Hall I learned from Bakunin that the provisional government hadpassed a resolution, on his advice, to abandon the position in Dresden, whichhad been entirely neglected from the beginning, and was consequently quiteuntenable for any length of time. This resolution proposed an armed retreat tothe Erzgebirge, where it would be possible to concentrate the reinforcementspouring in from all sides, especially from Thuringia, in such strength, thatthe advantageous position could be used to inaugurate a German civil war thatwould sound no hesitating note at its outset. To persist in defending isolatedbarricaded streets in Dresden could, on the other hand, lend little but thecharacter of an urban riot to the contest, although it was pursued with thehighest courage. I must confess that this idea seemed to me magnificent andfull of meaning. Up to this moment I had been moved only by a feeling ofsympathy for a method of procedure entered upon at first with almost ironicalincredulity, and then pursued with the vigour of surprise. Now, however, allthat had before seemed incomprehensible, unfolded itself before my vision inthe form of a great and hopeful solution. Without either feeling that I was inany way being compelled, or that it was my vocation to get some part orfunction allotted to me in these events, I now definitely abandoned allconsideration for my personal situation, and determined to surrender myself tothe stream of developments which flowed in the direction towards which myfeelings had driven me with a delight that was full of despair. Still, I didnot wish to leave my wife helpless in Dresden, and I rapidly devised a means ofdrawing her into the path which I had chosen, without immediately informing herof what my resolve meant. During my hasty return to Friedrichstadt I recognisedthat this portion of the town had been almost entirely cut off from the innercity by the occupation of the Prussian troops; I saw in my mind’s eye our ownsuburb occupied, and the consequences of a state of military siege in theirmost repulsive light. It was an easy job to persuade Minna to accompany me on avisit, by way of the Tharanderstrasse, which was still free, to Chemnitz, wheremy married sister Clara lived. It was only a matter of a moment for her toarrange her household orders, and she promised to follow me to the next villagein an hour with the parrot. I went on in advance with my little dog Peps, inorder to hire a carriage in which to proceed on our journey to Chemnitz. It wasa smiling spring morning when I traversed for the last time the paths I had sooften trod on my lonely walks, with the knowledge that I should never wanderalong them again. While the larks were soaring to dizzy heights above my head,and singing in the furrows of the fields, the light and heavy artillery did notcease to thunder down the streets of Dresden. The noise of this shooting, whichhad continued uninterruptedly for several days, had hammered itself soindelibly upon my nerves, that it continued to re-echo for a long time in mybrain; just as the motion of the ship which took me to London had made mestagger for some time afterwards. Accompanied by this terrible music, I threwmy parting greeting to the towers of the city that lay behind me, and said tomyself with a smile, that if, seven years ago, my entry had taken place underthoroughly obscure auspices, at all events my exit was conducted with some showof pomp and ceremony.
When at last I found myself with Minna in a one-horse carriage on the way tothe Erzgebirge, we frequently met armed reinforcements on their way to Dresden.The sight of them always kindled an involuntary joy in us; even my wife couldnot refrain from addressing words of encouragement to the men; at present itseemed not a single barricade had been lost. On the other hand, a gloomyimpression was made upon us by a company of regulars which was making its waytowards Dresden in silence. We asked some of them whither they were bound; andtheir answer, ‘To do their duty,’ had been obviously impressed upon them bycommand. At last we reached my relations in Chemnitz. I terrified all thosenear and dear to me when I declared my intention to return to Dresden on thefollowing day at the earliest possible hour, in order to ascertain how thingswere going there. In spite of all attempts to dissuade me, I carried out mydecision, pursued by a suspicion that I should meet the armed forces of theDresden people on the country highroad in the act of retreat. The nearer Iapproached the capital, the stronger became the confirmation of the rumoursthat, as yet, there was no thought in Dresden of surrender or withdrawal, butthat, on the contrary, the contest was proving very favourable for the nationalparty. All this appeared to me like one miracle after another. On this day,Tuesday, 9th of May, I once more forced my way in a high state of excitementover ground which had become more and more inaccessible. All the highways hadto be avoided, and it was only possible to make progress through such houses ashad been broken through. At last I reached the Town Hall in the Altstadt, justas night was falling. A truly terrible spectacle met my eyes, for I crossedthose parts of the town in which preparations had been made for ahouse-to-house fight. The incessant groaning of big and small guns reduced toan uncanny murmur all the other sounds that came from armed men ceaselesslycrying out to one another from barricade to barricade, and from one house toanother, which they had broken through. Pitch brands burnt here and there,pale-faced figures lay prostrate around the watch-posts, half dead withfatigue, and any unarmed wayfarer forcing a path for himself was sharplychallenged. Nothing, however, that I have lived through can be compared withthe impression that I received on my entry into the chambers of the Town Hall.Here was a gloomy, and yet fairly compact and serious mass of people; a look ofunspeakable fatigue was upon all faces; not a single voice had retained itsnatural tone. There was a hoarse jumble of conversation inspired by a state ofthe highest tension. The only familiar sight that survived was to be found inthe old servants of the Town Hall in their curious antiquated uniform andthree-cornered hats. These tall men, at other times an object of considerablefear, I found engaged partly in buttering pieces of bread, and cutting slicesof ham and sausage, and partly in piling into baskets immense stores ofprovisions for the messengers sent by the defenders of the barricades forsupplies. These men had turned into veritable nursing mothers of therevolution.
As I proceeded further, I came at last upon the members of the provisionalgovernment, among whom Todt and Tschirner, after their first panic-strickenflight, were once more to be found gliding to and fro, gloomy as spectres, nowthat they were chained to the performance of their heavy duties. Heubner alonehad preserved his full energy; but he was a really piteous sight: a ghostlyfire burned in his eyes which had not had a wink of sleep for seven nights. Hewas delighted to see me again, as he regarded my arrival as a good omen for thecause which he was defending; while on the other hand, in the rapid successionof events, he had come into contact with elements about which no conclusioncould shape itself to his complete satisfaction. I found Bakunin’s outlookundisturbed, and his attitude firm and quiet. He did not show the smallestchange in his appearance, in spite of having had no sleep during the wholetime, which I afterwards heard was a fact. With a cigar in his mouth hereceived me, seated on one of the mattresses which lay distributed over thefloor of the Town Hall. At his side was a very young Pole (a Galician) namedHaimberger, a violinist whom he had once asked me to recommend to Lipinsky, inorder that he might give him lessons, as he did not want this raw andinexperienced boy, who had become passionately attached to him, to get drawninto the vortex of the present upheavals. Now that Haimberger had shouldered agun, and presented himself for service at the barricades, however, Bakunin hadgreeted him none the less joyfully. He had drawn him down to sit by his side onthe couch, and every time the youth shuddered with fear at the violent sound ofthe cannon-shot, he slapped him vigorously on the back and cried out: ‘You arenot in the company of your fiddle here, my friend. What a pity you didn’t staywhere you were!’ Bakinin then gave me a short and precise account of what hadhappened since I had left him on the previous morning. The retreat which hadthen been decided upon soon proved unadvisable, as it would have discouragedthe numerous reinforcements which had already arrived on that day. Moreover,the desire for fighting had been so great, and the force of the defenders soconsiderable, that it had been possible to oppose the enemy’s troopssuccessfully so far. But as the latter had also got large reinforcements, theyagain had been able to make an effective combined attack on the strongWildstruf barricade. The Prussian troops had avoided fighting in the streets,choosing instead the method of fighting from house to house by breaking throughthe walls. This had made it clear that all defence by barricades had becomeuseless, and that the enemy would succeed slowly but surely in drawing near theTown Hall, the seat of the provisional government. Bakunin had now proposedthat all the powder stores should be brought together in the lower rooms of theTown Hall, and that on the approach of the enemy it should be blown up. Thetown council, who were still in consultation in a back room, had remonstratedwith the greatest vehemence. Bakunin, however, had insisted with great firmnesson the execution of the measure, but in the end had been completely outwittedby the removal of all the powder stores. Moreover, Heubner, to whom Bakunincould refuse nothing, had been won over to the other side. It was now decidedthat as everything was ready, the retreat to the Erzgebirge, which hadoriginally been intended for the previous day, should be fixed for the earlymorrow. Young Zichlinsky had already received orders to cover the road toPlauen so as to make it strategically safe. When I inquired after Röckel,Bakunin replied swiftly that he had not been seen since the previous evening,and that he had most likely allowed himself to be caught: he was in such anervous state. I now gave an account of what I had observed on my way to andfrom Chemnitz, describing the great masses of reinforcements, amongst which wasthe communal guard of that place, several thousands strong. In Freiberg I hadmet four hundred reservists, who had come in excellent form to back the citizenarmy, but could not proceed further, as they were tired out by their forcedmarch. It seemed obvious that this was a case in which the necessary energy torequisition wagons had been lacking, and that if the bounds of loyalty weretransgressed in this matter, the advent of fresh forces would be considerablypromoted. I was begged to make my way back at once, and convey the opinion ofthe provisional government to the people whose acquaintance I had made. My oldfriend Marschall von Bieberstein immediately proposed to accompany me. Iwelcomed his offer, as he was an officer of the provisional government, and wasconsequently more fitted than I was to communicate orders. This man, who hadbeen almost extravagant in his enthusiasm before, was now utterly exhausted bysleeplessness, and unable to emit another word from his hoarse throat. He nowmade his way with me from the Town Hall to his house in the suburb of Plauen bythe devious ways that had been indicated to us, in order to requisition acarriage for our purpose from a coachman he knew, and to bid farewell to hisfamily, from whom he assumed he would in all probability have to separatehimself for some time.
While we were waiting for the coachman we had tea and supper, talking thewhile, in a fairly calm and composed manner, with the ladies of the house. Wearrived at Freiberg early the following morning, after various adventures, andI set out forthwith to find the leaders of the reservist contingent with whom Iwas already acquainted. Marschall advised them to requisition horses and cartsin the villages wherever they could do so. When they had all set off inmarching order for Dresden, and while I was feeling impelled by my passionateinterest in the fate of that city to return to it once more, Marschallconceived the desire to carry his commission further afield, and for thispurpose asked to be allowed to leave me. Whereupon I again turned my back onthe heights of the Erzgebirge, and was travelling by special coach in thedirection of Tharand, when I too was overcome with sleep, and was only awakenedby violent shouts and the sound of some one holding a parley with thepostillion. On opening my eyes I found, to my astonishment, that the road wasfilled with armed revolutionaries marching, not towards, but away from Dresden,and some of them were trying to commandeer the coach to relieve their wearinesson the way back.
‘What is the matter?’ I cried. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Home,’ was the reply. ‘It is all over in Dresden. The provincial government isclose behind us in that carriage down there.’
I shot out of the coach like a dart, leaving it at the disposal of the tiredmen, and hurried on, down the steeply sloping road, to meet the ill-fatedparty. And there I actually found them—Heubner, Bakunin, and Martin, theenergetic post-office clerk, the two latter armed with muskets—in a smart hiredcarriage from Dresden which was coming slowly up the hill. On the box were, asI supposed, the secretaries, while as many as possible of the weary NationalGuard struggled for seats behind. I hastened to swing myself into the coach,and so came in for a conversation which thereupon took place between thedriver, who was also the owner of the coach, and the provisional government.The man was imploring them to spare his carriage, which, he said, was verylightly sprung and quite unequal to carrying such a load; he begged that thepeople should be told not to seat themselves behind and in front. But Bakuninremained quite unconcerned, and elected to give me a short account of theretreat from Dresden, which had been successfully achieved without loss. He hadhad the trees in the newly planted Maximilian Avenue felled early in themorning to form a barricade against a possible flank attack of cavalry, and hadbeen immensely entertained by the lamentations of the inhabitants, who duringthe process did nothing but bewail their Scheene Beeme.[16] All this time our driver’s lamentations overhis coach were growing more importunate. Finally he broke into loud sobs andtears, upon which Bakunin, regarding him with positive pleasure, called out:‘The tears of a Philistine are nectar for the gods.’ He would not vouchsafe hima word, but Heubner and I found the scene tiresome, whereupon he asked mewhether we two at least should not get out, as he could not ask it of theothers. As a matter of fact, it was high time to leave the coach, as some newcontingents of revolutionaries had formed up in rank and file all along thehighway to salute the provisional government and receive orders. Heubner strodedown the line with great dignity, acquainted the leaders with the state ofaffairs, and exhorted them to keep their trust in the righteousness of thecause for which so many had shed their blood. All were now to retire toFreiberg, there to await further orders.
[16]Saxon corruption of schöne Bäume, beautiful trees.—EDITOR.
A youngish man of serious mien now stepped forward from the ranks of the rebelsto place himself under the special protection of the provisional government. Hewas a certain Menzdorff, a German Catholic priest whom I had had the advantageof meeting in Dresden. (It was he who, in the course of a significantconversation, had first induced me to read Feuerbach.) He had been draggedalong as a prisoner and abominably treated by the Chemnitz municipal guard onthis particular march, having originally been the instigator of a demonstrationto force that body to take up arms and march to Dresden. He owed his freedomonly to the chance meeting with other better disposed volunteer corps. We sawthis Chemnitz town guard ourselves, stationed far away on a hill. They sentrepresentatives to beseech Heubner to tell them how things stood. When they hadreceived the information required, and had been told that the fight would becontinued in a determined manner, they invited the provisional government toquarter at Chemnitz. As soon as they rejoined their main body we saw them wheelround and turn back.
With many similar interruptions the somewhat disorganised procession reachedFreiberg. Here some friends of Heubner’s came to meet him in the streets withthe urgent request not to plunge their native place into the misery ofdesperate street-fighting by establishing the provisional government there.Heubner made no reply to this, but requested Bakunin and myself to accompanyhim into his house for a consultation. First we had to witness the painfulmeeting between Heubner and his wife; in a few words he pointed out the gravityand importance of the task assigned to him, reminding her that it was forGermany and the high destiny of his country that he was staking his life.
Breakfast was then prepared, and after the meal, during which a fairly cheerfulmood prevailed, Heubner made a short speech to Bakunin, speaking quietly butfirmly. ‘My dear Bakunin,’ he said (his previous acquaintance with Bakunin wasso slight that he did not even know how to pronounce his name), ‘before wedecide anything further, I must ask you to state clearly whether your politicalaim is really the Red Republic, of which they tell me you are a partisan. Tellme frankly, so that I may know if I can rely on your friendship in the future?’
Bakunin explained briefly that he had no scheme for any political form ofgovernment, and would not risk his life for any of them. As for his ownfar-reaching desires and hopes, they had nothing whatever to do with thestreet-fighting in Dresden and all that this implied for Germany. He had lookedupon the rising in Dresden as a foolish, ludicrous movement until he realisedthe effect of Heubner’s noble and courageous example. From that moment everypolitical consideration and aim had been put in the background by his sympathywith this heroic attitude, and he had immediately resolved to assist thisexcellent man with all the devotion and energy of a friend. He knew, of course,that he belonged to the so-called moderate party, of whose political future hewas not able to form an opinion, as he had not profited much by hisopportunities of studying the position of the various parties in Germany.
Heubner declared himself satisfied by this reply, and proceeded to askBakunin’s opinion of the present state of things—whether it would not beconscientious and reasonable to dismiss the men and give up a struggle whichmight be considered hopeless. In reply Bakunin insisted, with his usual calmassurance, that whoever else threw up the sponge, Heubner must certainly not doso. He had been the first member of the provisional government, and it was hewho had given the call to arms. The call had been obeyed, and hundreds of liveshad been sacrificed; to scatter the people again would look as if thesesacrifices had been made to idle folly. Even if they were the only two left,they still ought not to forsake their posts. If they went under their livesmight be forfeit, but their honour must remain unsullied, so that a similarappeal in the future might not drive every one to despair.
This was quite enough for Heubner. He at once made out a summons for theelection of a representative assembly for Saxony, to be held at Chemnitz. Hethought that, with the assistance of the populace and of the numerous insurgentbands who were arriving from all quarters, he would be able to hold the town asthe headquarters of a provisional government until the general situation inGermany had become more settled. In the midst of these discussions, StephanBorn walked into the room to report that he had brought the armed bands rightinto Freiberg, in good order and without any losses. This young man was acompositor who had contributed greatly to Heubner’s peace of mind during thelast three days in Dresden by taking over the chief command. His simplicity ofmanner made a very encouraging impression on us, particularly when we heard hisreport. When, however, Heubner asked whether he would undertake to defendFreiberg against the troops which might be expected to attack at any moment, hedeclared that this was an experienced officer’s job, and that he himself was nosoldier and knew nothing of strategy. Under these circumstances it seemedbetter, if only to gain time, to fall back on the more thickly populated townof Chemnitz. The first thing to be done, however, was to see that therevolutionaries, who were assembled in large numbers at Freiberg, were properlycared for, and Born went off immediately to make preliminary arrangements.Heubner also took leave of us, and went to refresh his tired brain by an hour’ssleep. I was left alone on the sofa with Bakunin, who soon fell towards me,overcome by irresistible drowsiness, and dropped the terrific weight of hishead on to my shoulder. As I saw that he would not wake if I shook off thisburden, I pushed him aside with some difficulty, and took leave both of thesleeper and of Heubner’s house; for I wished to see for myself, as I had donefor many days past, what course these extraordinary events were taking. Itherefore went to the Town Hall, where I found the townspeople entertaining tothe best of their ability a blustering horde of excited revolutionaries bothwithin and without the walls. To my surprise, I found Heubner there in the fullswing of work. I thought he was asleep at home, but the idea of leaving thepeople even for an hour without a counsellor had driven away all thought ofrest. He had lost no time in superintending the organisation of a sort ofcommandant’s office, and was again occupied with drafting and signing documentsin the midst of the uproar that raged on all sides. It was not long beforeBakunin too put in an appearance, principally in search of a good officer—whowas not, however, forthcoming. The commandant of a large contingent from theVogtland, an oldish man, raised Bakunin’s hopes by the impassioned energy ofhis speeches, and he would have had him appointed commandant-general on thespot. But it seemed as if any real decision were impossible in that frenzy andconfusion, and as the only hope of mastering it seemed to be in reachingChemnitz, Heubner gave the order to march on towards that town as soon as everyone had had food. Once this was settled, I told my friends I should go on inadvance of their column to Chemnitz, where I should find them again next day;for I longed to be quit of this chaos. I actually caught the coach, thedeparture of which was fixed for that time, and obtained a seat in it. But therevolutionaries were just marching off on the same road, and we were told thatwe must wait until they had passed to avoid being caught in the whirlpool. Thismeant considerable delay, and for a long while I watched the peculiar bearingof the patriots as they marched out. I noticed in particular a Vogtlandregiment, whose marching step was fairly orthodox, following the beat of adrummer who tried to vary the monotony of his instrument in an artistic mannerby hitting the wooden frame alternately with the drumhead. The unpleasantrattling tone thus produced reminded me in ghostly fashion of the rattling ofthe skeletons’ bones in the dance round the gallows by night which Berlioz hadbrought home to my imagination with such terrible realism in his performance ofthe last movement of his Sinfonie Fantastique in Paris.
Suddenly the desire seized me to look up the friends I had left behind, andtravel to Chemnitz in their company if possible. I found they had quitted theTown Hall, and on reaching Heubner’s house I was told that he was asleep. Itherefore went back to the coach, which, however, was still putting off itsdeparture, as the road was blocked with troops. I walked nervously up and downfor some time, then, losing faith in the journey by coach, I went back again toHeubner’s house to offer myself definitely as a travelling companion. ButHeubner and Bakunin had already left home, and I could find no traces of them.In desperation I returned once more to the coach, and found it by this timereally ready to start. After various delays and adventures it brought me lateat night to Chemnitz, where I got out and betook myself to the nearest inn. Atfive o’clock the next morning I got up (after a few hours’ sleep) and set outto find my brother-in-law Wolfram’s house, which was about a quarter of anhour’s walk from the town. On the way I asked a sentinel of the town guardwhether he knew anything about the arrival of the provisional government.
‘Provisional government?’ was the reply. ‘Why, it’s all up with that.’ I didnot understand him, nor was I able to learn anything about the state of thingswhen I first reached the house of my relatives, for my brother-in-law had beensent into the town as special constable. It was only on his return home, lutein the afternoon, that I heard what had taken place in one hotel at Chemnitzwhile I had been resting in another inn. Heubner, Bakunin, and the man calledMartin, whom I have mentioned already, had, it seemed, arrived before me in ahackney-coach at the gates of Chemnitz. On being asked for their names Heubnerhad announced himself in a tone of authority, and had bidden the towncouncillors come to him at a certain hotel. They had no sooner reached thehotel than they all three collapsed from excessive fatigue. Suddenly the policebroke into the room and arrested them in the name of the local government, uponwhich they only begged to have a few hours’ quiet sleep, pointing out thatflight was out of the question in their present condition. I heard further thatthey had been removed to Altenburg under a strong military escort. Mybrother-in-law was obliged to confess that the Chemnitz municipal guard, whichhad been forced to start for Dresden much against its will, and had resolved atthe very outset to place itself at the disposal of the royal forces on arrivingthere, had deceived Heubner by inviting him to Chemnitz, and had lured him intothe trap. They had reached Chemnitz long before Heubner, and had taken over theguard at the gates with the object of seeing him arrive and of preparing forhis arrest at once. My brother-in-law had been very anxious about me too, as hehad been told in furious tones by the leaders of the town guard that I had beenseen in close association with the revolutionaries. He thought it a wonderfulintervention of Providence that I had not arrived at Chemnitz with them andgone to the same inn, in which case their fate would certainly have been mine.The recollection of my escape from almost certain death in duels with the mostexperienced swordsmen in my student days flashed across me like a flash oflightning. This last terrible experience made such an impression on me that Iwas incapable of breathing a word in connection with what had happened. Mybrother-in-law, in response to urgent appeals—from my wife in particular, whowas much concerned for my personal safety—undertook to convey me to Altenburgin his carriage by night. From there I continued my journey by coach to Weimar,where I had originally planned to spend my holidays, little thinking that Ishould arrive by such devious ways.
The dreamy unreality of my state of mind at this time is best explained by theapparent seriousness with which, on meeting Liszt again, I at once began todiscuss what seemed to be the sole topic of any real interest to him inconnection with me—the forthcoming revival of Tannhäuser at Weimar. I found itvery difficult to confess to this friend that I had not left Dresden in theregulation way for a conductor of the royal opera. To tell the truth, I had avery hazy conception of the relation in which I stood to the law of my country(in the narrow sense). Had I done anything criminal in the eye of the law ornot? I found it impossible to come to any conclusion about it. Meanwhile,alarming news of the terrible conditions in Dresden continued to pour intoWeimar. Genast, the stage manager, in particular, aroused great excitement byspreading the report that Röckel, who was well known at Weimar, had been guiltyof arson. Liszt must soon have gathered from my conversation, in which I didnot take the trouble to dissimulate, that I too was suspiciously connected withthese terrible events, though my attitude with regard to them misled him forsome time. For I was not by any means prepared to proclaim myself a combatantin the recent fights, and that for reasons quite other than would have seemedvalid in the eyes of the law. My friend was therefore encouraged in hisdelusion by the unpremeditated effect of my attitude. When we met at the houseof Princess Caroline of Wittgenstein, to whom I had been introduced the yearbefore when she paid her flying visit to Dresden, we were able to holdstimulating conversations on all sorts of artistic topics. One afternoon, forinstance, a lively discussion sprang up from a description I had given of atragedy to be entitled Jesus of Nazareth. Liszt maintained a discreet silenceafter I had finished, whereas the Princess protested vigorously against myproposal to bring such a subject on to the stage. From the lukewarm attempt Imade to support the paradoxical theories I had put forward, I realised thestate of my mind at that time. Although it was not very evident to onlookers, Ihad been, and still was, shaken to the very depths of my being by my recentexperiences.
In due course an orchestral rehearsal of Tannhäuser took place, which invarious ways stimulated the artist in me afresh. Liszt’s conducting, thoughmainly concerned with the musical rather than the dramatic side, filled me forthe first time with the flattering warmth of emotion roused by theconsciousness of being understood by another mind in full sympathy with my own.At the same time I was able, in spite of my dreamy condition, to observecritically the standard of capacity exhibited by the singers and theirchorus-master. After the rehearsal I, together with the musical director,Stohr, and Götze the singer, accepted Liszt’s invitation to a simple dinner, ata different inn from the one where he lived. I thus had occasion to take alarmat a trait in his character which was entirely new to me. After being stirredup to a certain pitch of excitement his mood became positively alarming, and healmost gnashed his teeth in a passion of fury directed against a certainsection of society which had also aroused my deepest indignation. I wasstrongly affected by this strange experience with this wonderful man, but I wasunable to see the association of ideas which had led to his terrible outburst.I was therefore left in a state of amazement, while Liszt had to recover duringthe night from a violent attack of nerves which his excitement had produced.Another surprise was in store for me the next morning, when I found my friendfully equipped for a journey to Karlsruhe—the circumstances which made itnecessary being absolutely incomprehensible to me. Liszt invited Director Stohrand myself to accompany him as far as Eisenach. On our way there we werestopped by Beaulieu, the Lord Chamberlain, who wished to know whether I wasprepared to be received by the Grand Duchess of Weimar, a sister of the EmperorNicolas, at Eisenach castle. As my excuse on the score of unsuitable travellingcostume was not admitted, Liszt accepted in my name, and I really met with asurprisingly kind reception that evening from the Grand Duchess, who chattedwith me in the friendliest way, and introduced me to her chamberlain with alldue ceremony. Liszt maintained afterwards that his noble patroness had beeninformed that I should be wanted by the authorities in Dresden within the nextfew days, and had therefore hastened to make my personal acquaintance at once,knowing that it would compromise her too heavily later on.
Liszt continued his journey from Eisenach, leaving me to be entertained andlooked after by Stohr and the musical director Kuhmstedt, a diligent andskilful master of counterpoint with whom I paid my first visit to the Wartburg,which had not then been restored. I was filled with strange musings as to myfate when I visited this castle. Here I was actually on the point of entering,for the first time, the building which was so full of meaning for me; here,too, I had to tell myself that the days of my further sojourn in Germany werenumbered. And in fact the news from Dresden, when we returned to Weimar thenext day, was serious indeed. Liszt, on his return on the third day, found aletter from my wife, who had not dared to write direct to me. She reported thatthe police had searched my house in Dresden, to which she had returned, andthat she had, moreover been warned on no account to allow me to return to thatcity, as a warrant had been taken out against me, and I was shortly to beserved with a writ and arrested. Liszt, who was now solely concerned for mypersonal safety, called in a friend who had some experience of law, to considerwhat should be done to rescue me from the danger that threatened me. VonWatzdorf, the minister whom I had already visited, had been of opinion that Ishould, if required, submit quietly to being taken to Dresden, and that thejourney would be made in a respectable private carriage. On the other hand,reports which had reached us of the brutal way in which the Prussian troops inDresden had gone to work in applying the state of siege were of so alarming anature that Liszt and his friends in council urged my speedy departure fromWeimar, where it would be impossible to protect me. But I insisted on takingleave of my wife, whose anxiety was great, before leaving Germany, and beggedto be allowed to stay a little longer at least in the neighbourhood of Weimar.This was taken into consideration, and Professor Siebert suggested my takingtemporary shelter with a friendly steward at the village of Magdala, which wasthree hours distant. I drove there the following morning to introduce myself tothis kind steward and protector as Professor Werder from Berlin, who, with aletter of recommendation from Professor Siebert, had come to turn his financialstudies to practical account in helping to administer these estates. Here inrural seclusion I spent three days, entertainment of a peculiar nature beingprovided by the meeting of a popular assembly, which consisted of the remainderof the contingent of revolutionaries which had marched off towards Dresden andhad now returned in disorder. I listened with curious feelings, amountingalmost to contempt, to the speeches on this occasion, which were of every kindand description. On the second day of my stay my host’s wife came back fromWeimar (where it was market-day) full of a curious tale: the composer of anopera which was being performed there on that very day had been obliged toleave Weimar suddenly because the warrant for his arrest had arrived fromDresden. My host, who had been let into my secret by Professor Seibert, askedplayfully what his name was. As his wife did not seem to know, he came to herassistance with the suggestion that perhaps it was Röckel whose name wasfamiliar at Weimar.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Röckel, that was his name, quite right.’
My host laughed loudly, and said that he would not be so stupid as to let themcatch him, in spite of his opera.
At last, on 22nd May, my birthday, Minna actually arrived at Magdala. She hadhastened to Weimar on receiving my letter, and had proceeded from thereaccording to instructions, bent on persuading me at all costs to flee thecountry immediately and for good. No attempt to raise her to the level of myown mood was successful; she persisted in regarding me as an ill-advised,inconsiderate person who had plunged both himself and her into the mostterrible situation. It had been arranged that I should meet her the nextevening in the house of Professor Wolff at Jena to take a last farewell. Shewas to go by way of Weimar, while I took the footpath from Magdala. I startedaccordingly on my walk of about six hours, and came over the plateau into thelittle university town (which now received me hospitably for the first time) atsunset. I found my wife again at the house of Professor Wolff, who, thanks toLiszt, was already my friend, and with the addition of a certain ProfessorWidmann another conference was held on the subject of my further escape. A writwas actually out against me for being strongly suspected of participation inthe Dresden rising, and I could not under any circumstances depend on a saferefuge in any of the German federal states. Liszt insisted on my going toParis, where I could find a new field for my work, while Widmann advised me notto go by the direct route through Frankfort and Baden, as the rising was stillin full swing there, and the police would certainly exercise praiseworthyvigilance over incoming travellers with suspicious-looking passports. The waythrough Bavaria would be the safest, as all was quiet there again; I could thenmake for Switzerland, and the journey to Paris from there could be engineeredwithout any danger. As I needed a passport for the journey, Professor Widmannoffered me his own, which had been issued at Tubingen and had not been broughtup to date. My wife was quite in despair, and the parting from her caused mereal pain. I set off in the mail-coach and travelled, without furtherhindrance, through many towns (amongst them Rudolstadt, a place full ofmemories for me) to the Bavarian frontier. From there I continued my journey bymail-coach straight to Lindau. At the gates I, together with the otherpassengers, was asked for my passport. I passed the night in a state ofstrange, feverish excitement, which lasted until the departure of the steameron Lake Constance early in the morning. My mind was full of the Swabiandialect, as spoken by Professor Widmann, with whose passport I was travelling.I pictured to myself my dealings with the Bavarian police should I have toconverse with them in accordance with the above-mentioned irregularities inthat document. A prey to feverish unrest, I spent the whole night trying toperfect myself in the Swabian dialect, but, as I was amused to find, withoutthe smallest success. I had braced myself to meet the crucial moment early thenext morning, when the policeman came into my room and, not knowing to whom thepassports belonged, gave me three at random to choose from. With joy in myheart I seized my own, and dismissed the dreaded messenger in the most friendlyway. Once on board the steamer I realised with true satisfaction that I had nowstepped on to Swiss territory. It was a lovely spring morning; across the broadlake I could gaze at the Alpine landscape as it spread itself before my eyes.When I stepped on to Republican soil at Rorschach, I employed the first momentsin writing a few lines home to tell of my safe arrival in Switzerland and mydeliverance from all danger. The coach drive through the pleasant country ofSt. Gall to Zürich cheered me up wonderfully, and when I drove down fromOberstrass into Zürich that evening, the last day in May, at six o’clock, andsaw for the first time the Glarner Alps that encircle the lake gleaming in thesunset, I at once resolved, though without being fully conscious of it, toavoid everything that could prevent my settling here.
I had been the more willing to accept my friends’ suggestion to take the Swissroute to Paris, as I knew I should find an old acquaintance, Alexander Muller,at Zürich. I hoped with his help to obtain a passport to France, as I wasanxious not to arrive there as a political refugee. I had been on very friendlyterms with Muller once upon a time at Wurzburg. He had been settled at Zürichfor a long time as a teacher of music; this I learned from a pupil of his,Wilhelm Baumgartner, who had called on me in Dresden some years back to bringme a greeting from this old friend. On that occasion I entrusted the pupil witha copy of the score of Tannhäuser for his master, by way of remembrance, andthis kind attention had not fallen on barren soil: Muller and Baumgartner, whomI visited forthwith, introduced me at once to Jacob Sulzer and Franz Hagenbuch,two cantonal secretaries who were the most likely, among all their goodfriends, to compass the immediate fulfilment of my desire. These two people,who had been joined by a few intimates, received me with such respectfulcuriosity and sympathy that I felt at home with them at once. The greatassurance and moderation with which they commented on the persecutions whichhad overtaken me, as seen from their usual simple republican standpoint, openedto me a conception of civil life which seemed to lift me to an entirely newsphere. I felt so safe and protected here, whereas in my own country I had,without quite realising it, come to be considered a criminal owing to thepeculiar connection between my disgust at the public attitude towards art andthe general political disturbances. To prepossess the two secretaries entirelyin my favour (one of them, Sulzer, had enjoyed an excellent classicaleducation), my friends arranged a meeting one evening at which I was to read mypoem on the Death of Siegfried. I am prepared to swear that I never had moreattentive listeners, among men, than on that evening. The immediate effect ofmy success was the drawing up of a fully valid federal passport for the poorGerman under warrant of arrest, armed with which I started gaily on my journeyto Paris after quite a short stay at Zürich. From Strassburg, where I wasenthralled by the fascination of the world-famous minster, I travelled towardsParis by what was then the best means of locomotion, the so-called malle-poste.I remember a remarkable phenomenon in connection with this conveyance. Tillthen the noise of the cannonade and musketry in the fighting at Dresden hadbeen persistently re-echoing in my ears, especially in a half-waking condition;now the humming of the wheels, as we rolled rapidly along the highroad, castsuch a spell upon me that for the whole of the journey I seemed to hear themelody of Freude, schöner Götterfunken[17] fromthe Ninth Symphony being played, as it were, on deep bass instruments.
[17]See note on page 486.
From the time of my entering Switzerland till my arrival in Paris my spirits,which had sunk into a dreamlike apathy, rose gradually to a level of freedomand comfort that I had never enjoyed before. I felt like a bird in the airwhose destiny is not to founder in a morass; but soon after my arrival inParis, in the first week of June, a very palpable reaction set in. I had had anintroduction from Liszt to his former secretary Belloni, who felt it his duty,in loyalty to the instructions received, to put me into communication with aliterary man, a certain Gustave Vaisse, with the object of being commissionedto write an opera libretto for production in Paris. I did not, however, makethe personal acquaintance of Vaisse. The idea did not please me, and I foundsufficient excuse for warding off the negotiations by saying I was afraid ofthe epidemic of cholera which was said to be raging in the city. I was stayingin the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette for the sake of being near Belloni. Throughthis street funeral processions, announced by the muffled drum boats of theNational Guard, passed practically every hour. Though the heat was stifling, Iwas strictly forbidden to touch water, and was advised to exercise the greatestprecaution with regard to diet in every respect. Besides this weight ofuneasiness on my spirits, the whole outward aspect of Paris, as it thenappeared, had the most depressing effect on me. The motto, liberte, egalite,fraternite was still to be seen on all the public buildings and otherestablishments, but, on the other hand, I was alarmed at seeing the firstgarcons caissiers making their way from the bank with their long money-sacksover their shoulders and their large portfolios in their hands. I had never metthem so frequently as now, just when the old capitalist regime, after itstriumphant struggle against the once dreaded socialist propaganda, was exertingitself vigorously to regain the public confidence by its almost insulting pomp.I had gone, as it were, mechanically into Schlesinger’s music-shop, where asuccessor was now installed—a much more pronounced type of Jew named Brandus,of a very dirty appearance. The only person there to give me a friendly welcomewas the old clerk, Monsieur Henri. After I had talked to him in loud tones forsome time, as the shop was apparently empty, he at length asked me with someembarrassment whether I had not seen my master (votre maître) Meyerbeer.
‘Is Monsieur Meyerbeer here?’ I asked.
‘Certainly,’ was the even more embarrassed reply; ‘quite near, over therebehind the desk.’
And, sure enough, as I walked across to the desk Meyerbeer came out, coveredwith confusion. He smiled and made some excuse about pressing proof-sheets. Hehad been hiding there quietly for over ten minutes since first hearing myvoice. I had had enough after my strange encounter with this apparition. Itrecalled so many things affecting myself which reflected suspicion on the man,in particular the significance of his behaviour towards me in Berlin on thelast occasion. However, as I had now nothing more to do with him, I greeted himwith a certain easy gaiety induced by the regret I felt at seeing his manifestconfusion on becoming cognisant of my arrival in Paris. He took it for grantedthat I should again seek my fortune there, and seemed much surprised when Iassured him, on the contrary, that the idea of having any work there was odiousto me.
‘But Liszt published such a brilliant article about you in the Journal desDébats,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ I replied, ‘it really had not occurred to me that the enthusiasticdevotion of a friend should be regarded as a mutual speculation.’
‘But the article made a sensation. It is incredible that you should not seek tomake any profit out of it.’
This offensive meddlesomeness roused me to protest to Meyerbeer with someviolence that I was concerned with anything rather than with the production ofartistic work, particularly just at that time when the course of events seemedto indicate that the whole world was undergoing a reaction.
‘But what do you expect to get out of the revolution?’ he replied. ‘Are yougoing to write scores for the barricades?’
Whereupon I assured him that I was not thinking of writing any scores at all.We parted, obviously without having arrived at a mutual understanding.
In the street I was also stopped by Moritz Schlesinger, who, being equallyunder the influence of Liszt’s brilliant article, evidently considered me aperfect prodigy. He too thought I must be counting on making a hit in Paris,and was sure that I had a very good chance of doing so.
‘Will you undertake my business?’ I asked him. ‘I have no money. Do you reallythink the performance of an opera by an unknown composer can be anything but amatter of money?’
‘You are quite right,’ said Moritz, and left me on the spot.
I turned from these disagreeable encounters in the plague-stricken capital ofthe world to inquire the fate of my Dresden companions, for some of those withwhom I was intimate had also reached Paris, when I called on Desplechins, whohad painted the scenery for Tannhäuser. I found Semper there, who had, likemyself, been deposited in this city. We met again with no little pleasure,although we could not help smiling at our grotesque situation. Semper hadretired from the battle when the famous barricade, which he in his capacity ofarchitect kept under close observation, had been surrounded. (He thought itimpossible for it to be captured.) All the same, he considered that he hadexposed himself quite sufficiently to make it state of siege and were occupyingDresden. He considered himself lucky as a native of Holstein to be dependent,not on the German, but on the Danish government for a passport, as this hadhelped him to reach Paris without difficulty. When I expressed my real andheartfelt regret at the turn of affairs which had torn him from a professionalundertaking on which he had just started—the completion of the DresdenMuseum—he refused to take it too seriously, saying it had given him a greatdeal of worry. In spite of our trying situation, it was with Semper that Ispent the only bright hours of my stay in Paris. We were soon joined by anotherrefugee, young Heine, who had once wished to paint my Lohengrin scenery. He hadno qualms about his future, for his master Desplechins was willing to give himemployment. I alone felt I had been pitched quite aimlessly into Paris. I had apassionate desire to leave this cholera-laden, atmosphere, and Belloni offeredme an opportunity which I promptly and joyfully seized. He invited me to followhimself and his family to a country place near La Ferte-sous-Jouarre, where Icould be refreshed by pure air and absolute quiet, and wait for a change forthe better in my position. I made the short journey to Rueil after another weekin Paris, and took for the time being a poor lodging (one room, built withrecesses) in the house of Monsieur Raphael, a wine merchant, close by thevillage mairie where the Belloni family were staying. Here I waited furtherdevelopments. During the period when all news from Germany ceased I tried tooccupy myself as far as possible with reading. After going through Proudhon’swritings, and in particular his De la propriete, in such a manner as to gleancomfort for my situation in curiously divers ways, I entertained myself for aconsiderable time with Lamartine’s Histoire des Girondins, a most alluring andattractive work. One day Belloni brought me news of the unfortunate rising inParis, which had been attempted on the 13th June by the Republicans underLedru-Rollin against the provisional government, which was then in the fulltide of reaction. Great as was the indignation with which the news was receivedby my host and the mayor of the place (a relative of his, at whose table we ateour modest daily meal), it made, on the whole, little impression on me, as myattention was still fixed in great agitation on the events which were takingplace on the Rhine, and particularly on the grand-duchy of Baden, which hadbeen made forfeit to a provisional government. When, however, the news reachedme from this quarter also that the Prussians had succeeded in subduing amovement which had not at first seemed hopeless, I felt extraordinarilydowncast.
I was compelled to consider my position carefully, and the necessity ofconquering my difficulties helped to allay the excitement to which I was aprey. The letters from my Weimar friends, as well as those from my wife, nowbrought me completely to my senses. The former expressed themselves very curtlyabout my behaviour with regard to recent events. The opinion was, that for themoment there would be nothing for me to do, and especially not in Dresden, orat the grand-ducal court, ‘as one could not very well knock at battered doors’;‘on ne frappe pas a des portes enfoncees’ (Princess von Wittgenstein toBelloni).
I did not know what to reply, for I had never dreamt of expecting anything tocome from their intervening on my behalf in that quarter; consequently I wasquite satisfied that they sent me temporarily financial assistance. With thismoney I made up my mind to leave for Zürich and ask Alex Muller to give meshelter for a while, as his house was sufficiently large to accommodate aguest. My saddest moment came when, after a long silence, I at last received aletter from my wife. She wrote that she could not dream of living with meagain; that after I had so unscrupulously thrown away a connection andposition, the like of which would never again present itself to me, no womancould reasonably be expected to take any further interest in my futureenterprises.
I fully appreciated my wife’s unfortunate position; I could in no way assisther, except by advising her to sell our Dresden furniture, and by making anappeal on her behalf to my relatives in Leipzig.
Until then I had been able to think more lightly of the misery of her position,simply because I had imagined her to be more deeply in sympathy with whatagitated me. Often during the recent extraordinary events I had even believedthat she understood my feelings. Now, however, she had disillusioned me on thispoint: she could see in me no more than what the public saw, and the oneredeeming point of her severe judgment was that she excused my behaviour on thescore that I was reckless. After I had begged Liszt to do what he could for mywife, I soon began to regard her unexpected behaviour with more equanimity. Inreply to her announcement that she would not write to me again for the present,I said that I had also resolved to spare her all further anxiety about my verydoubtful fate, by ceasing from communicating with her. I surveyed the panoramaof our long years of association critically in my mind’s eye, beginning withthat first stormy year of our married life, that had been so full of sorrow.Our youthful days of worry and care in Paris had undoubtedly been of benefit tous both. The courage and patience with which she had faced our difficulties,while I on my part had tried to end them by dint of hard work, had linked ustogether with bonds of iron. Minna was rewarded for all these privations byDresden successes, and more especially by the highly enviable position I hadheld there. Her position as wife of the conductor (Frau Kapellmeisterin) hadbrought her the fulfilment of her dearest wishes, and all those things whichconspired to make my work in this official post so intolerable to me, were toher no more than so many threats directed against her smug content. The courseI had adopted with regard to Tannhäuser had already made her doubtful of mysuccess at the theatres, and had robbed her of all courage and confidence inour future. The more I deviated from the path which she regarded as the onlyprofitable one, due partly to the change of my views (which I grew ever lesswilling to communicate to her), and partly to the modification in my attitudetowards the stage, the more she retreated from that position of closefellowship with me which she had enjoyed in former years, and which she thoughtherself justified in connecting in some way with my successes.
She looked upon my conduct with regard to the Dresden catastrophe as theoutcome of this deviation from the right path, and attributed it to theinfluence of unscrupulous persons (particularly the unfortunate Röckel), whowere supposed to have dragged me with them to ruin, by appealing to my vanity.Deeper than all these disagreements, however, which, after all, were concernedonly with external circumstances, was the consciousness of our fundamentalincompatibility, which to me had become ever more and more apparent since theday of our reconciliation. From the very beginning we had had scenes of themost violent description: never once after these frequent quarrels had sheadmitted herself in the wrong or tried to be friends again.
The necessity of speedily restoring our domestic peace, as well as myconviction (confirmed by every one of her extravagant outbursts) that, in viewof the great disparity of our characters and especially of our educations, itdevolved upon me to prevent such scenes by observing great caution in mybehaviour, always led me to take the entire blame for what had happened uponmyself, and to mollify Minna by showing her that I was sorry. Unfortunately,and to my intense grief, I was forced to recognise that by acting in this way Ilost all my power over her affections, and especially over her character. Nowwe stood in a position in which I could not possibly resort to the same meansof reconciliation, for it would have meant my being inconsistent in all myviews and actions. And then I found myself confronted by such hardness in thewoman whom I had spoilt by my leniency, that it was out of the question toexpect her to acknowledge the injustice done to myself. Suffice it to say thatthe wreck of my married life had contributed not inconsiderably to the ruin ofmy position in Dresden, and to the careless manner in which I treated it, forinstead of finding help, strength, and consolation at home, I found my wifeunwittingly conspiring against me, in league with all the other hostilecircumstances which then beset me. After I had got over the first shock of herheartless behaviour, I was absolutely clear about this. I remember that I didnot suffer any great sorrow, but that on the contrary, with the conviction ofbeing now quite helpless, an almost exalted calm came over me when I realisedthat up to the present my life had been built on a foundation of sand andnothing more. At all events, the fact that I stood absolutely alone did muchtowards restoring my peace of mind, and in my distress I now found strength andcomfort even in the fact of my dire poverty. At last assistance arrived fromWeimar. I accepted it eagerly, and it was the means of extricating me from mypresent useless life and stranded hopes.
My next move was to find a place of refuge—one, however, which had but littleattraction for me, seeing that in it there was not the slightest hope of mybeing able to make any further headway in the paths along which I had hithertoprogressed. This refuge was Zürich, a town devoid of all art in the publicsense, and where for the first time I met simple-hearted people who knewnothing about me as a musician, but who, as it appeared, felt drawn towards meby the power of my personality alone. I arrived at Muller’s house and asked himto let me have a room, at the same time giving him what remained of my capital,namely twenty francs. I quickly discovered that my old friend was embarrassedby my perfectly open confidence in him, and that he was at his wit’s end toknow what to do with me. I soon gave up the large room containing a grandpiano, which he had allotted to me on the impulse of the moment, and retired toa modest little bedroom. The meals were my great trial, not because I wasfastidious, but because I could not digest thorn. Outside my friend’s house, onthe contrary, I enjoyed what, considering the habits of the locality, was themost luxurious reception. The same young men who had been so kind to me on myfirst journey through Zürich again showed themselves anxious to be continuallyin my company, and this was especially the case with one young fellow calledJakob Sulzer. He had to be thirty years of age before he was entitled to becomea member of the Zürich government, and he therefore still had several years towait. In spite of his youth, however, the impression he made on all those withwhom he came in contact was that of a man of riper years, whose character wasformed. When I was asked long afterwards whether I had ever met a man who,morally speaking, was the beau-ideal of real character and uprightness, Icould, on reflection, think of none other than this newly gained friend, JakobSulzer.
He owed his early appointment as permanent Cantonal Secretary(Staatsschreiber), one of the most excellent government posts in the canton ofZürich, to the recently returned liberal party, led by Alfred Escher. As thisparty could not employ the more experienced members of the older conservativeside in the public offices, their policy was to choose exceptionally giftedyoung men for these positions. Sulzer showed extraordinary promise, and theirchoice accordingly soon lighted on him. He had only just returned from theBerlin and Bonn universities with the intention of establishing himself asprofessor of philology at the university in his native town, when he was made amember of the new government. To fit himself for his post he had to stay inGeneva for six months to perfect himself in the French language, which he hadneglected during his philological studies. He was quick-witted and industrious,as well as independent and firm, and he never allowed himself to be swayed byany party tactics. Consequently he rose very rapidly to high positions in thegovernment, to which he rendered valuable and important services, first asMinister of Finance, a post he held for many years, and later with particulardistinction as member of the School Federation. His unexpected acquaintancewith me seemed to place him in a sort of dilemma; from the philological andclassical studies which he had entered upon of his own choice, he suddenlyfound himself torn away in the most bewildering manner by this unexpectedsummons from the government. It almost seemed as if his meeting with me hadmade him regret having accepted the appointment. As he was a person of greatculture, my poem, Siegfried’s Death, naturally revealed to him my knowledge ofGerman antiquity. He had also studied this subject, but with greaterphilological accuracy than I could possibly have aspired to. When, later on, hebecame acquainted with my manner of writing music, this peculiarly serious andreserved man became so thoroughly interested in my sphere of art, so farremoved from his own field of labour, that, as he himself confessed, he felt ithis duty to fight against these disturbing influences by being intentionallybrusque and curt with me. In the beginning of my stay in Zürich, however, hedelighted in being led some distance astray in the realms of art. Theold-fashioned official residence of the first Cantonal Secretary was often thescene of unique gatherings, composed of people such as I would be sure toattract. It might even be said that these social functions occurred rather morefrequently than was advisable for the reputation of a civil servant of thislittle philistine state. What attracted the musician Baumgartner moreparticularly to these meetings was the product of Sulzer’s vineyards inWinterthur, to which our hosts treated his guests with the greatest liberality.When in my moods of mad exuberance I gave vent in dithyrambic effusions to mymost extreme views on art and life, my listeners often responded in a mannerwhich, more often than not, I was perfectly right in ascribing to the effectsof the wine rather than to the power of my enthusiasm. Once when ProfessorEttmuller, the Germanist and Edda scholar, had been invited to listen to areading of my Siegfried and had been led home in a state of melancholyenthusiasm, there was a regular outburst of wanton spirits among those who hadremained behind. I conceived the absurd idea of lifting all the doors of thestate official’s house off their hinges.
Herr Hagenbuch, another servant of the state, seeing what exertion this costme, offered me the help of his gigantic physique, and with comparative ease wesucceeded in removing every single door, and laying it aside, a proceeding atwhich Sulzer merely smiled good-naturedly. The next day, however, when we madeinquiries, he told us that the replacing of those doors (which must have been aterrible strain on his delicate constitution) had taken him the whole night, ashe had made up his mind to keep the knowledge of our orgies from the sergeant,who always arrived at a very early hour in the morning.
The extraordinary birdlike freedom of my existence had the effect of excitingme more and more. I was often frightened at the excessive outbursts ofexaltation to which I was prone—no matter whom I was with—and which led me toindulge in the most extraordinary paradoxes in my conversation. Soon after Ihad settled in Zürich I began to write down my various ideas about things atwhich I had arrived through my private and artistic experiences, as well asthrough the influence of the political unrest of the day. As I had no choicebut to try, to the best of my ability, to earn something by my pen, I thoughtof sending a series of articles to a great French journal such as the National,which in those days was still extant. In these articles I meant to propound myideas (in my revolutionary way) on the subject of modern art in its relation tosociety. I sent six of them to an elderly friend of mine, Albert Franck,requesting him to have them translated into French and to get them published.This Franck was the brother of the better-known Hermann Franck, now the head ofthe Franco-German bookselling firm, which had originally belonged to mybrother-in-law, Avenarius. He sent me back my work with the very natural remarkthat it was out of the question to expect the Parisian public to understand orappreciate my articles, especially at such a critical moment.
I headed the manuscript Kunst und Revolution (‘Art and Revolution’) and sent itto Otto Wigand in Leipzig, who actually undertook to publish it in the form ofa pamphlet, and sent me five louis d’or for it. This unexpected success inducedme to continue to exploit my literary gifts. I looked among my papers for theessay I had written the year before as the outcome of my historical studies ofthe ‘Nibelungen’ legend; I gave it the title of Die Nibelungen Weltgeschichteaus der Sage, and again tried my luck by sending it to Wigand.
The sensational title of Kunst und Revolution, as well as the notoriety the‘royal conductor’ had gained as a political refugee, had made the radicalpublisher hope that the scandal that would arise on the publication of myarticles would redound to his benefit! I soon discovered that he was on thepoint of issuing a second edition of Kunst und Revolution, without, however,informing me of the fact. He also took over my new pamphlet for another fivelouis d’or. This was the first time I had earned money by means of publishedwork, and I now began to believe that I had reached that point when I should beable to get the better of my misfortunes. I thought it over, and decided togive public lectures in Zürich on subjects related to my writings during thecoming winter, hoping in that free and haphazard fashion to keep body and soultogether for a little while, although I had no fixed appointment and did notintend to work at music.
It seemed necessary for me to resort to these means, as I did not know howotherwise to keep myself alive. Shortly after my arrival in Zürich I hadwitnessed the coming of the fragments of the Baden army, dispersed over Swissterritory, and accompanied by fugitive volunteers, and this had made a painfuland uncanny impression upon me. The news of the surrender near Villagos byGorgey paralysed the last hopes as to the issue of the great European strugglefor liberty, which so far had been left quite undecided. With some misgivingand anxiety I now turned my eyes from all these occurrences in the outsideworld inwards to my own soul.
I was accustomed to patronise the cafe litteraire, where I took my coffee aftermy heavy mid-day meal, in a smoky atmosphere surrounded by a merry and jokingthrong of men playing dominoes and ‘fast.’ One day I stared at its commonwall-paper representing antique subjects, which in some inexplicable wayrecalled a certain water-colour by Genelli to my mind, portraying ‘Theeducation of Dionysos by the Muses.’ I had seen it at the house of mybrother-in-law Brockhaus in my young days, and it had made a deep impression onme at the time. At this same place I conceived the first ideas of my Kunstwerkder Zukunft (‘The Art-Work of the Future’), and it seemed a significant omen tome to be roused one day out of one of my post-prandial dreams by the news thatSchroder-Devrient was staying in Zürich. I immediately got up with theintention of calling on her at the neighbouring hotel, ‘Zum Schwerte,’ but tomy great dismay heard that she had just left by steamer. I never saw her again,and long afterwards only heard of her painful death from my wife, who in lateryears became fairly intimate with her in Dresden.
After I had spent two remarkable summer months in this wild and extraordinaryfashion, I at last received reassuring news of Minna, who had remained inDresden. Although her manner of taking leave of me had been both harsh andwounding, I could not bring myself to believe I had completely parted from her.In a letter I wrote to one of her relations, and which I presumed they wouldforward, I made sympathetic inquiries about her, while I had already done allthat lay in my power, through repeated appeals to Liszt, to ensure her beingwell cared for. I now received a direct reply, which, in addition to the factthat it testified to the vigour and activity with which she had fought herdifficulties, at the same time showed me that she earnestly desired to bereunited with me. It was almost in terms of contempt that she expressed hergrave doubts as to the possibility of my being able to make a living in Zürich,but she added that, inasmuch as she was my wife, she wished to give me anotherchance. She also seemed to take it for granted that I intended making Zürichonly our temporary home, and that I would do my utmost to promote my career asa composer of opera in Paris. Whereupon she announced her intention of arrivingat Rorschach in Switzerland on a certain date in September of that year, in thecompany of the little dog Peps, the parrot Papo, and her so-called sisterNathalie. After having engaged two rooms for our new home, I now prepared toset out on foot for St. Gall and Rorschach through the lovely and celebratedToggenburg and Appenzell, and felt very touched after all when the peculiarfamily, which consisted half of pet animals, landed at the harbour ofRorschach. I must honestly confess that the little dog and the bird made mevery happy. My wife at once threw cold water on my emotions, however, bydeclaring that in the event of my behaving badly again she was ready to returnto Dresden any moment, and that she had numerous friends there, who would beglad to protect and succour her if she were forced to carry out her threat. Bethis as it may, one look at her convinced me how greatly she had aged in thisshort time, and how much I ought to pity her, and this feeling succeeded inbanishing all bitterness from my heart.
I did my utmost to give her confidence and to make her believe that our presentmisfortunes were but momentary. This was no easy task, as she would constantlycompare the diminutive aspect of the town of Zürich with the more noble majestyof Dresden, and seemed to feel bitterly humiliated. The friends whom Iintroduced to her found no favour in her eyes. She looked upon the CantonalSecretary, Sulzer, as a ‘mere town clerk who would not be of any importance in.Germany’; and the wife of my host Muller absolutely disgusted her when, inanswer to Minna’s complaints about my terrible position, she replied that mygreatness lay in the very fact of my having faced it. Then again Minna appeasedme by tolling me of the expected arrival of some of my Dresden belongings,which she thought would be indispensable to our new home.
The property of which she spoke consisted of a Breitkopf and Hartel grand-pianothat looked better than it sounded, and of the ‘title-page’ of the Nibelungenby Cornelius in a Gothic frame that used to hang over my desk in Dresden.
With this nucleus of household effects we now decided to take small lodgings inthe so-called ‘hinteren Escherhausern’ in the Zeltweg. With great clevernessMinna had succeeded in selling the Dresden furniture to advantage, and out ofthe proceeds of this sale she had brought three hundred marks with her toZürich to help towards setting up our new home. She told me that she had savedmy small but very select library for me by giving it into the safe custody ofthe publisher, Heinrich Brockhaus (brother of my sister’s husband and member ofthe Saxon Diet), who had insisted upon looking after it. Great, therefore, washer dismay when, upon asking this kind friend to send her the books, he repliedthat he was holding them as security for a debt of fifteen hundred marks whichI had contracted with him during my days of trouble in Dresden, and that heintended to keep them until that sum was returned. As even after the lapse ofmany years I found it impossible to refund this money, these books, collectedfor my own special wants, were lost to me for ever.
Thanks more particularly to my friend Sulzer, the Cantonal Secretary, whom mywife at first despised so much on account of his title which she misunderstood,and who, although he was far from well-off himself, thought it only naturalthat he should help me, however moderately, out of my difficulties, we soonsucceeded in making our little place look so cosy that my simple Zürich friendsfelt quite at home in it. My wife, with all her undeniable talents, hero foundample scope in which to distinguish herself, and I remember how ingeniously shemade a little what-not out of the box in which she had kindly brought my musicand manuscript to Zürich.
But it was soon time to think of how to earn enough money to provide for usall. My idea of giving public lectures was treated with contempt by my wife,who looked upon it as an insult to her pride. She could acquiesce only in oneplan, that suggested by Liszt, namely, that I should write an opera for Paris.To satisfy her, and in view of the fact that I could see no chance of aremunerative occupation close at hand, I actually reopened a correspondence onthis matter with my great friend and his secretary Belloni in Paris. In themeantime I could not be idle, so I accepted an invitation from the Zürichmusical society to conduct a classical composition at one of their concerts,and to this end I worked with their very poor orchestra at Beethoven’s Symphonyin A major. Although the result was successful, and I received five napoleonsfor my trouble, it made my wife very unhappy, for she could not forget theexcellent orchestra, and the much more appreciative public, which a short timebefore in Dresden would have seconded and rewarded similar efforts on my part.Her one and only ideal for me was that, by hook or by crook, and with a totaldisregard of all artistic scruples, I should make a brilliant reputation formyself in Paris. While we were both absolutely at a loss to discover whence weshould obtain the necessary funds for our journey to Paris and our sojournthere, I again plunged into my philosophical study of art, as being the onlysphere still left open to me.
Harrassed by the cares of a terrible struggle for existence, I wrote the wholeof Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft in the chilly atmosphere of a sunless little roomon the ground floor during the months of November and December of that year.Minna had no objection to this occupation when I told her of the success of myfirst pamphlet, and the hope I had of receiving even better pay for this moreextensive work.
Thus for a while I enjoyed comparative peace, although in my heart a spirit ofunrest had begun to reign, thanks to my growing acquaintance with Feuerbach’sworks. I had always had an inclination to fathom the depths of philosophy, justas I had been led by the mystic influence of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony tosearch the deepest recesses of music. My first efforts at satisfying thislonging had failed. None of the Leipzig professors had succeeded in fascinatingme with their lectures on fundamental philosophy and logic. I had procuredSchelling’s work, Transcendental Idealism, recommended to me by GustavSchlesinger, a friend of Laube’s, but it was in vain that I racked my brains totry and make something out of the first pages, and I always returned to myNinth Symphony.
During the latter part of my stay in Dresden I had returned to these oldstudies, the longing for which suddenly revived within me, and to these I addedthe deeper historical studies which had always fascinated me. As anintroduction to philosophy I now chose Hegel’s Philosophy of History. A gooddeal of this impressed me deeply, and it now seemed as if I should ultimatelypenetrate into the Holy of Holies along this path. The more incomprehensiblemany of his speculative conclusions appeared, the more I felt myself desirousof probing the question of the ‘Absolute’ and everything connected therewith tothe core. For I so admired Hegel’s powerful mind that it seemed to me he wasthe very keystone of all philosophical thought.
The revolution intervened; the practical tendencies of a social reconstructiondistracted my attention, and as I have already stated, it was a German Catholicpriest and political agitator (formerly a divinity student named Menzdorff, whoused to wear a Calabrian hat)[18]who drew my attention to ‘the only real philosopher of modern times,’ LudwigFeuerbach. My new Zürich friend, the piano teacher, Wilhelm Baumgartner, mademe a present of Feuerbach’s book on Tod und Unsterblichkeit (‘Death andImmortality’). The well-known and stirring lyrical style of the author greatlyfascinated me as a layman. The intricate questions which he propounds in thisbook as if they were being discussed for the first time by him, and which hetreats in a charmingly exhaustive manner, had often occupied my mind since thevery first days of my acquaintance with Lehrs in Paris, just as they occupy themind of every imaginative and serious man. With me, however, this was notlasting, and I had contented myself with the poetic suggestions on theseimportant subjects which appear here and there in the works of our great poets.
[18]A broad-rimmed, tall, white felt hat, tapering to a point, originally worn bythe inhabitants of Calabria, and in 1848 a sign of Republicanism.—EDITOR.
The frankness with which Feuerbach explains his views on these interestingquestions, in the more mature parts of his book, pleased me as much by theirtragic as by their social-radical tendencies. It seemed right that the onlytrue immortality should be that of sublime deeds and great works of art. It wasmore difficult to sustain any interest in Das Wesen des Christenthums (‘TheEssence of Christianity’) by the same author, for it was impossible whilstreading this work not to become conscious, however involuntarily, of the prolixand unskilful manner in which he dilates on the simple and fundamental idea,namely, religion explained from a purely subjective and psychological point ofview. Nevertheless, from that day onward I always regarded Feuerbach as theideal exponent of the radical release of the individual from the thraldom ofaccepted notions, founded on the belief in authority. The initiated willtherefore not wonder that I dedicated my Kunstwerk der Zukunft to Feuerbach andaddressed its preface to him.
My friend Sulzer, a thorough disciple of Hegel, was very sorry to see me sointerested in Feuerbach, whom he did not even recognise as a philosopher atall. He said that the best thing that Feuerbach had done for me was that he hadbeen the means of awakening my ideas, although he himself had none. But whathad really induced me to attach so much importance to Feuerbach was theconclusion by means of which he had seceded from his master Hegel, to wit, thatthe best philosophy was to have no philosophy—a theory which greatly simplifiedwhat I had formerly considered a very terrifying study—and secondly, that onlythat was real which could be ascertained by the senses.
The fact that he proclaimed what we call ‘spirit’ to be an aesthetic perceptionof our senses, together with his statement concerning the futility ofphilosophy—these were the two things in him which rendered me such usefulassistance in my conceptions of an all-embracing work of art, of a perfectdrama which should appeal to the simplest and most purely human emotions at thevery moment when it approached its fulfilment as Kunstwerk der Zukunft. It musthave been this which Sulzer had in his mind when he spoke deprecatingly ofFeuerbach’s influence over me. At all events, after a while I certainly couldnot return to his works, and I remember that his newly published book, Uber dasWesen der Religion (‘Lectures on the Essence of Religion’), scared me to suchan extent by the dullness of its title alone, that when Herwegh opened it formy benefit, I closed it with a bang under his very nose.
At that time I was working with great enthusiasm upon the draft of a connectedessay, and was delighted one day to receive a visit from the novelist andTieckian scholar, Eduard von Billow (the father of my young friend Billow), whowas passing through Zürich. In my tiny little room I read him my chapter onpoetry, and could not help noticing that he was greatly startled at my ideas onliterary drama and on the advent of the new Shakespeare. I thought this all themore reason why Wigand the publisher should accept my new revolutionary book,and expected him to pay me a fee which would be in proportion to the greatersize of the work. I asked for twenty louis d’or, and this sum he agreed to payme.
The prospect of receiving this amount induced me to carry out the plan, whichneed had forced upon me, of travelling to Paris and of trying my luck there asa composer of opera. This plan had very serious drawbacks; not only did I hatethe idea, but I knew that I was doing an injustice to myself by believing inthe success of my enterprise, for I felt that I could never seriously throwmyself into it heart and soul. Everything, however, combined to make me try theexperiment, and it was Liszt in particular who, confident of this being my onlyway to fame, insisted upon my reopening the negotiations into which Belloni andI had entered during the previous summer. To show with what earnestness I triedto consider the chances of carrying out my plan, I drafted out the plot of theopera, which the French poet would only have to put into verse, because I neverfor a moment fancied that it would be possible for him to think out and write alibretto for which I would only need to compose the music. I chose for mysubject the legend of Wieland der Schmied, upon which I commented with somestress at the end of my recently finished Kunstwerk der Zukunft, and theversion of which by Simrock, taken from the Wilkyna legend, had greatlyattracted me.
I sketched out the complete scenario with precise indication of the dialoguefor three acts, and with a heavy heart decided to hand it over to my Parisianauthor to be worked out. Liszt thought he saw a means of making my music knownthrough his relations with Seghers, the musical director of a society thenknown as the ‘Concerts de St. Cecile.’ In January of the following year theTannhäuser Overture was to be given under his baton, and it therefore seemedadvisable that I should reach Paris some time before this event. Thisundertaking, which appeared to be so difficult owing to my complete lack offunds, was at last facilitated in a manner quite unexpected.
I had written home for help, and had appealed to all the old friends I couldthink of, but in vain. By the family of my brother Albert in particular, whosedaughter had recently entered upon a brilliant theatrical career, I was treatedin much the same way as one treats an invalid by whom one dreads to becomeinfected. In contrast to their harshness I was deeply touched by the devotionof the Ritter family, who had remained in Dresden; for, apart from myacquaintance with young Karl, I scarcely knew these people at all. Through thekindness of my old friend Heine, who had been informed of my position, FrauJulie Ritter, the venerable mother of the family, had thought it her duty toplace, through a business friend, the sum of fifteen hundred marks at mydisposal. At about the same time I received a letter from Mme. Laussot, who hadcalled upon me in Dresden the year before, and who now in the most affectingterms assured me of her continued sympathy.
These were the first signs of that new phase in my life upon which I enteredfrom this day forth, and in which I accustomed myself to look upon the outwardcircumstances of my existence as being merely subservient to my will. And bythis means I was able to escape from the hampering narrowness of my home life.
For the moment the proffered financial assistance was very distasteful to me,for it seemed to forbid my raising any further objections to the realisation ofthe detested Paris schemes. When, however, on the strength of this favourablechange in my affairs, I suggested to my wife that we might, after all, contentourselves with remaining in Zürich, she flew into the most violent passion overmy weakness and lack of spirit, and declared that if I did not make up my mindto achieve something in Paris, she would lose all faith in me. She said,moreover, that she absolutely refused to be a witness of my misery and grief asa wretched literary man and insignificant conductor of local concerts inZürich.
We had entered upon the year 1850; I had decided to go to Paris, if only forthe sake of peace, but had to postpone my journey on account of ill-health. Thereaction following upon the terrible excitement of recent times had not failedto have its effect on my overwrought nerves, and a state of complete exhaustionhad followed. The continual colds, in spite of which I had been obliged to workin my very unhealthy room, had at last given rise to alarming symptoms. Acertain weakness of the chest became apparent, and this the doctor (a politicalrefugee) undertook to cure by the application of pitch plasters. As the resultof this treatment and the irritating effect it had upon my nerves, I lost myvoice completely for a while; whereupon I was told that I must go away for achange. On going out to buy my ticket for the journey, I felt so weak and brokeout into such terrible perspiration that I hastened to return to my wife inorder to consult her as to the advisability, in the circumstances, ofabandoning the idea of the expedition altogether. She, however, maintained (andperhaps rightly) not only that my condition was not dangerous, but that it wasto a large extent due to imagination, and that, once in the right place, Iwould soon recover.
An inexpressible feeling of bitterness stimulated my nerves as in anger anddespair I quickly left the house to buy the confounded ticket for the journey,and in the beginning of February I actually started on the road to Paris. I wasfilled with the most extraordinary feelings, but the spark of hope which wasthen kindled in my breast certainly had nothing whatever to do with the beliefthat had been imposed upon me from without, that I was to make a success inParis as a composer of operas.
I was particularly anxious to find quiet rooms, for peace had now become myfirst necessity, no matter where I happened to be staying. The cabman who droveme from street to street through the most isolated quarters, and whom I at lastaccused of keeping always to the most animated parts of the city, finallyprotested in despair that one did not come to Paris to live in a convent. Atlast it occurred to me to look for what I wanted in one of the cites throughwhich no vehicle seemed to drive, and I decided to engage rooms in the Cite deProvence.
True to the plans which had been forced upon me, I at once called on HerrSeghers about the performance of the Tannhäuser Overture.
It turned out that in spite of my late arrival I had missed nothing, for theywere still racking their brains as to how to procure the necessary orchestralparts.
I therefore had to write to Liszt, asking him to order the copies, and had towait for their arrival. Belloni was not in town, things were therefore at astandstill, and I had plenty of time to think over the object of my visit toParis, while an unceasing accompaniment was poured out to my meditations by thebarrel-organs which infest the cites of Paris.
I had much difficulty in convincing an agent of the government, from whom Ireceived a visit soon after my arrival, that my presence in Paris was due toartistic reasons, and not to my doubtful position as a political refugee.
Fortunately he was impressed by the score, which I showed him, as well as byLiszt’s article on the Tannhäuser Overture, written the year before in theJournal des Debats, and he left me, politely inviting me to continue myavocations peacefully and industriously, as the police had no intention ofdisturbing me.
I also looked up my older Parisian acquaintances. At the hospitable house ofDesplechins I met Semper, who was trying to make his position as tolerable aspossible by writing some inferior artistic work. He had left his family inDresden, from which town we soon received the most alarming news. The prisonswere gradually filling there with the unfortunate victims of the recent Saxonmovement Of Röckel, Bakunin, and Heubner, all we could hear was that they hadbeen charged with high treason, and that they were awaiting the death sentence.
In view of the tidings which continually arrived concerning the cruelty andbrutality with which the soldiers treated the prisoners, we could not helpconsidering our own lot a very happy one.
My intercourse with Semper, whom I saw frequently, was generally enlivened by agaiety which was occasionally of rather a risky nature; he was determined torejoin his family in London, where the prospect of various appointments wasopen to him. My latest attempts at writing, and the thoughts expressed in mywork, interested him greatly, and gave rise to animated conversations in whichwe were joined by Kietz, who was at first amusing, but evidently boring Semperconsiderably. I found the former in the identical position in which I had lefthim many years ago: he had made no headway with his painting, and would havebeen glad if the revolution had taken a more decided turn, so that, under coverof the general confusion, he might have escaped from his embarrassing positionwith his landlord. He made at this time quite a good pastel portrait of me inhis very best and earliest style. While I was sitting I unfortunately spoke tohim about my Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft, and thereby laid the foundation for himof troubles that lasted many years, as he tried to instil my new ideas into theParisian bourgeoisie at whose tables he had hitherto been a welcome guest.Notwithstanding, he remained as of old a good, obliging, true-hearted fellow,and even Semper could not help putting up with him cheerfully. I also looked upmy friend Anders. It was a difficult matter to find him at any hour of the day,since out of sleeping hours he was closeted in the library, where he couldreceive no one, and afterwards retired to the reading-room to spend his hoursof rest, and generally went to dine with certain bourgeois families where hegave music lessons. He had aged considerably, but I was glad to find him,comparatively speaking, in better health than the state in which I had lastseen him had allowed me to hope, as when I left Paris before he had seemed tobe in a decline. Curiously enough, a broken leg had been the means of improvinghis health, the treatment necessary for it having taken him to a hydro, wherehis condition had much improved. His one idea was to see me achieve a greatsuccess in Paris, and he wished to secure a seat in advance for the firstperformance of my opera, which he took for granted was to appear, and keptrepeating that it would be so very trying for him to occupy a place in any partof the theatre where there would be likely to be a crush. He could not see theuse of my present literary work; in spite of this I was again engaged on itexclusively, as I soon ascertained there was no likelihood of my overture toTannhäuser being produced. Liszt had shown the greatest zeal in obtaining andforwarding the orchestral parts; but Herr Seghers informed me that as far ashis own orchestra was concerned, he found himself in a republican democracywhere each instrument had an equal right to voice its opinion, and it had beenunanimously decided that for the remainder of the winter season, which was nowdrawing to a close, my overture could be dispensed with. I gathered enough fromthis turn of affairs to realise how precarious my position was.
It is true, the result of my writings was hardly less discouraging. A copy ofthe Wigand edition of my Kunstwerk der Zukunft was forwarded to me full ofhorrible misprints, and instead of the expected remuneration of twenty louisd’or, my publisher explained that for the present he could only pay me halfthis sum, as, owing to the fact that at first the sale of the Kunst undRevolution had been very rapid, he had been led to attach too high a commercialvalue to my writings, a mistake he had speedily discovered when he found therewas no demand for Die Nibelungen.
On the other hand, I received an offer of remunerative work from AdolphKolatschek, who was also a fugitive, and was just going to bring out a Germanmonthly journal as the organ of the progressive party. In response to thisinvitation I wrote a long essay on Kunst und Klima (‘Art and Climate’), inwhich I supplemented the ideas I had already touched upon in my Kunstwerk derZukunft. Besides this I had, since my arrival in Paris, worked out a morecomplete sketch of Wieland der Schmied. It is true that this work had no longerany value, and I wondered with apprehension what I could write home to my wife,now that the last precious remittance had been so aimlessly sacrificed. Thethought of returning to Zürich was as distasteful to me as the prospect ofremaining any longer in Paris. My feelings with regard to the latteralternative were intensified by the impression made upon me by Meyerbeer’sopera The Prophet, which had just been produced and which I had not heardbefore. Rearing itself on the ruins of the hopes for new and more nobleendeavour which had animated the better works of the past year—the only resultof the negotiations of the provisional French republic for the encouragement ofart—I saw this work of Meyerbeer’s break upon the world like the dawn heraldingthis day of disgraceful desolation. I was so sickened by this performance, thatthough I was unfortunately placed in the centre of the stalls and wouldwillingly have avoided the disturbance necessarily occasioned by one of theaudience moving during the middle of an act, even this consideration did notdeter me from getting up and leaving the house. When the famous mother of theprophet finally gives vent to her grief in the well-known series of ridiculousroulades, I was filled with rage and despair at the thought that I should becalled upon to listen to such a thing, and never again did I pay the slightestheed to this opera.
But what was I to do next? Just as the South American republics had attractedme during my first miserable sojourn in Paris, so now my longing was directedtowards the East, where I could live my life in a manner worthy of a humanbeing far away from this modern world. While I was in this frame of mind I wascalled upon to answer another inquiry as to my state of health from Mme.Laussot in Bordeaux. It turned out that my answer prompted her to send me akind and pressing invitation to go and stay at her house, at least for a shorttime, to rest and forget my troubles. In any circumstances an excursion to moresoutherly regions, which I had not yet seen, and a visit to people who, thoughutter strangers, showed such friendly interest in me, could not fail to proveattractive and flattering. I accepted, settled my affairs in Paris, and went bycoach via Orleans, Tours, and Angouleme, down the Gironde to the unknown town,where I was received with great courtesy and cordiality by the young winemerchant Eugene Laussot, and presented to my sympathetic young friend, hiswife. A closer acquaintance with the family, in which Mrs. Taylor, Mme.Laussot’s mother, was now also included, led to a clearer understanding of thecharacter of the sympathy bestowed upon me in such a cordial and unexpectedmanner by people hitherto unknown to me. Jessie, as the young wife was calledat home, had, during a somewhat lengthy stay in Dresden, become very intimatewith the Ritter family, and I had no reason to doubt the assurance given me,that the Laussots’ interest in me and my work was principally owing to thisintimacy. After my flight from Dresden, as soon as the news of my difficultieshad reached the Ritters, a correspondence had been carried on between Dresdenand Bordeaux with a view to ascertaining how best to assist me. Jessieattributed the whole idea to Frau Julie Ritter who, while not being well enoughoff herself to make me a sufficient allowance, was endeavouring to come to anunderstanding with Jessie’s mother, the well-to-do widow of an English lawyer,whose income entirely supported the young couple in Bordeaux. This plan had sofar succeeded, that shortly after my arrival in Bordeaux Mrs. Taylor informedme that the two families had combined, and that it had been decided to ask meto accept the help of three thousand francs a year until the return of betterdays. My one object now was to enlighten my benefactors as to the exactconditions under which I should be accepting such assistance. I could no longerreckon upon achieving any success as a composer of opera either in Paris orelsewhere; what line I should take up instead I did not know; but, at allevents, I was determined to keep myself free from the disgrace which wouldreflect upon my whole life if I used such means as this offer presented tosecure success. I feel sure I am not wrong in believing that Jessie was theonly one who understood me, and though I only experienced kindness from therest of the family, I soon discovered the gulf by which she, as well as myself,was separated from her mother and husband. While the husband, who was ahandsome young man, was away the greater part of the day attending to hisbusiness, and the mother’s deafness excluded her to a great extent from ourconversations, we soon discovered by a rapid exchange of ideas that we sharedthe same opinions on many important matters, and this led to a great feeling offriendship between us. Jessie, who was at that time about twenty-two, borelittle resemblance to her mother, and no doubt took after her father, of whom Iheard most flattering accounts. A large and varied collection of books loft bythis man to his daughter showed his tastes, for besides carrying on hislucrative profession as a lawyer, he had devoted himself to the study ofliterature and science. From him Jessie had also learned German as a child, andshe spoke that language with great fluency. She had been brought up on Grimm’sfairy-tales, and was, moreover, thoroughly acquainted with German poetry, aswell as with that of England and France, and her knowledge of them was asthorough as the most advanced education could demand. French literature did notappeal to her much. Her quick powers of comprehension were astonishing.Everything which I touched upon she immediately grasped and assimilated. It wasthe same with music: she read at sight with the greatest facility, and was anaccomplished player. During her stay in Dresden she had been told that I wasstill in search of the pianist who could play Beethoven’s great Sonata in Bflat major, and she now astonished me by her finished rendering of this mostdifficult piece. The emotion aroused in me by finding such an exceptionallydeveloped talent suddenly changed to anxiety when I heard her sing. Her sharp,shrill voice, in which there was strength but no real depth of feeling, soshocked me that I could not refrain from begging her to desist from singing infuture. With regard to the execution of the sonata, she listened eagerly to myinstructions as to how it should be interpreted, though I could not feel thatshe would succeed in rendering it according to my ideas. I read her my latestessays, and she seemed to understand even the most extraordinary descriptionsperfectly. My poem on Siegfried’s Tod moved her deeply, but she preferred mysketch of Wieland der Schmied. She admitted afterwards that she would prefer toimagine herself filling the role of Wieland’s worthy bride than to find herselfin the position and forced to endure the fate of Gutrune in Siegfried. Itfollowed inevitably that the presence of the other members of the family provedembarrassing when we wanted to talk over and discuss these various subjects. Ifwe felt somewhat troubled at having to confess to ourselves that Mrs. Taylorwould certainly never be able to understand why I was being offered assistance,I was still more disconcerted at realising after a time the complete want ofharmony between the young couple, particularly from an intellectual point ofview. The fact that Laussot had for some time been well aware of his wife’sdislike for him was plainly shown when he one day so far forgot himself as tocomplain loudly and bitterly that she would not even love a child of his if shehad one, and that he therefore thought it fortunate that she was not a mother.Astonished and saddened, I suddenly gazed into an abyss which was hidden here,as is often the case, under the appearance of a tolerably happy married life.About this time, and just as my visit, which had already lasted three weeks,was drawing to a close, I received a letter from my wife that could not havehad a more unfortunate effect on my state of mind. She was, on the whole,pleased at my having found new friends, but at the same time explained that ifI did not immediately return to Paris, and there endeavour to secure theproduction of my overture with the results anticipated, she would not know whatto think of me, and would certainly fail to understand me if I returned toZürich without having effected my purpose. At the same time my depression wasintensified in a terrible way by a notice in the papers announcing that Röckel,Bakunin, and Heubner had been sentenced to death, and that the date of theirexecution was fixed. I wrote a short but stirring letter of farewell to the twofirst, and as I saw no possibility of having it conveyed to the prisoners, whowere confined in the fortress of Konigstein, I decided to send it to Frau vonLüttichau, to be forwarded to them by her, because I thought she was the onlyperson in whose power it might lie to do this for me, while at the same timeshe had sufficient generosity and independence of mind to enable her to respectand carry out my wishes, in spite of any possible difference of opinion shemight entertain. I was told some time afterwards that Lüttichau had got hold ofthe letter and thrown it into the fire. For the time being this painfulimpression helped me to the determination to break with every one andeverything, to lose all desire to learn more of life or of art, and, even atthe risk of having to endure the greatest privations, to trust to chance andput myself beyond the reach of everybody. The small income settled upon me bymy friends I wished to divide between myself and my wife, and with my half goto Greece or Asia Minor, and there, Heaven alone knew how, seek to forget andbe forgotten. I communicated this plan to the only confidante I had left to me,chiefly in order that she might be able to enlighten my benefactors as to how Iintended disposing of the income they had offered me. She seemed pleased withthe idea, and the resolve to abandon herself to the same fate seemed to heralso, in her resentment against her position, to be quite an easy matter. Sheexpressed us much by hints and a word dropped here and there. Without clearlyrealising what it would lead to, and without coming to any understanding withher, I left Bordeaux towards the end of April, more excited than soothed inspirit, and filled with regret and anxiety. I returned to Paris, for the timebeing, stunned and full of uncertainty as to what to do next. Feeling veryunwell, exhausted, and at the same time excited from want of sleep, I reachedmy destination and put up at the Hotel Valois, where I remained a week,struggling to gain my self-control and to face my strange position. Even if Ihad wished to resume the plans which had been instrumental in bringing me toParis, I soon convinced myself that little or nothing could be done. I wasfilled with distress and anger at being called upon to waste my energies in adirection contrary to my tastes, merely to satisfy the unreasonable demandsmade upon me. I was at length obliged to answer my wife’s last pressingcommunication, and wrote her a long and detailed letter in which I kindly, butat the same time frankly, retraced the whole of our life together, andexplained that I was fully determined to set her free from any immediateparticipation in my fate, as I felt quite incapable of so arranging it so as tomeet with her approval. I promised her the half of whatever means I should haveat my disposal now or in the future, and told her she must accept thisarrangement with a good grace, because the occasion had now arisen to take thatstep of parting from me which, on our first meeting again in Switzerland, shehad declared herself ready to do. I ended my letter without bidding her a finalfarewell. I thereupon wrote to Bordeaux immediately to inform Jessie of thestep I had taken, though my means did not as yet allow of my forming anydefinite plan which I could communicate to her for my complete flight from theworld. In return she announced that she was determined to do likewise, andasked for my protection, under which she intended to place herself when onceshe had set herself free. Much alarmed, I did all in my power to make herrealise that it was one thing for a man, placed in such a desperate situationas myself, to cut himself adrift in the face of insurmountable difficulties,but quite another matter for a young woman, at least to all outwardappearances, happily settled, to decide to break up her home, for reasons whichprobably no one except myself would be in a position to understand. Regardingthe unconventionality of her resolve in the eyes of the world, she assured methat it would be carried out as quietly as possible, and that for the presentshe merely thought of arranging to visit her friends the Ritters in Dresden. Ifelt so upset by all this that I yielded to my craving for retirement, andsought it at no great distance from Paris. Towards the middle of April I wentto Montmorency, of which I had heard many agreeable accounts, and there soughta modest hiding-place. With great difficulty I dragged myself to the outskirtsof the little town, where the country still bore a wintry aspect, and turnedinto the little strip of garden belonging to a wine merchant, which was filledwith visitors only on Sundays, and there refreshed myself with some bread andcheese and a bottle of wine. A crowd of hens surrounded me, and I kept throwingthem pieces of bread, and was touched by the self-sacrificing abstemiousnesswith which the cock gave all to his wives though I aimed particularly at him.They became bolder and bolder, and finally flew on to the table and attacked myprovisions; the cock flew after them, and noticing that everything wastopsy-turvy, pounced upon the cheese with the eagerness of a craving longunsatisfied. When I found myself being driven from the table by this chaos offluttering wings, I was filled with a gaiety to which I had long been astranger. I laughed heartily, and looked round for the signboard of the inn. Ithereby discovered that my host rejoiced in the name of Homo. This seemed ahint from Fate, and I felt I must seek shelter here at all costs. Anextraordinarily small and narrow bedroom was shown me, which I immediatelyengaged. Besides the bed it held a rough table and two cane-bottomed chairs. Iarranged one of these as a washhand-stand, and on the table I placed somebooks, writing materials, and the score of Lohengrin, and almost heaved a sighof content in spite of my extremely cramped accommodation. Though the weatherremained uncertain and the woods with their leafless trees did not seem tooffer the prospect of very enticing walks, I still felt that here there was apossibility of my being forgotten, and being also in my turn allowed to forgetthe events that had lately filled me with Midi desperate anxiety. My oldartistic instinct awoke again. I looked over my Lohengrin score, and quicklydecided to send it to Liszt and leave it to him to bring it out as best hecould. Now that I had got rid of this score also, I felt as free as a bird andas careless as Diogenes about what might befall me. I even invited Kietz tocome and stay with me and share the pleasures of my retreat. He did actuallycome, as he had done during my stay in. Mendon; but he found me even moremodestly installed than I had been there. He was quite prepared to takepot-luck, however, and cheerfully slept on an improvised bed, promising to keepthe world in touch with me upon his return to Paris. I was suddenly startledfrom my state of complacency by the news that my wife had come to Paris to lookme up. I had an hour’s painful struggle with myself to settle the course Ishould pursue, and decided not to allow the step I had taken in regard to herto be looked upon as an ill-considered and excusable vagary. I left Montmorencyand betook myself to Paris, summoned Kietz to my hotel, and instructed him totell my wife, who had already been trying to gain admittance to him, that heknew nothing more of me except that I had left Paris. The poor fellow, who feltas much pity for Minna as for me, was so utterly bewildered on this occasion,that he declared that he felt as though he were the axis upon which all themisery in the world turned. But he apparently realised the significance andimportance of my decision, as it was necessary he should, and acquitted himselfin this delicate matter with intelligence and good feeling. That night t leftParis by train for Clermont-Tonnerre, from whence I travelled on to Geneva,there to await news from Frau Ritter in Dresden. My exhaustion was such that,even had I possessed the necessary means, I could not as yet have contemplatedundergoing the fatigue of a long journey. By way of gaining time for furtherdevelopments I retired to Villeneuve, at the other end of the Lake of Geneva,where I put up at the Hotel Byron, which was quite empty at the time. Here Ilearned that Karl Ritter had arrived in Zürich, as he said he would, with theintention of paying me a visit. Impressing upon him the necessity for thestrictest secrecy, I invited him to join me at the Lake of Geneva, and in thesecond week in May we met at the Hotel Byron. The characteristic which pleasedme in him was his absolute devotion, his quick comprehension of my position andthe necessity of my resolutions, as well as his readiness to submit withoutquestion to all my arrangements, even where he himself was concerned. He wasfull of my latest literary efforts, told me what an impression they had made onhis acquaintances, and thereby induced me to spend the few days of rest I wasenjoying in preparing my poem of Siegfried’s Tod for publication.
I wrote a short preface dedicating this poem to my friends as a relic of thetime when I had hoped to devote myself entirely to art, and especially to thecomposition of music. I sent this manuscript to Herr Wigand in Leipzig, whoreturned it to me after some time with the remark, that if I insisted on itsbeing printed in Latin characters he would not be able to sell a single copy ofit. Later on I discovered that he deliberately refused to pay me the ten louisd’or due to me for Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft, which I had directed him to sendto my wife. Disappointing as all this was, I was nevertheless unable to engagein any further work, as only a few days after Karl’s arrival the realities oflife made themselves felt in an unexpected manner, most upsetting to mytranquillity of mind. I received a wildly excited letter from Mme. Laussot totell me that she had not been able to resist telling her mother of herintentions, that in so doing she had immediately aroused the suspicion that Iwas to blame, and in consequence of this her disclosure had been communicatedto M. Laussot, who vowed he would search everywhere for me in order to put abullet through my body. The situation was clear enough, and I decided to go toBordeaux immediately in order to come to an understanding with my opponent I atonce wrote fully to M. Eugene, endeavouring to make him see matters in theirtrue light, but at the same time declared myself incapable of understanding howa man could bring himself to keep a woman with him by force, when she no longerwished to remain. I ended by informing him that I should reach Bordeaux at, thesame time as my letter, and immediately upon my arrival there would let himknow at what hotel to find me; also that I would not tell his wife of the stepI was taking, and that he could consequently act without restraint. I did notconceal from him, what indeed was the fact, that I was undertaking this journeyunder great difficulties, as under the circumstances I considered it impossibleto wait to have my passport endorsed by the French envoy. At the same time Iwrote a few lines to Mme. Laussot, exhorting her to be calm and self-possessed,but, true to my purpose, refrained from even hinting at any movement on mypart. (When, years afterwards, I told Liszt this story, he declared I had actedvery stupidly in not, telling Mme. Laussot of my intentions.) I took leave ofKarl the same day, in order to set out next morning from Geneva on my tediousjourney across France. But I was so exhausted by all this that I could not helpthinking I was going to die. That same night I wrote to Frau Ritter in Dresden,to this effect, giving her a short account of the incredible difficulties I hadbeen drawn into. As a matter of fact, I suffered great inconvenience at theFrench frontier on account of my passport; I was made to give my exact place ofdestination, and it was only upon my assuring them that pressing family affairsrequired my immediate presence, that the authorities showed exceptionalleniency and allowed me to proceed.
I travelled by Lyons through Auvergne by stage-coach for three days and twonights, till at length I reached Bordeaux. It was the middle of May, and as Isurveyed the town from a height at early dawn I saw it lit up by a fire thathad broken out. I alighted at the Hotel Quatre Soeurs, and at once sent a noteto M. Laussot, informing him that I held myself at his disposal and wouldremain in all day to receive him. It was nine o’clock in the morning when Isent him this message. I waited in vain for an answer, till at last, late inthe afternoon, I received a summons from the police-station to present myselfimmediately. There I was first of all asked whether my passport was in order. Iacknowledged the difficulty I found myself in with regard to it, and explainedthat family matters had necessitated my placing myself in this position.
I was thereupon informed that precisely this family matter, which had no doubtbrought me there, was the cause of their having to deny me the permission toremain in Bordeaux any longer. In answer to my question, they did not concealthe fact that these proceedings against me were being carried out at theexpress wish of the family concerned. This extraordinary revelation immediatelyrestored my good-humour. I asked the police inspector whether, after such atrying journey, I might not be allowed a couple of days’ rest before returning;this request he readily granted, and told me that in any case there could be nochance of my meeting the family in question, as they had left Bordeaux atmid-day. I used these two days to recover from my fatigue, and also wrote aletter to Jessie, in which I told her exactly what had taken place, withoutconcealing my contempt at the behaviour of her husband, who could expose hiswife’s honour by a denunciation to the police. I also added that our friendshipcould certainly not continue until she had released herself from so humiliatinga position. The next thing was to get this letter safely delivered. Theinformation furnished me by the police officials was not sufficient toenlighten me as to what had exactly taken place in the Laussot family, whetherthey had left home for some length of time or merely for a day, so I simplymade up my mind to go to their house. I rang the bell and the door sprang open;without meeting any one I walked up to the first-floor flat, the door of whichstood open, and went from room to room till I reached Jessie’s boudoir, where Iplaced my letter in her work-basket and returned the way I had come. I receivedno reply, and set out upon my return journey as soon as the term of restgranted me had expired. The fine May weather had a cheering effect upon me, andthe clear water, as well as the agreeable name of the Dordogne, along whosebanks the post-chaise travelled for some distance, gave me great pleasure.
I was also entertained by the conversation of two fellow-travellers, a priestand an officer, about the necessity of putting an end to the French Republic.The priest showed himself much more humane and broad-minded than his militaryinterlocutor, who could only repeat the one refrain, ‘Il faut en finir.’ I nowhad a look at Lyons, and in a walk round the town tried to recall the scenes inLamartine’s Histoire des Girondins, where he so vividly describes the siege andsurrender of the town during the period of the Convention Nationale. At last Iarrived at Geneva, and returned to the Byron hotel, where Karl Hitter wasawaiting me. During my absence he had heard from his family, who wrote verykindly concerning me. His mother had at once reassured him as to my condition,and pointed out that with people suffering from nervous disorders the idea ofapproaching death was a frequent symptom, and that there was consequently nooccasion to feel anxious about me. She also announced her intention of comingto visit us in Villeneuve with her daughter Emilie in a few days’ time. Thisnews made me take heart again; this devoted family, so solicitous for mywelfare, seemed sent by Providence to lead me, as I so longed to be led, to anew life. Both ladies arrived in time to celebrate my thirty-seventh birthdayon the twenty-second of May. The mother, Frau Julie, particularly made a deepimpression upon me. I had only met her once before in Dresden, when Karl hadinvited me to be present at the performance of a quartette of his owncomposition, given at his mother’s house. On this occasion the respect anddevotion shown me by each member of the family had delighted me. The mother hadhardly spoken to me, but when I was leaving she was moved to tears as shethanked me for my visit. I was unable to understand her emotion at the time,but now when I reminded her of it she was surprised, and explained that she hadfelt so touched at my unexpected kindness to her son.
She and her daughter remained with us about a week. We sought diversion inexcursions to the beautiful Valais, but did not succeed in dispelling FrauHitter’s sadness of heart, caused by the knowledge of recent events of whichshe had now been informed, as well as by her anxiety at the course my life wastaking. As I afterwards learned, it had cost the nervous, delicate woman agreat effort to undertake this journey, and when I urged her to leave her houseto come and settle in Switzerland with her family, so that we might all beunited, she at last pointed out to me that in proposing what seemed to her suchan eccentric undertaking, I was counting upon a strength and energy she nolonger possessed. For the present she commended her son, whom she wished toleave with me, to my care, and gave me the necessary means to keep us both forthe time being. Regarding the state of her fortune, she told me that her incomewas limited, and now that it was impossible to accept any help from theLaussots, she did not know how she would be able to come to my assistancesufficiently to assure my independence. Deeply moved, we took leave of thisvenerable woman at the end of a week, and she returned to Dresden with herdaughter, and I never saw her again.
Still bent upon discovering a means of disappearing from the world, I thoughtof choosing a wild mountain spot where I could retire with Karl. For thispurpose we sought the lonely Visper Thal in the canton Valais, and not withoutdifficulty made our way along the impracticable roads to Zermatt. There, at thefoot of the colossal and beautiful Matterhorn, we could indeed considerourselves cut off from the outer world. I tried to make things as comfortableas I could in this primitive wilderness, but discovered only too soon that Karlcould not reconcile himself to his surroundings. Even on the second day heowned that he thought it horrid, and suggested that it would be more pleasantin the neighbourhood of one of the lakes. We studied the map of Switzerland,and chose Thun for our next destination. Unfortunately I again found myselfreduced to a state of extreme nervous fatigue, in which the slightest effortproduced a profuse and weakening perspiration. Only by the greatest strength ofwill was I able to make my way out of the valley; but at last we reached Thun,and with renewed courage engaged a couple of modest but cheerful rooms lookingout on to the road, and proposed to wait and see how we should like it. Inspite of the reserve which still betrayed his shyness of character, I foundconversation with my young friend always pleasant and enlivening. I nowrealised the pitch of fluent and overflowing vivacity to which the young mancould attain, particularly at night before retiring to rest, when he wouldsquat down beside my bed, and in the agreeable, pure dialect of the GermanBaltic provinces, give free expression to whatever had excited his interest. Iwas exceedingly cheered during these days by the perusal of the Odyssey, whichI had not read for so long and which had fallen into my hands by chance.Homer’s long-suffering hero, always homesick yet condemned to perpetualwandering, and always valiantly overcoming all difficulties, was strangelysympathetic to me. Suddenly the peaceful state I had scarcely yet entered uponwas disturbed by a letter which Karl received from Mme. Laussot. He did notknow whether he ought to show it to me, as he thought Jessie had gone mad. Itore it out of his hand, and found she had written to say that she felt obligedto let my friend know that she had been sufficiently enlightened about me tomake her drop my acquaintance entirely. I afterwards discovered, chieflythrough the help of Frau Ritter, that in consequence of my letter and myarrival in Bordeaux, M. Laussot, together with Mrs. Taylor, had immediatelytaken Jessie to the country, intending to remain there until the news wasreceived of my departure, to accelerate which he had applied to the policeauthorities. While they were away, and without telling her of my letter and myjourney, they had obtained a promise from the young woman to remain quiet for ayear, give up her visit to Dresden, and, above all, to drop all correspondencewith me; since, under these conditions, she was promised her entire freedom atthe end of that time, she had thought it better to give her word. Not contentwith this, however, the two conspirators had immediately set about calumniatingme on all sides, and finally to Mme. Laussot herself, saying that I was theinitiator of this plan of elopement. Mrs. Taylor had written to my wifecomplaining of my intention to commit adultery, at the same time expressing herpity for her and offering her support; the unfortunate Minna, who now thoughtshe had found a hitherto unsuspected reason for my resolve to remain separatedfrom her, wrote back complaining of me to Mrs. Taylor. The meaning of aninnocent remark I had once made had been strangely misinterpreted, and matterswore now aggravated by making it appear as though I had intentionally lied. Inthe course of playful conversation Jessie had once told me that she belonged tono recognised form of religion, her father Having teen a member of a certainsect which did not baptise either according to the Protestant or the RomanCatholic ritual; whereupon I had comforted her by assuring her that I had comein contact with much more questionable sects, as shortly after my marriage inKönigsberg I had learned that it had been solemnised by a hypocrite. God aloneknows in what form this had been repeated to the worthy British matron, but, atall events, she told my wife that I had said I was ‘not legally married toher.’ In any case, my wife’s answer to this had no doubt furnished furthermaterial with which to poison Jessie’s mind against me, and this letter to myyoung friend was the result. I must admit that, seen by this light, thecircumstance at which I felt most indignant was the way my wife had beentreated, and while I was perfectly indifferent as to what the rest of the partythought of me, I immediately accepted Karl’s offer to go to Zürich and see her,so as to give her the explanation necessary to her peace of mind. Whileawaiting his return, I received a letter from Liszt, telling me of the deepimpression made upon him by my Lohengrin score, which had caused him to make uphis mind as to the future in store for me. He at the same time announced that,as I had given him the permission to do so, he intended doing all in his powerto bring about the production of my opera at the forthcoming Herder festival inWeimar. About this time I also heard from Frau Ritter, who, in consequence ofevents of which she was well aware, thought herself called upon to beg me notto take the matter too much to heart. At this moment Karl also returned fromZürich, and spoke with great warmth of my wife’s attitude. Not having found mein Paris, she had pulled herself together with remarkable energy, and inpursuance of an earlier wish of mine, had rented a house on the lake of Zürich,installed herself comfortably, and remained there in the hope of at lasthearing from me again. Besides this, he had much to tell me of Sulzer’s goodsense and friendliness, the latter having stood by, my wife and shown her greatsympathy. In the midst of his narrative Karl suddenly exclaimed, ‘Ah! thesecould be called sensible people; but with such a mad Englishwoman nothing couldbe done.’ To all this I said not a word, but finally with a smile asked himwhether he would like to go over to Zürich? He sprang up exclaiming, ‘Yes, andas soon as possible.’ ‘You shall have your way,’ said I; ‘let us pack. I cansee no sense in anything either here or there.’ Without breathing anothersyllable about all that had happened, we left the next day for Zürich.
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Economy
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When I wrote the following pages, or rather the bulk of them, I lived alone, inthe woods, a mile from any neighbor, in a house which I had built myself, onthe shore of Walden Pond, in Concord, Massachusetts, and earned my living bythe labor of my hands only. I lived there two years and two months. At presentI am a sojourner in civilized life again.
I should not obtrude my affairs so much on the notice of my readers if veryparticular inquiries had not been made by my townsmen concerning my mode oflife, which some would call impertinent, though they do not appear to me at allimpertinent, but, considering the circumstances, very natural and pertinent.Some have asked what I got to eat; if I did not feel lonesome; if I was notafraid; and the like. Others have been curious to learn what portion of myincome I devoted to charitable purposes; and some, who have large families, howmany poor children I maintained. I will therefore ask those of my readers whofeel no particular interest in me to pardon me if I undertake to answer some ofthese questions in this book. In most books, the I, or first person, isomitted; in this it will be retained; that, in respect to egotism, is the maindifference. We commonly do not remember that it is, after all, always the firstperson that is speaking. I should not talk so much about myself if there wereanybody else whom I knew as well. Unfortunately, I am confined to this theme bythe narrowness of my experience. Moreover, I, on my side, require of everywriter, first or last, a simple and sincere account of his own life, and notmerely what he has heard of other men’s lives; some such account as he wouldsend to his kindred from a distant land; for if he has lived sincerely, it musthave been in a distant land to me. Perhaps these pages are more particularlyaddressed to poor students. As for the rest of my readers, they will acceptsuch portions as apply to them. I trust that none will stretch the seams inputting on the coat, for it may do good service to him whom it fits.
I would fain say something, not so much concerning the Chinese and SandwichIslanders as you who read these pages, who are said to live in New England;something about your condition, especially your outward condition orcircumstances in this world, in this town, what it is, whether it is necessarythat it be as bad as it is, whether it cannot be improved as well as not. Ihave travelled a good deal in Concord; and everywhere, in shops, and offices,and fields, the inhabitants have appeared to me to be doing penance in athousand remarkable ways. What I have heard of Brahmins sitting exposed to fourfires and looking in the face of the sun; or hanging suspended, with theirheads downward, over flames; or looking at the heavens over their shoulders“until it becomes impossible for them to resume their natural position, whilefrom the twist of the neck nothing but liquids can pass into the stomach;” ordwelling, chained for life, at the foot of a tree; or measuring with theirbodies, like caterpillars, the breadth of vast empires; or standing on one legon the tops of pillars,—even these forms of conscious penance are hardly moreincredible and astonishing than the scenes which I daily witness. The twelvelabors of Hercules were trifling in comparison with those which my neighborshave undertaken; for they were only twelve, and had an end; but I could neversee that these men slew or captured any monster or finished any labor. Theyhave no friend Iolas to burn with a hot iron the root of the hydra’s head, butas soon as one head is crushed, two spring up.
I see young men, my townsmen, whose misfortune it is to have inherited farms,houses, barns, cattle, and farming tools; for these are more easily acquiredthan got rid of. Better if they had been born in the open pasture and suckledby a wolf, that they might have seen with clearer eyes what field they werecalled to labor in. Who made them serfs of the soil? Why should they eat theirsixty acres, when man is condemned to eat only his peck of dirt? Why shouldthey begin digging their graves as soon as they are born? They have got to livea man’s life, pushing all these things before them, and get on as well as theycan. How many a poor immortal soul have I met well nigh crushed and smotheredunder its load, creeping down the road of life, pushing before it a barnseventy-five feet by forty, its Augean stables never cleansed, and one hundredacres of land, tillage, mowing, pasture, and wood-lot! The portionless, whostruggle with no such unnecessary inherited encumbrances, find it labor enoughto subdue and cultivate a few cubic feet of flesh.
But men labor under a mistake. The better part of the man is soon plowed intothe soil for compost. By a seeming fate, commonly called necessity, they areemployed, as it says in an old book, laying up treasures which moth and rustwill corrupt and thieves break through and steal. It is a fool’s life, as theywill find when they get to the end of it, if not before. It is said thatDeucalion and Pyrrha created men by throwing stones over their heads behindthem:—
Inde genus durum sumus, experiensque laborum,Et documenta damus quâ simus origine nati.
Or, as Raleigh rhymes it in his sonorous way,—
“From thence our kind hard-hearted is, enduring pain and care,Approving that our bodies of a stony nature are.”
So much for a blind obedience to a blundering oracle, throwing the stones overtheir heads behind them, and not seeing where they fell.
Most men, even in this comparatively free country, through mere ignorance andmistake, are so occupied with the factitious cares and superfluously coarselabors of life that its finer fruits cannot be plucked by them. Their fingers,from excessive toil, are too clumsy and tremble too much for that. Actually,the laboring man has not leisure for a true integrity day by day; he cannotafford to sustain the manliest relations to men; his labor would be depreciatedin the market. He has no time to be anything but a machine. How can he rememberwell his ignorance—which his growth requires—who has so often to use hisknowledge? We should feed and clothe him gratuitously sometimes, and recruithim with our cordials, before we judge of him. The finest qualities of ournature, like the bloom on fruits, can be preserved only by the most delicatehandling. Yet we do not treat ourselves nor one another thus tenderly.
Some of you, we all know, are poor, find it hard to live, are sometimes, as itwere, gasping for breath. I have no doubt that some of you who read this bookare unable to pay for all the dinners which you have actually eaten, or for thecoats and shoes which are fast wearing or are already worn out, and have cometo this page to spend borrowed or stolen time, robbing your creditors of anhour. It is very evident what mean and sneaking lives many of you live, for mysight has been whetted by experience; always on the limits, trying to get intobusiness and trying to get out of debt, a very ancient slough, called by theLatins æs alienum, another’s brass, for some of their coins were made ofbrass; still living, and dying, and buried by this other’s brass; alwayspromising to pay, promising to pay, tomorrow, and dying today, insolvent;seeking to curry favor, to get custom, by how many modes, only not state-prisonoffences; lying, flattering, voting, contracting yourselves into a nutshell ofcivility or dilating into an atmosphere of thin and vaporous generosity, thatyou may persuade your neighbor to let you make his shoes, or his hat, or hiscoat, or his carriage, or import his groceries for him; making yourselves sick,that you may lay up something against a sick day, something to be tucked awayin an old chest, or in a stocking behind the plastering, or, more safely, inthe brick bank; no matter where, no matter how much or how little.
I sometimes wonder that we can be so frivolous, I may almost say, as to attendto the gross but somewhat foreign form of servitude called Negro Slavery, thereare so many keen and subtle masters that enslave both north and south. It ishard to have a southern overseer; it is worse to have a northern one; but worstof all when you are the slave-driver of yourself. Talk of a divinity in man!Look at the teamster on the highway, wending to market by day or night; doesany divinity stir within him? His highest duty to fodder and water his horses!What is his destiny to him compared with the shipping interests? Does not hedrive for Squire Make-a-stir? How godlike, how immortal, is he? See how hecowers and sneaks, how vaguely all the day he fears, not being immortal nordivine, but the slave and prisoner of his own opinion of himself, a fame won byhis own deeds. Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own privateopinion. What a man thinks of himself, that it is which determines, or ratherindicates, his fate. Self-emancipation even in the West Indian provinces of thefancy and imagination,—what Wilberforce is there to bring that about? Think,also, of the ladies of the land weaving toilet cushions against the last day,not to betray too green an interest in their fates! As if you could kill timewithout injuring eternity.
The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation isconfirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperatecountry, and have to console yourself with the bravery of minks and muskrats. Astereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called thegames and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes afterwork. But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.
When we consider what, to use the words of the catechism, is the chief end ofman, and what are the true necessaries and means of life, it appears as if menhad deliberately chosen the common mode of living because they preferred it toany other. Yet they honestly think there is no choice left. But alert andhealthy natures remember that the sun rose clear. It is never too late to giveup our prejudices. No way of thinking or doing, however ancient, can be trustedwithout proof. What everybody echoes or in silence passes by as true to-day mayturn out to be falsehood to-morrow, mere smoke of opinion, which some hadtrusted for a cloud that would sprinkle fertilizing rain on their fields. Whatold people say you cannot do you try and find that you can. Old deeds for oldpeople, and new deeds for new. Old people did not know enough once, perchance,to fetch fresh fuel to keep the fire a-going; new people put a little dry woodunder a pot, and are whirled round the globe with the speed of birds, in a wayto kill old people, as the phrase is. Age is no better, hardly so well,qualified for an instructor as youth, for it has not profited so much as it haslost. One may almost doubt if the wisest man has learned any thing of absolutevalue by living. Practically, the old have no very important advice to give theyoung, their own experience has been so partial, and their lives have been suchmiserable failures, for private reasons, as they must believe; and it may bethat they have some faith left which belies that experience, and they are onlyless young than they were. I have lived some thirty years on this planet, and Ihave yet to hear the first syllable of valuable or even earnest advice from myseniors. They have told me nothing, and probably cannot tell me any thing tothe purpose. Here is life, an experiment to a great extent untried by me; butit does not avail me that they have tried it. If I have any experience which Ithink valuable, I am sure to reflect that this my Mentors said nothing about.
One farmer says to me, “You cannot live on vegetable food solely, for itfurnishes nothing to make bones with;” and so he religiously devotes a part ofhis day to supplying his system with the raw material of bones; walking all thewhile he talks behind his oxen, which, with vegetable-made bones, jerk him andhis lumbering plough along in spite of every obstacle. Some things are reallynecessaries of life in some circles, the most helpless and diseased, which inothers are luxuries merely, and in others still are entirely unknown.
The whole ground of human life seems to some to have been gone over by theirpredecessors, both the heights and the valleys, and all things to have beencared for. According to Evelyn, “the wise Solomon prescribed ordinances for thevery distances of trees; and the Roman prætors have decided how often you maygo into your neighbor’s land to gather the acorns which fall on it withouttrespass, and what share belongs to that neighbor.” Hippocrates has even leftdirections how we should cut our nails; that is, even with the ends of thefingers, neither shorter nor longer. Undoubtedly the very tedium and ennuiwhich presume to have exhausted the variety and the joys of life are as old asAdam. But man’s capacities have never been measured; nor are we to judge ofwhat he can do by any precedents, so little has been tried. Whatever have beenthy failures hitherto, “be not afflicted, my child, for who shall assign tothee what thou hast left undone?”
We might try our lives by a thousand simple tests; as, for instance, that thesame sun which ripens my beans illumines at once a system of earths like ours.If I had remembered this it would have prevented some mistakes. This was notthe light in which I hoed them. The stars are the apexes of what wonderfultriangles! What distant and different beings in the various mansions of theuniverse are contemplating the same one at the same moment! Nature and humanlife are as various as our several constitutions. Who shall say what prospectlife offers to another? Could a greater miracle take place than for us to lookthrough each other’s eyes for an instant? We should live in all the ages of theworld in an hour; ay, in all the worlds of the ages. History, Poetry,Mythology!—I know of no reading of another’s experience so startling andinforming as this would be.
The greater part of what my neighbors call good I believe in my soul to be bad,and if I repent of anything, it is very likely to be my good behavior. Whatdemon possessed me that I behaved so well? You may say the wisest thing youcan, old man,—you who have lived seventy years, not without honor of a kind,—Ihear an irresistible voice which invites me away from all that. One generationabandons the enterprises of another like stranded vessels.
I think that we may safely trust a good deal more than we do. We may waive justso much care of ourselves as we honestly bestow elsewhere. Nature is as welladapted to our weakness as to our strength. The incessant anxiety and strain ofsome is a well nigh incurable form of disease. We are made to exaggerate theimportance of what work we do; and yet how much is not done by us! or, what ifwe had been taken sick? How vigilant we are! determined not to live by faith ifwe can avoid it; all the day long on the alert, at night we unwillingly say ourprayers and commit ourselves to uncertainties. So thoroughly and sincerely arewe compelled to live, reverencing our life, and denying the possibility ofchange. This is the only way, we say; but there are as many ways as there canbe drawn radii from one centre. All change is a miracle to contemplate; but itis a miracle which is taking place every instant. Confucius said, “To know thatwe know what we know, and that we do not know what we do not know, that is trueknowledge.” When one man has reduced a fact of the imagination to be a fact tohis understanding, I foresee that all men at length establish their lives onthat basis.
Let us consider for a moment what most of the trouble and anxiety which I havereferred to is about, and how much it is necessary that we be troubled, or, atleast, careful. It would be some advantage to live a primitive and frontierlife, though in the midst of an outward civilization, if only to learn what arethe gross necessaries of life and what methods have been taken to obtain them;or even to look over the old day-books of the merchants, to see what it wasthat men most commonly bought at the stores, what they stored, that is, whatare the grossest groceries. For the improvements of ages have had but littleinfluence on the essential laws of man’s existence; as our skeletons, probably,are not to be distinguished from those of our ancestors.
By the words, necessary of life, I mean whatever, of all that manobtains by his own exertions, has been from the first, or from long use hasbecome, so important to human life that few, if any, whether from savageness,or poverty, or philosophy, ever attempt to do without it. To many creaturesthere is in this sense but one necessary of life, Food. To the bison of theprairie it is a few inches of palatable grass, with water to drink; unless heseeks the Shelter of the forest or the mountain’s shadow. None of the brutecreation requires more than Food and Shelter. The necessaries of life for manin this climate may, accurately enough, be distributed under the several headsof Food, Shelter, Clothing, and Fuel; for not till we have secured these are weprepared to entertain the true problems of life with freedom and a prospect ofsuccess. Man has invented, not only houses, but clothes and cooked food; andpossibly from the accidental discovery of the warmth of fire, and theconsequent use of it, at first a luxury, arose the present necessity to sit byit. We observe cats and dogs acquiring the same second nature. By properShelter and Clothing we legitimately retain our own internal heat; but with anexcess of these, or of Fuel, that is, with an external heat greater than ourown internal, may not cookery properly be said to begin? Darwin, thenaturalist, says of the inhabitants of Tierra del Fuego, that while his ownparty, who were well clothed and sitting close to a fire, were far from toowarm, these naked savages, who were farther off, were observed, to his greatsurprise, “to be streaming with perspiration at undergoing such a roasting.”So, we are told, the New Hollander goes naked with impunity, while the Europeanshivers in his clothes. Is it impossible to combine the hardiness of thesesavages with the intellectualness of the civilized man? According to Liebig,man’s body is a stove, and food the fuel which keeps up the internal combustionin the lungs. In cold weather we eat more, in warm less. The animal heat is theresult of a slow combustion, and disease and death take place when this is toorapid; or for want of fuel, or from some defect in the draught, the fire goesout. Of course the vital heat is not to be confounded with fire; but so muchfor analogy. It appears, therefore, from the above list, that the expression,animal life, is nearly synonymous with the expression, animalheat; for while Food may be regarded as the Fuel which keeps up the firewithin us,—and Fuel serves only to prepare that Food or to increase the warmthof our bodies by addition from without,—Shelter and Clothing also serve only toretain the heat thus generated and absorbed.
The grand necessity, then, for our bodies, is to keep warm, to keep the vitalheat in us. What pains we accordingly take, not only with our Food, andClothing, and Shelter, but with our beds, which are our night-clothes, robbingthe nests and breasts of birds to prepare this shelter within a shelter, as themole has its bed of grass and leaves at the end of its burrow! The poor man iswont to complain that this is a cold world; and to cold, no less physical thansocial, we refer directly a great part of our ails. The summer, in someclimates, makes possible to man a sort of Elysian life. Fuel, except to cookhis Food, is then unnecessary; the sun is his fire, and many of the fruits aresufficiently cooked by its rays; while Food generally is more various, and moreeasily obtained, and Clothing and Shelter are wholly or half unnecessary. Atthe present day, and in this country, as I find by my own experience, a fewimplements, a knife, an axe, a spade, a wheelbarrow, &c., and for thestudious, lamplight, stationery, and access to a few books, rank next tonecessaries, and can all be obtained at a trifling cost. Yet some, not wise, goto the other side of the globe, to barbarous and unhealthy regions, and devotethemselves to trade for ten or twenty years, in order that they may live,—thatis, keep comfortably warm,—and die in New England at last. The luxuriously richare not simply kept comfortably warm, but unnaturally hot; as I implied before,they are cooked, of course à la mode.
Most of the luxuries, and many of the so called comforts of life, are not onlynot indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind. Withrespect to luxuries and comforts, the wisest have ever lived a more simple andmeagre life than the poor. The ancient philosophers, Chinese, Hindoo, Persian,and Greek, were a class than which none has been poorer in outward riches, noneso rich in inward. We know not much about them. It is remarkable that weknow so much of them as we do. The same is true of the more modern reformersand benefactors of their race. None can be an impartial or wise observer ofhuman life but from the vantage ground of what we should call voluntarypoverty. Of a life of luxury the fruit is luxury, whether in agriculture, orcommerce, or literature, or art. There are nowadays professors of philosophy,but not philosophers. Yet it is admirable to profess because it was onceadmirable to live. To be a philosopher is not merely to have subtle thoughts,nor even to found a school, but so to love wisdom as to live according to itsdictates, a life of simplicity, independence, magnanimity, and trust. It is tosolve some of the problems of life, not only theoretically, but practically.The success of great scholars and thinkers is commonly a courtier-like success,not kingly, not manly. They make shift to live merely by conformity,practically as their fathers did, and are in no sense the progenitors of anobler race of men. But why do men degenerate ever? What makes families runout? What is the nature of the luxury which enervates and destroys nations? Arewe sure that there is none of it in our own lives? The philosopher is inadvance of his age even in the outward form of his life. He is not fed,sheltered, clothed, warmed, like his contemporaries. How can a man be aphilosopher and not maintain his vital heat by better methods than other men?
When a man is warmed by the several modes which I have described, what does hewant next? Surely not more warmth of the same kind, as more and richer food,larger and more splendid houses, finer and more abundant clothing, morenumerous incessant and hotter fires, and the like. When he has obtained thosethings which are necessary to life, there is another alternative than to obtainthe superfluities; and that is, to adventure on life now, his vacation fromhumbler toil having commenced. The soil, it appears, is suited to the seed, forit has sent its radicle downward, and it may now send its shoot upward alsowith confidence. Why has man rooted himself thus firmly in the earth, but thathe may rise in the same proportion into the heavens above?—for the noblerplants are valued for the fruit they bear at last in the air and light, farfrom the ground, and are not treated like the humbler esculents, which, thoughthey may be biennials, are cultivated only till they have perfected their root,and often cut down at top for this purpose, so that most would not know them intheir flowering season.
I do not mean to prescribe rules to strong and valiant natures, who will mindtheir own affairs whether in heaven or hell, and perchance build moremagnificently and spend more lavishly than the richest, without everimpoverishing themselves, not knowing how they live,—if, indeed, there are anysuch, as has been dreamed; nor to those who find their encouragement andinspiration in precisely the present condition of things, and cherish it withthe fondness and enthusiasm of lovers,—and, to some extent, I reckon myself inthis number; I do not speak to those who are well employed, in whatevercircumstances, and they know whether they are well employed or not;—but mainlyto the mass of men who are discontented, and idly complaining of the hardnessof their lot or of the times, when they might improve them. There are some whocomplain most energetically and inconsolably of any, because they are, as theysay, doing their duty. I also have in my mind that seemingly wealthy, but mostterribly impoverished class of all, who have accumulated dross, but know nothow to use it, or get rid of it, and thus have forged their own golden orsilver fetters.
If I should attempt to tell how I have desired to spend my life in years past,it would probably surprise those of my readers who are somewhat acquainted withits actual history; it would certainly astonish those who know nothing aboutit. I will only hint at some of the enterprises which I have cherished.
In any weather, at any hour of the day or night, I have been anxious to improvethe nick of time, and notch it on my stick too; to stand on the meeting of twoeternities, the past and future, which is precisely the present moment; to toethat line. You will pardon some obscurities, for there are more secrets in mytrade than in most men’s, and yet not voluntarily kept, but inseparable fromits very nature. I would gladly tell all that I know about it, and never paint“No Admittance” on my gate.
I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse, and a turtle-dove, and am still on theirtrail. Many are the travellers I have spoken concerning them, describing theirtracks and what calls they answered to. I have met one or two who had heard thehound, and the tramp of the horse, and even seen the dove disappear behind acloud, and they seemed as anxious to recover them as if they had lost themthemselves.
To anticipate, not the sunrise and the dawn merely, but, if possible, Natureherself! How many mornings, summer and winter, before yet any neighbor wasstirring about his business, have I been about mine! No doubt, many of mytownsmen have met me returning from this enterprise, farmers starting forBoston in the twilight, or woodchoppers going to their work. It is true, Inever assisted the sun materially in his rising, but, doubt not, it was of thelast importance only to be present at it.
So many autumn, ay, and winter days, spent outside the town, trying to hearwhat was in the wind, to hear and carry it express! I well-nigh sunk all mycapital in it, and lost my own breath into the bargain, running in the face ofit. If it had concerned either of the political parties, depend upon it, itwould have appeared in the Gazette with the earliest intelligence. At othertimes watching from the observatory of some cliff or tree, to telegraph any newarrival; or waiting at evening on the hill-tops for the sky to fall, that Imight catch something, though I never caught much, and that, manna-wise, woulddissolve again in the sun.
For a long time I was reporter to a journal, of no very wide circulation, whoseeditor has never yet seen fit to print the bulk of my contributions, and, as istoo common with writers, I got only my labor for my pains. However, in thiscase my pains were their own reward.
For many years I was self-appointed inspector of snow storms and rain storms,and did my duty faithfully; surveyor, if not of highways, then of forest pathsand all across-lot routes, keeping them open, and ravines bridged and passableat all seasons, where the public heel had testified to their utility.
I have looked after the wild stock of the town, which give a faithful herdsmana good deal of trouble by leaping fences; and I have had an eye to theunfrequented nooks and corners of the farm; though I did not always knowwhether Jonas or Solomon worked in a particular field to-day; that was none ofmy business. I have watered the red huckleberry, the sand cherry and the nettletree, the red pine and the black ash, the white grape and the yellow violet,which might have withered else in dry seasons.
In short, I went on thus for a long time, I may say it without boasting,faithfully minding my business, till it became more and more evident that mytownsmen would not after all admit me into the list of town officers, nor makemy place a sinecure with a moderate allowance. My accounts, which I can swearto have kept faithfully, I have, indeed, never got audited, still lessaccepted, still less paid and settled. However, I have not set my heart onthat.
Not long since, a strolling Indian went to sell baskets at the house of awell-known lawyer in my neighborhood. “Do you wish to buy any baskets?” heasked. “No, we do not want any,” was the reply. “What!” exclaimed the Indian ashe went out the gate, “do you mean to starve us?” Having seen his industriouswhite neighbors so well off,—that the lawyer had only to weave arguments, andby some magic, wealth and standing followed, he had said to himself; I will gointo business; I will weave baskets; it is a thing which I can do. Thinkingthat when he had made the baskets he would have done his part, and then itwould be the white man’s to buy them. He had not discovered that it wasnecessary for him to make it worth the other’s while to buy them, or at leastmake him think that it was so, or to make something else which it would beworth his while to buy. I too had woven a kind of basket of a delicate texture,but I had not made it worth any one’s while to buy them. Yet not the less, inmy case, did I think it worth my while to weave them, and instead of studyinghow to make it worth men’s while to buy my baskets, I studied rather how toavoid the necessity of selling them. The life which men praise and regard assuccessful is but one kind. Why should we exaggerate any one kind at theexpense of the others?
Finding that my fellow-citizens were not likely to offer me any room in thecourt house, or any curacy or living any where else, but I must shift formyself, I turned my face more exclusively than ever to the woods, where I wasbetter known. I determined to go into business at once, and not wait to acquirethe usual capital, using such slender means as I had already got. My purpose ingoing to Walden Pond was not to live cheaply nor to live dearly there, but totransact some private business with the fewest obstacles; to be hindered fromaccomplishing which for want of a little common sense, a little enterprise andbusiness talent, appeared not so sad as foolish.
I have always endeavored to acquire strict business habits; they areindispensable to every man. If your trade is with the Celestial Empire, thensome small counting house on the coast, in some Salem harbor, will be fixtureenough. You will export such articles as the country affords, purely nativeproducts, much ice and pine timber and a little granite, always in nativebottoms. These will be good ventures. To oversee all the details yourself inperson; to be at once pilot and captain, and owner and underwriter; to buy andsell and keep the accounts; to read every letter received, and write or readevery letter sent; to superintend the discharge of imports night and day; to beupon many parts of the coast almost at the same time;—often the richest freightwill be discharged upon a Jersey shore;—to be your own telegraph, unweariedlysweeping the horizon, speaking all passing vessels bound coastwise; to keep upa steady despatch of commodities, for the supply of such a distant andexorbitant market; to keep yourself informed of the state of the markets,prospects of war and peace every where, and anticipate the tendencies of tradeand civilization,—taking advantage of the results of all exploring expeditions,using new passages and all improvements in navigation;—charts to be studied,the position of reefs and new lights and buoys to be ascertained, and ever, andever, the logarithmic tables to be corrected, for by the error of somecalculator the vessel often splits upon a rock that should have reached afriendly pier,—there is the untold fate of La Perouse;—universal science to bekept pace with, studying the lives of all great discoverers and navigators,great adventurers and merchants, from Hanno and the Phœnicians down to our day;in fine, account of stock to be taken from time to time, to know how you stand.It is a labor to task the faculties of a man,—such problems of profit and loss,of interest, of tare and tret, and gauging of all kinds in it, as demand auniversal knowledge.
I have thought that Walden Pond would be a good place for business, not solelyon account of the railroad and the ice trade; it offers advantages which it maynot be good policy to divulge; it is a good port and a good foundation. No Nevamarshes to be filled; though you must every where build on piles of your owndriving. It is said that a flood-tide, with a westerly wind, and ice in theNeva, would sweep St. Petersburg from the face of the earth.
As this business was to be entered into without the usual capital, it may notbe easy to conjecture where those means, that will still be indispensable toevery such undertaking, were to be obtained. As for Clothing, to come at onceto the practical part of the question, perhaps we are led oftener by the loveof novelty, and a regard for the opinions of men, in procuring it, than by atrue utility. Let him who has work to do recollect that the object of clothingis, first, to retain the vital heat, and secondly, in this state of society, tocover nakedness, and he may judge how much of any necessary or important workmay be accomplished without adding to his wardrobe. Kings and queens who wear asuit but once, though made by some tailor or dressmaker to their majesties,cannot know the comfort of wearing a suit that fits. They are no better thanwooden horses to hang the clean clothes on. Every day our garments become moreassimilated to ourselves, receiving the impress of the wearer’s character,until we hesitate to lay them aside, without such delay and medical appliancesand some such solemnity even as our bodies. No man ever stood the lower in myestimation for having a patch in his clothes; yet I am sure that there isgreater anxiety, commonly, to have fashionable, or at least clean and unpatchedclothes, than to have a sound conscience. But even if the rent is not mended,perhaps the worst vice betrayed is improvidence. I sometimes try myacquaintances by such tests as this;—who could wear a patch, or two extra seamsonly, over the knee? Most behave as if they believed that their prospects forlife would be ruined if they should do it. It would be easier for them tohobble to town with a broken leg than with a broken pantaloon. Often if anaccident happens to a gentleman’s legs, they can be mended; but if a similaraccident happens to the legs of his pantaloons, there is no help for it; for heconsiders, not what is truly respectable, but what is respected. We know butfew men, a great many coats and breeches. Dress a scarecrow in your last shift,you standing shiftless by, who would not soonest salute the scarecrow? Passinga cornfield the other day, close by a hat and coat on a stake, I recognized theowner of the farm. He was only a little more weather-beaten than when I saw himlast. I have heard of a dog that barked at every stranger who approached hismaster’s premises with clothes on, but was easily quieted by a naked thief. Itis an interesting question how far men would retain their relative rank if theywere divested of their clothes. Could you, in such a case, tell surely of anycompany of civilized men, which belonged to the most respected class? WhenMadam Pfeiffer, in her adventurous travels round the world, from east to west,had got so near home as Asiatic Russia, she says that she felt the necessity ofwearing other than a travelling dress, when she went to meet the authorities,for she “was now in a civilized country, where —— — people are judged of bytheir clothes.” Even in our democratic New England towns the accidentalpossession of wealth, and its manifestation in dress and equipage alone, obtainfor the possessor almost universal respect. But they yield such respect,numerous as they are, are so far heathen, and need to have a missionary sent tothem. Beside, clothes introduced sewing, a kind of work which you may callendless; a woman’s dress, at least, is never done.
A man who has at length found something to do will not need to get a new suitto do it in; for him the old will do, that has lain dusty in the garret for anindeterminate period. Old shoes will serve a hero longer than they have servedhis valet,—if a hero ever has a valet,—bare feet are older than shoes, and hecan make them do. Only they who go to soirées and legislative halls must havenew coats, coats to change as often as the man changes in them. But if myjacket and trousers, my hat and shoes, are fit to worship God in, they will do;will they not? Who ever saw his old clothes,—his old coat, actually worn out,resolved into its primitive elements, so that it was not a deed of charity tobestow it on some poor boy, by him perchance to be bestowed on some poorerstill, or shall we say richer, who could do with less? I say, beware of allenterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes.If there is not a new man, how can the new clothes be made to fit? If you haveany enterprise before you, try it in your old clothes. All men want, notsomething to do with, but something to do, or rather something tobe. Perhaps we should never procure a new suit, however ragged or dirtythe old, until we have so conducted, so enterprised or sailed in some way, thatwe feel like new men in the old, and that to retain it would be like keepingnew wine in old bottles. Our moulting season, like that of the fowls, must be acrisis in our lives. The loon retires to solitary ponds to spend it. Thus alsothe snake casts its slough, and the caterpillar its wormy coat, by an internalindustry and expansion; for clothes are but our outmost cuticle and mortalcoil. Otherwise we shall be found sailing under false colors, and be inevitablycashiered at last by our own opinion, as well as that of mankind.
We don garment after garment, as if we grew like exogenous plants by additionwithout. Our outside and often thin and fanciful clothes are our epidermis, orfalse skin, which partakes not of our life, and may be stripped off here andthere without fatal injury; our thicker garments, constantly worn, are ourcellular integument, or cortex; but our shirts are our liber or true bark,which cannot be removed without girdling and so destroying the man. I believethat all races at some seasons wear something equivalent to the shirt. It isdesirable that a man be clad so simply that he can lay his hands on himself inthe dark, and that he live in all respects so compactly and preparedly, that,if an enemy take the town, he can, like the old philosopher, walk out the gateempty-handed without anxiety. While one thick garment is, for most purposes, asgood as three thin ones, and cheap clothing can be obtained at prices really tosuit customers; while a thick coat can be bought for five dollars, which willlast as many years, thick pantaloons for two dollars, cowhide boots for adollar and a half a pair, a summer hat for a quarter of a dollar, and a wintercap for sixty-two and a half cents, or a better be made at home at a nominalcost, where is he so poor that, clad in such a suit, of his own earning,there will not be found wise men to do him reverence?
When I ask for a garment of a particular form, my tailoress tells me gravely,“They do not make them so now,” not emphasizing the “They” at all, as if shequoted an authority as impersonal as the Fates, and I find it difficult to getmade what I want, simply because she cannot believe that I mean what I say,that I am so rash. When I hear this oracular sentence, I am for a momentabsorbed in thought, emphasizing to myself each word separately that I may comeat the meaning of it, that I may find out by what degree of consanguinityThey are related to me, and what authority they may have in anaffair which affects me so nearly; and, finally, I am inclined to answer herwith equal mystery, and without any more emphasis of the “they,”—“It is true,they did not make them so recently, but they do now.” Of what use thismeasuring of me if she does not measure my character, but only the breadth ofmy shoulders, as it were a peg to hang the coat on? We worship not the Graces,nor the Parcæ, but Fashion. She spins and weaves and cuts with full authority.The head monkey at Paris puts on a traveller’s cap, and all the monkeys inAmerica do the same. I sometimes despair of getting anything quite simple andhonest done in this world by the help of men. They would have to be passedthrough a powerful press first, to squeeze their old notions out of them, sothat they would not soon get upon their legs again, and then there would besome one in the company with a maggot in his head, hatched from an eggdeposited there nobody knows when, for not even fire kills these things, andyou would have lost your labor. Nevertheless, we will not forget that someEgyptian wheat was handed down to us by a mummy.
On the whole, I think that it cannot be maintained that dressing has in this orany country risen to the dignity of an art. At present men make shift to wearwhat they can get. Like shipwrecked sailors, they put on what they can find onthe beach, and at a little distance, whether of space or time, laugh at eachother’s masquerade. Every generation laughs at the old fashions, but followsreligiously the new. We are amused at beholding the costume of Henry VIII., orQueen Elizabeth, as much as if it was that of the King and Queen of theCannibal Islands. All costume off a man is pitiful or grotesque. It is only theserious eye peering from and the sincere life passed within it, which restrainlaughter and consecrate the costume of any people. Let Harlequin be taken witha fit of the colic and his trappings will have to serve that mood too. When thesoldier is hit by a cannon ball rags are as becoming as purple.
The childish and savage taste of men and women for new patterns keeps how manyshaking and squinting through kaleidoscopes that they may discover theparticular figure which this generation requires today. The manufacturers havelearned that this taste is merely whimsical. Of two patterns which differ onlyby a few threads more or less of a particular color, the one will be soldreadily, the other lie on the shelf, though it frequently happens that afterthe lapse of a season the latter becomes the most fashionable. Comparatively,tattooing is not the hideous custom which it is called. It is not barbarousmerely because the printing is skin-deep and unalterable.
I cannot believe that our factory system is the best mode by which men may getclothing. The condition of the operatives is becoming every day more like thatof the English; and it cannot be wondered at, since, as far as I have heard orobserved, the principal object is, not that mankind may be well and honestlyclad, but, unquestionably, that corporations may be enriched. In the long runmen hit only what they aim at. Therefore, though they should fail immediately,they had better aim at something high.
As for a Shelter, I will not deny that this is now a necessary of life, thoughthere are instances of men having done without it for long periods in coldercountries than this. Samuel Laing says that “the Laplander in his skin dress,and in a skin bag which he puts over his head and shoulders, will sleep nightafter night on the snow—in a degree of cold which would extinguish the life ofone exposed to it in any woollen clothing.” He had seen them asleep thus. Yethe adds, “They are not hardier than other people.” But, probably, man did notlive long on the earth without discovering the convenience which there is in ahouse, the domestic comforts, which phrase may have originally signified thesatisfactions of the house more than of the family; though these must beextremely partial and occasional in those climates where the house isassociated in our thoughts with winter or the rainy season chiefly, and twothirds of the year, except for a parasol, is unnecessary. In our climate, inthe summer, it was formerly almost solely a covering at night. In the Indiangazettes a wigwam was the symbol of a day’s march, and a row of them cut orpainted on the bark of a tree signified that so many times they had camped. Manwas not made so large limbed and robust but that he must seek to narrow hisworld, and wall in a space such as fitted him. He was at first bare and out ofdoors; but though this was pleasant enough in serene and warm weather, bydaylight, the rainy season and the winter, to say nothing of the torrid sun,would perhaps have nipped his race in the bud if he had not made haste toclothe himself with the shelter of a house. Adam and Eve, according to thefable, wore the bower before other clothes. Man wanted a home, a place ofwarmth, or comfort, first of physical warmth, then the warmth of theaffections.
We may imagine a time when, in the infancy of the human race, some enterprisingmortal crept into a hollow in a rock for shelter. Every child begins the worldagain, to some extent, and loves to stay out doors, even in wet and cold. Itplays house, as well as horse, having an instinct for it. Who does not rememberthe interest with which when young he looked at shelving rocks, or any approachto a cave? It was the natural yearning of that portion of our most primitiveancestor which still survived in us. From the cave we have advanced to roofs ofpalm leaves, of bark and boughs, of linen woven and stretched, of grass andstraw, of boards and shingles, of stones and tiles. At last, we know not whatit is to live in the open air, and our lives are domestic in more senses thanwe think. From the hearth to the field is a great distance. It would be wellperhaps if we were to spend more of our days and nights without any obstructionbetween us and the celestial bodies, if the poet did not speak so much fromunder a roof, or the saint dwell there so long. Birds do not sing in caves, nordo doves cherish their innocence in dovecots.
However, if one designs to construct a dwelling house, it behooves him toexercise a little Yankee shrewdness, lest after all he find himself in aworkhouse, a labyrinth without a clue, a museum, an almshouse, a prison, or asplendid mausoleum instead. Consider first how slight a shelter is absolutelynecessary. I have seen Penobscot Indians, in this town, living in tents of thincotton cloth, while the snow was nearly a foot deep around them, and I thoughtthat they would be glad to have it deeper to keep out the wind. Formerly, whenhow to get my living honestly, with freedom left for my proper pursuits, was aquestion which vexed me even more than it does now, for unfortunately I ambecome somewhat callous, I used to see a large box by the railroad, six feetlong by three wide, in which the laborers locked up their tools at night, andit suggested to me that every man who was hard pushed might get such a one fora dollar, and, having bored a few auger holes in it, to admit the air at least,get into it when it rained and at night, and hook down the lid, and so havefreedom in his love, and in his soul be free. This did not appear the worst,nor by any means a despicable alternative. You could sit up as late as youpleased, and, whenever you got up, go abroad without any landlord or house-lorddogging you for rent. Many a man is harassed to death to pay the rent of alarger and more luxurious box who would not have frozen to death in such a boxas this. I am far from jesting. Economy is a subject which admits of beingtreated with levity, but it cannot so be disposed of. A comfortable house for arude and hardy race, that lived mostly out of doors, was once made here almostentirely of such materials as Nature furnished ready to their hands. Gookin,who was superintendent of the Indians subject to the Massachusetts Colony,writing in 1674, says, “The best of their houses are covered very neatly, tightand warm, with barks of trees, slipped from their bodies at those seasons whenthe sap is up, and made into great flakes, with pressure of weighty timber,when they are green.... The meaner sort are covered with mats which they makeof a kind of bulrush, and are also indifferently tight and warm, but not sogood as the former.... Some I have seen, sixty or a hundred feet long andthirty feet broad.... I have often lodged in their wigwams, and found them aswarm as the best English houses.” He adds, that they were commonly carpeted andlined within with well-wrought embroidered mats, and were furnished withvarious utensils. The Indians had advanced so far as to regulate the effect ofthe wind by a mat suspended over the hole in the roof and moved by a string.Such a lodge was in the first instance constructed in a day or two at most, andtaken down and put up in a few hours; and every family owned one, or itsapartment in one.
In the savage state every family owns a shelter as good as the best, andsufficient for its coarser and simpler wants; but I think that I speak withinbounds when I say that, though the birds of the air have their nests, and thefoxes their holes, and the savages their wigwams, in modern civilized societynot more than one half the families own a shelter. In the large towns andcities, where civilization especially prevails, the number of those who own ashelter is a very small fraction of the whole. The rest pay an annual tax forthis outside garment of all, become indispensable summer and winter, whichwould buy a village of Indian wigwams, but now helps to keep them poor as longas they live. I do not mean to insist here on the disadvantage of hiringcompared with owning, but it is evident that the savage owns his shelterbecause it costs so little, while the civilized man hires his commonly becausehe cannot afford to own it; nor can he, in the long run, any better afford tohire. But, answers one, by merely paying this tax the poor civilized mansecures an abode which is a palace compared with the savage’s. An annual rentof from twenty-five to a hundred dollars, these are the country rates, entitleshim to the benefit of the improvements of centuries, spacious apartments, cleanpaint and paper, Rumford fireplace, back plastering, Venetian blinds, copperpump, spring lock, a commodious cellar, and many other things. But how happensit that he who is said to enjoy these things is so commonly a poorcivilized man, while the savage, who has them not, is rich as a savage? If itis asserted that civilization is a real advance in the condition of man,—and Ithink that it is, though only the wise improve their advantages,—it must beshown that it has produced better dwellings without making them more costly;and the cost of a thing is the amount of what I will call life which isrequired to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run. An averagehouse in this neighborhood costs perhaps eight hundred dollars, and to lay upthis sum will take from ten to fifteen years of the laborer’s life, even if heis not encumbered with a family;—estimating the pecuniary value of every man’slabor at one dollar a day, for if some receive more, others receive less;—sothat he must have spent more than half his life commonly before hiswigwam will be earned. If we suppose him to pay a rent instead, this is but adoubtful choice of evils. Would the savage have been wise to exchange hiswigwam for a palace on these terms?
It may be guessed that I reduce almost the whole advantage of holding thissuperfluous property as a fund in store against the future, so far as theindividual is concerned, mainly to the defraying of funeral expenses. Butperhaps a man is not required to bury himself. Nevertheless this points to animportant distinction between the civilized man and the savage; and, no doubt,they have designs on us for our benefit, in making the life of a civilizedpeople an institution, in which the life of the individual is to a greatextent absorbed, in order to preserve and perfect that of the race. But I wishto show at what a sacrifice this advantage is at present obtained, and tosuggest that we may possibly so live as to secure all the advantage withoutsuffering any of the disadvantage. What mean ye by saying that the poor ye havealways with you, or that the fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’steeth are set on edge?
“As I live, saith the Lord God, ye shall not have occasion any more to use thisproverb in Israel.”
“Behold all souls are mine; as the soul of the father, so also the soul of theson is mine: the soul that sinneth, it shall die.”
When I consider my neighbors, the farmers of Concord, who are at least as welloff as the other classes, I find that for the most part they have been toilingtwenty, thirty, or forty years, that they may become the real owners of theirfarms, which commonly they have inherited with encumbrances, or else boughtwith hired money,—and we may regard one third of that toil as the cost of theirhouses,—but commonly they have not paid for them yet. It is true, theencumbrances sometimes outweigh the value of the farm, so that the farm itselfbecomes one great encumbrance, and still a man is found to inherit it, beingwell acquainted with it, as he says. On applying to the assessors, I amsurprised to learn that they cannot at once name a dozen in the town who owntheir farms free and clear. If you would know the history of these homesteads,inquire at the bank where they are mortgaged. The man who has actually paid forhis farm with labor on it is so rare that every neighbor can point to him. Idoubt if there are three such men in Concord. What has been said of themerchants, that a very large majority, even ninety-seven in a hundred, are sureto fail, is equally true of the farmers. With regard to the merchants, however,one of them says pertinently that a great part of their failures are notgenuine pecuniary failures, but merely failures to fulfil their engagements,because it is inconvenient; that is, it is the moral character that breaksdown. But this puts an infinitely worse face on the matter, and suggests,beside, that probably not even the other three succeed in saving their souls,but are perchance bankrupt in a worse sense than they who fail honestly.Bankruptcy and repudiation are the springboards from which much of ourcivilization vaults and turns its somersets, but the savage stands on theunelastic plank of famine. Yet the Middlesex Cattle Show goes off here withéclat annually, as if all the joints of the agricultural machine weresuent.
The farmer is endeavoring to solve the problem of a livelihood by a formulamore complicated than the problem itself. To get his shoestrings he speculatesin herds of cattle. With consummate skill he has set his trap with a hairspring to catch comfort and independence, and then, as he turned away, got hisown leg into it. This is the reason he is poor; and for a similar reason we areall poor in respect to a thousand savage comforts, though surrounded byluxuries. As Chapman sings,—
“The false society of men— —for earthly greatnessAll heavenly comforts rarefies to air.”
And when the farmer has got his house, he may not be the richer but the poorerfor it, and it be the house that has got him. As I understand it, that was avalid objection urged by Momus against the house which Minerva made, that she“had not made it movable, by which means a bad neighborhood might be avoided;”and it may still be urged, for our houses are such unwieldy property that weare often imprisoned rather than housed in them; and the bad neighborhood to beavoided is our own scurvy selves. I know one or two families, at least, in thistown, who, for nearly a generation, have been wishing to sell their houses inthe outskirts and move into the village, but have not been able to accomplishit, and only death will set them free.
Granted that the majority are able at last either to own or hire themodern house with all its improvements. While civilization has been improvingour houses, it has not equally improved the men who are to inhabit them. It hascreated palaces, but it was not so easy to create noblemen and kings. And ifthe civilized man’s pursuits are no worthier than the savage’s, if he isemployed the greater part of his life in obtaining gross necessaries andcomforts merely, why should he have a better dwelling than the former?
But how do the poor minority fare? Perhaps it will be found, that just inproportion as some have been placed in outward circumstances above the savage,others have been degraded below him. The luxury of one class is counterbalancedby the indigence of another. On the one side is the palace, on the other arethe almshouse and “silent poor.” The myriads who built the pyramids to be thetombs of the Pharaohs were fed on garlic, and it may be were not decentlyburied themselves. The mason who finishes the cornice of the palace returns atnight perchance to a hut not so good as a wigwam. It is a mistake to supposethat, in a country where the usual evidences of civilization exist, thecondition of a very large body of the inhabitants may not be as degraded asthat of savages. I refer to the degraded poor, not now to the degraded rich. Toknow this I should not need to look farther than to the shanties which everywhere border our railroads, that last improvement in civilization; where I seein my daily walks human beings living in sties, and all winter with an opendoor, for the sake of light, without any visible, often imaginable, wood pile,and the forms of both old and young are permanently contracted by the longhabit of shrinking from cold and misery, and the development of all their limbsand faculties is checked. It certainly is fair to look at that class by whoselabor the works which distinguish this generation are accomplished. Such too,to a greater or less extent, is the condition of the operatives of everydenomination in England, which is the great workhouse of the world. Or I couldrefer you to Ireland, which is marked as one of the white or enlightened spotson the map. Contrast the physical condition of the Irish with that of the NorthAmerican Indian, or the South Sea Islander, or any other savage race before itwas degraded by contact with the civilized man. Yet I have no doubt that thatpeople’s rulers are as wise as the average of civilized rulers. Their conditiononly proves what squalidness may consist with civilization. I hardly need refernow to the laborers in our Southern States who produce the staple exports ofthis country, and are themselves a staple production of the South. But toconfine myself to those who are said to be in moderate circumstances.
Most men appear never to have considered what a house is, and are actuallythough needlessly poor all their lives because they think that they must havesuch a one as their neighbors have. As if one were to wear any sort of coatwhich the tailor might cut out for him, or, gradually leaving off palmleaf hator cap of woodchuck skin, complain of hard times because he could not afford tobuy him a crown! It is possible to invent a house still more convenient andluxurious than we have, which yet all would admit that man could not afford topay for. Shall we always study to obtain more of these things, and notsometimes to be content with less? Shall the respectable citizen thus gravelyteach, by precept and example, the necessity of the young man’s providing acertain number of superfluous glow-shoes, and umbrellas, and empty guestchambers for empty guests, before he dies? Why should not our furniture be assimple as the Arab’s or the Indian’s? When I think of the benefactors of therace, whom we have apotheosized as messengers from heaven, bearers of divinegifts to man, I do not see in my mind any retinue at their heels, any car-loadof fashionable furniture. Or what if I were to allow—would it not be a singularallowance?—that our furniture should be more complex than the Arab’s, inproportion as we are morally and intellectually his superiors! At present ourhouses are cluttered and defiled with it, and a good housewife would sweep outthe greater part into the dust hole, and not leave her morning’s work undone.Morning work! By the blushes of Aurora and the music of Memnon, what should beman’s morning work in this world? I had three pieces of limestone on mydesk, but I was terrified to find that they required to be dusted daily, whenthe furniture of my mind was all undusted still, and I threw them out thewindow in disgust. How, then, could I have a furnished house? I would rathersit in the open air, for no dust gathers on the grass, unless where man hasbroken ground.
It is the luxurious and dissipated who set the fashions which the herd sodiligently follow. The traveller who stops at the best houses, so called, soondiscovers this, for the publicans presume him to be a Sardanapalus, and if heresigned himself to their tender mercies he would soon be completelyemasculated. I think that in the railroad car we are inclined to spend more onluxury than on safety and convenience, and it threatens without attaining theseto become no better than a modern drawing room, with its divans, and ottomans,and sun-shades, and a hundred other oriental things, which we are taking westwith us, invented for the ladies of the harem and the effeminate natives of theCelestial Empire, which Jonathan should be ashamed to know the names of. Iwould rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself than be crowded on avelvet cushion. I would rather ride on earth in an ox cart with a freecirculation, than go to heaven in the fancy car of an excursion train andbreathe a malaria all the way.
The very simplicity and nakedness of man’s life in the primitive ages implythis advantage at least, that they left him still but a sojourner in nature.When he was refreshed with food and sleep he contemplated his journey again. Hedwelt, as it were, in a tent in this world, and was either threading thevalleys, or crossing the plains, or climbing the mountain tops. But lo! menhave become the tools of their tools. The man who independently plucked thefruits when he was hungry is become a farmer; and he who stood under a tree forshelter, a housekeeper. We now no longer camp as for a night, but have settleddown on earth and forgotten heaven. We have adopted Christianity merely as animproved method of agri-culture. We have built for this world a familymansion, and for the next a family tomb. The best works of art are theexpression of man’s struggle to free himself from this condition, but theeffect of our art is merely to make this low state comfortable and that higherstate to be forgotten. There is actually no place in this village for a work offine art, if any had come down to us, to stand, for our lives, ourhouses and streets, furnish no proper pedestal for it. There is not a nail tohang a picture on, nor a shelf to receive the bust of a hero or a saint. When Iconsider how our houses are built and paid for, or not paid for, and theirinternal economy managed and sustained, I wonder that the floor does not giveway under the visitor while he is admiring the gewgaws upon the mantel-piece,and let him through into the cellar, to some solid and honest though earthyfoundation. I cannot but perceive that this so called rich and refined life isa thing jumped at, and I do not get on in the enjoyment of the fine artswhich adorn it, my attention being wholly occupied with the jump; for Iremember that the greatest genuine leap, due to human muscles alone, on record,is that of certain wandering Arabs, who are said to have cleared twenty-fivefeet on level ground. Without factitious support, man is sure to come to earthagain beyond that distance. The first question which I am tempted to put to theproprietor of such great impropriety is, Who bolsters you? Are you one of theninety-seven who fail, or of the three who succeed? Answer me these questions,and then perhaps I may look at your bawbles and find them ornamental. The cartbefore the horse is neither beautiful nor useful. Before we can adorn ourhouses with beautiful objects the walls must be stripped, and our lives must bestripped, and beautiful housekeeping and beautiful living be laid for afoundation: now, a taste for the beautiful is most cultivated out of doors,where there is no house and no housekeeper.
Old Johnson, in his “Wonder-Working Providence,” speaking of the first settlersof this town, with whom he was contemporary, tells us that “they burrowthemselves in the earth for their first shelter under some hillside, and,casting the soil aloft upon timber, they make a smoky fire against the earth,at the highest side.” They did not “provide them houses,” says he, “till theearth, by the Lord’s blessing, brought forth bread to feed them,” and the firstyear’s crop was so light that “they were forced to cut their bread very thinfor a long season.” The secretary of the Province of New Netherland, writing inDutch, in 1650, for the information of those who wished to take up land there,states more particularly that “those in New Netherland, and especially in NewEngland, who have no means to build farmhouses at first according to theirwishes, dig a square pit in the ground, cellar fashion, six or seven feet deep,as long and as broad as they think proper, case the earth inside with wood allround the wall, and line the wood with the bark of trees or something else toprevent the caving in of the earth; floor this cellar with plank, and wainscotit overhead for a ceiling, raise a roof of spars clear up, and cover the sparswith bark or green sods, so that they can live dry and warm in these houseswith their entire families for two, three, and four years, it being understoodthat partitions are run through those cellars which are adapted to the size ofthe family. The wealthy and principal men in New England, in the beginning ofthe colonies, commenced their first dwelling houses in this fashion for tworeasons; firstly, in order not to waste time in building, and not to want foodthe next season; secondly, in order not to discourage poor laboring people whomthey brought over in numbers from Fatherland. In the course of three or fouryears, when the country became adapted to agriculture, they built themselveshandsome houses, spending on them several thousands.”
In this course which our ancestors took there was a show of prudence at least,as if their principle were to satisfy the more pressing wants first. But arethe more pressing wants satisfied now? When I think of acquiring for myself oneof our luxurious dwellings, I am deterred, for, so to speak, the country is notyet adapted to human culture, and we are still forced to cut ourspiritual bread far thinner than our forefathers did their wheaten. Notthat all architectural ornament is to be neglected even in the rudest periods;but let our houses first be lined with beauty, where they come in contact withour lives, like the tenement of the shellfish, and not overlaid with it. But,alas! I have been inside one or two of them, and know what they are lined with.
Though we are not so degenerate but that we might possibly live in a cave or awigwam or wear skins today, it certainly is better to accept the advantages,though so dearly bought, which the invention and industry of mankind offer. Insuch a neighborhood as this, boards and shingles, lime and bricks, are cheaperand more easily obtained than suitable caves, or whole logs, or bark insufficient quantities, or even well-tempered clay or flat stones. I speakunderstandingly on this subject, for I have made myself acquainted with it boththeoretically and practically. With a little more wit we might use thesematerials so as to become richer than the richest now are, and make ourcivilization a blessing. The civilized man is a more experienced and wisersavage. But to make haste to my own experiment.
Near the end of March, 1845, I borrowed an axe and went down to the woods byWalden Pond, nearest to where I intended to build my house, and began to cutdown some tall, arrowy white pines, still in their youth, for timber. It isdifficult to begin without borrowing, but perhaps it is the most generouscourse thus to permit your fellow-men to have an interest in your enterprise.The owner of the axe, as he released his hold on it, said that it was the appleof his eye; but I returned it sharper than I received it. It was a pleasanthillside where I worked, covered with pine woods, through which I looked out onthe pond, and a small open field in the woods where pines and hickories werespringing up. The ice in the pond was not yet dissolved, though there were someopen spaces, and it was all dark colored and saturated with water. There weresome slight flurries of snow during the days that I worked there; but for themost part when I came out on to the railroad, on my way home, its yellow sandheap stretched away gleaming in the hazy atmosphere, and the rails shone in thespring sun, and I heard the lark and pewee and other birds already come tocommence another year with us. They were pleasant spring days, in which thewinter of man’s discontent was thawing as well as the earth, and the life thathad lain torpid began to stretch itself. One day, when my axe had come off andI had cut a green hickory for a wedge, driving it with a stone, and had placedthe whole to soak in a pond hole in order to swell the wood, I saw a stripedsnake run into the water, and he lay on the bottom, apparently withoutinconvenience, as long as I stayed there, or more than a quarter of an hour;perhaps because he had not yet fairly come out of the torpid state. It appearedto me that for a like reason men remain in their present low and primitivecondition; but if they should feel the influence of the spring of springsarousing them, they would of necessity rise to a higher and more ethereal life.I had previously seen the snakes in frosty mornings in my path with portions oftheir bodies still numb and inflexible, waiting for the sun to thaw them. Onthe 1st of April it rained and melted the ice, and in the early part of theday, which was very foggy, I heard a stray goose groping about over the pondand cackling as if lost, or like the spirit of the fog.
So I went on for some days cutting and hewing timber, and also studs andrafters, all with my narrow axe, not having many communicable or scholar-likethoughts, singing to myself,—
Men say they know many things;But lo! they have taken wings,—The arts and sciences,And a thousand appliances;The wind that blowsIs all that any body knows.
I hewed the main timbers six inches square, most of the studs on two sidesonly, and the rafters and floor timbers on one side, leaving the rest of thebark on, so that they were just as straight and much stronger than sawed ones.Each stick was carefully mortised or tenoned by its stump, for I had borrowedother tools by this time. My days in the woods were not very long ones; yet Iusually carried my dinner of bread and butter, and read the newspaper in whichit was wrapped, at noon, sitting amid the green pine boughs which I had cutoff, and to my bread was imparted some of their fragrance, for my hands werecovered with a thick coat of pitch. Before I had done I was more the friendthan the foe of the pine tree, though I had cut down some of them, havingbecome better acquainted with it. Sometimes a rambler in the wood was attractedby the sound of my axe, and we chatted pleasantly over the chips which I hadmade.
By the middle of April, for I made no haste in my work, but rather made themost of it, my house was framed and ready for the raising. I had already boughtthe shanty of James Collins, an Irishman who worked on the Fitchburg Railroad,for boards. James Collins’ shanty was considered an uncommonly fine one. When Icalled to see it he was not at home. I walked about the outside, at firstunobserved from within, the window was so deep and high. It was of smalldimensions, with a peaked cottage roof, and not much else to be seen, the dirtbeing raised five feet all around as if it were a compost heap. The roof wasthe soundest part, though a good deal warped and made brittle by the sun.Door-sill there was none, but a perennial passage for the hens under the doorboard. Mrs. C. came to the door and asked me to view it from the inside. Thehens were driven in by my approach. It was dark, and had a dirt floor for themost part, dank, clammy, and aguish, only here a board and there a board whichwould not bear removal. She lighted a lamp to show me the inside of the roofand the walls, and also that the board floor extended under the bed, warning menot to step into the cellar, a sort of dust hole two feet deep. In her ownwords, they were “good boards overhead, good boards all around, and a goodwindow,”—of two whole squares originally, only the cat had passed out that waylately. There was a stove, a bed, and a place to sit, an infant in the housewhere it was born, a silk parasol, gilt-framed looking-glass, and a patent newcoffee mill nailed to an oak sapling, all told. The bargain was soon concluded,for James had in the meanwhile returned. I to pay four dollars and twenty-fivecents to-night, he to vacate at five to-morrow morning, selling to nobody elsemeanwhile: I to take possession at six. It were well, he said, to be thereearly, and anticipate certain indistinct but wholly unjust claims on the scoreof ground rent and fuel. This he assured me was the only encumbrance. At six Ipassed him and his family on the road. One large bundle held their all,—bed,coffee-mill, looking-glass, hens,—all but the cat, she took to the woods andbecame a wild cat, and, as I learned afterward, trod in a trap set forwoodchucks, and so became a dead cat at last.
I took down this dwelling the same morning, drawing the nails, and removed itto the pond side by small cartloads, spreading the boards on the grass there tobleach and warp back again in the sun. One early thrush gave me a note or twoas I drove along the woodland path. I was informed treacherously by a youngPatrick that neighbor Seeley, an Irishman, in the intervals of the carting,transferred the still tolerable, straight, and drivable nails, staples, andspikes to his pocket, and then stood when I came back to pass the time of day,and look freshly up, unconcerned, with spring thoughts, at the devastation;there being a dearth of work, as he said. He was there to representspectatordom, and help make this seemingly insignificant event one with theremoval of the gods of Troy.
I dug my cellar in the side of a hill sloping to the south, where a woodchuckhad formerly dug his burrow, down through sumach and blackberry roots, and thelowest stain of vegetation, six feet square by seven deep, to a fine sand wherepotatoes would not freeze in any winter. The sides were left shelving, and notstoned; but the sun having never shone on them, the sand still keeps its place.It was but two hours’ work. I took particular pleasure in this breaking ofground, for in almost all latitudes men dig into the earth for an equabletemperature. Under the most splendid house in the city is still to be found thecellar where they store their roots as of old, and long after thesuperstructure has disappeared posterity remark its dent in the earth. Thehouse is still but a sort of porch at the entrance of a burrow.
At length, in the beginning of May, with the help of some of my acquaintances,rather to improve so good an occasion for neighborliness than from anynecessity, I set up the frame of my house. No man was ever more honored in thecharacter of his raisers than I. They are destined, I trust, to assist at theraising of loftier structures one day. I began to occupy my house on the 4th ofJuly, as soon as it was boarded and roofed, for the boards were carefullyfeather-edged and lapped, so that it was perfectly impervious to rain; butbefore boarding I laid the foundation of a chimney at one end, bringing twocartloads of stones up the hill from the pond in my arms. I built the chimneyafter my hoeing in the fall, before a fire became necessary for warmth, doingmy cooking in the mean while out of doors on the ground, early in the morning:which mode I still think is in some respects more convenient and agreeable thanthe usual one. When it stormed before my bread was baked, I fixed a few boardsover the fire, and sat under them to watch my loaf, and passed some pleasanthours in that way. In those days, when my hands were much employed, I read butlittle, but the least scraps of paper which lay on the ground, my holder, ortablecloth, afforded me as much entertainment, in fact answered the samepurpose as the Iliad.
It would be worth the while to build still more deliberately than I did,considering, for instance, what foundation a door, a window, a cellar, agarret, have in the nature of man, and perchance never raising anysuperstructure until we found a better reason for it than our temporalnecessities even. There is some of the same fitness in a man’s building his ownhouse that there is in a bird’s building its own nest. Who knows but if menconstructed their dwellings with their own hands, and provided food forthemselves and families simply and honestly enough, the poetic faculty would beuniversally developed, as birds universally sing when they are so engaged? Butalas! we do like cowbirds and cuckoos, which lay their eggs in nests whichother birds have built, and cheer no traveller with their chattering andunmusical notes. Shall we forever resign the pleasure of construction to thecarpenter? What does architecture amount to in the experience of the mass ofmen? I never in all my walks came across a man engaged in so simple and naturalan occupation as building his house. We belong to the community. It is not thetailor alone who is the ninth part of a man; it is as much the preacher, andthe merchant, and the farmer. Where is this division of labor to end? and whatobject does it finally serve? No doubt another may also think for me;but it is not therefore desirable that he should do so to the exclusion of mythinking for myself.
True, there are architects so called in this country, and I have heard of oneat least possessed with the idea of making architectural ornaments have a coreof truth, a necessity, and hence a beauty, as if it were a revelation to him.All very well perhaps from his point of view, but only a little better than thecommon dilettantism. A sentimental reformer in architecture, he began at thecornice, not at the foundation. It was only how to put a core of truth withinthe ornaments, that every sugar plum in fact might have an almond or carawayseed in it,—though I hold that almonds are most wholesome without thesugar,—and not how the inhabitant, the indweller, might build truly within andwithout, and let the ornaments take care of themselves. What reasonable manever supposed that ornaments were something outward and in the skinmerely,—that the tortoise got his spotted shell, or the shellfish itsmother-o’-pearl tints, by such a contract as the inhabitants of Broadway theirTrinity Church? But a man has no more to do with the style of architecture ofhis house than a tortoise with that of its shell: nor need the soldier be soidle as to try to paint the precise color of his virtue on his standard. Theenemy will find it out. He may turn pale when the trial comes. This man seemedto me to lean over the cornice, and timidly whisper his half truth to the rudeoccupants who really knew it better than he. What of architectural beauty I nowsee, I know has gradually grown from within outward, out of the necessities andcharacter of the indweller, who is the only builder,—out of some unconscioustruthfulness, and nobleness, without ever a thought for the appearance andwhatever additional beauty of this kind is destined to be produced will bepreceded by a like unconscious beauty of life. The most interesting dwellingsin this country, as the painter knows, are the most unpretending, humble loghuts and cottages of the poor commonly; it is the life of the inhabitants whoseshells they are, and not any peculiarity in their surfaces merely, which makesthem picturesque; and equally interesting will be the citizen’s suburbanbox, when his life shall be as simple and as agreeable to the imagination, andthere is as little straining after effect in the style of his dwelling. A greatproportion of architectural ornaments are literally hollow, and a Septembergale would strip them off, like borrowed plumes, without injury to thesubstantials. They can do without architecture who have no olives norwines in the cellar. What if an equal ado were made about the ornaments ofstyle in literature, and the architects of our bibles spent as much time abouttheir cornices as the architects of our churches do? So are made thebelles-lettres and the beaux-arts and their professors. Much itconcerns a man, forsooth, how a few sticks are slanted over him or under him,and what colors are daubed upon his box. It would signify somewhat, if, in anyearnest sense, he slanted them and daubed it; but the spirit havingdeparted out of the tenant, it is of a piece with constructing his owncoffin,—the architecture of the grave, and “carpenter” is but another name for“coffin-maker.” One man says, in his despair or indifference to life, take up ahandful of the earth at your feet, and paint your house that color. Is hethinking of his last and narrow house? Toss up a copper for it as well. What anabundance of leisure he must have! Why do you take up a handful of dirt? Betterpaint your house your own complexion; let it turn pale or blush for you. Anenterprise to improve the style of cottage architecture! When you have got myornaments ready I will wear them.
Before winter I built a chimney, and shingled the sides of my house, which werealready impervious to rain, with imperfect and sappy shingles made of the firstslice of the log, whose edges I was obliged to straighten with a plane.
I have thus a tight shingled and plastered house, ten feet wide by fifteenlong, and eight-feet posts, with a garret and a closet, a large window on eachside, two trap doors, one door at the end, and a brick fireplace opposite. Theexact cost of my house, paying the usual price for such materials as I used,but not counting the work, all of which was done by myself, was as follows; andI give the details because very few are able to tell exactly what their housescost, and fewer still, if any, the separate cost of the various materials whichcompose them:—
These are all the materials excepting the timber stones and sand, which Iclaimed by squatter’s right. I have also a small wood-shed adjoining, madechiefly of the stuff which was left after building the house.
I intend to build me a house which will surpass any on the main street inConcord in grandeur and luxury, as soon as it pleases me as much and will costme no more than my present one.
I thus found that the student who wishes for a shelter can obtain one for alifetime at an expense not greater than the rent which he now pays annually. IfI seem to boast more than is becoming, my excuse is that I brag for humanityrather than for myself; and my shortcomings and inconsistencies do not affectthe truth of my statement. Notwithstanding much cant and hypocrisy,—chaff whichI find it difficult to separate from my wheat, but for which I am as sorry asany man,—I will breathe freely and stretch myself in this respect, it is such arelief to both the moral and physical system; and I am resolved that I will notthrough humility become the devil’s attorney. I will endeavor to speak a goodword for the truth. At Cambridge College the mere rent of a student’s room,which is only a little larger than my own, is thirty dollars each year, thoughthe corporation had the advantage of building thirty-two side by side and underone roof, and the occupant suffers the inconvenience of many and noisyneighbors, and perhaps a residence in the fourth story. I cannot but think thatif we had more true wisdom in these respects, not only less education would beneeded, because, forsooth, more would already have been acquired, but thepecuniary expense of getting an education would in a great measure vanish.Those conveniences which the student requires at Cambridge or elsewhere costhim or somebody else ten times as great a sacrifice of life as they would withproper management on both sides. Those things for which the most money isdemanded are never the things which the student most wants. Tuition, forinstance, is an important item in the term bill, while for the far morevaluable education which he gets by associating with the most cultivated of hiscontemporaries no charge is made. The mode of founding a college is, commonly,to get up a subscription of dollars and cents, and then following blindly theprinciples of a division of labor to its extreme, a principle which shouldnever be followed but with circumspection,—to call in a contractor who makesthis a subject of speculation, and he employs Irishmen or other operativesactually to lay the foundations, while the students that are to be are said tobe fitting themselves for it; and for these oversights successive generationshave to pay. I think that it would be better than this, for thestudents, or those who desire to be benefited by it, even to lay the foundationthemselves. The student who secures his coveted leisure and retirement bysystematically shirking any labor necessary to man obtains but an ignoble andunprofitable leisure, defrauding himself of the experience which alone can makeleisure fruitful. “But,” says one, “you do not mean that the students should goto work with their hands instead of their heads?” I do not mean that exactly,but I mean something which he might think a good deal like that; I mean thatthey should not play life, or study it merely, while thecommunity supports them at this expensive game, but earnestly live itfrom beginning to end. How could youths better learn to live than by at oncetrying the experiment of living? Methinks this would exercise their minds asmuch as mathematics. If I wished a boy to know something about the arts andsciences, for instance, I would not pursue the common course, which is merelyto send him into the neighborhood of some professor, where any thing isprofessed and practised but the art of life;—to survey the world through atelescope or a microscope, and never with his natural eye; to study chemistry,and not learn how his bread is made, or mechanics, and not learn how it isearned; to discover new satellites to Neptune, and not detect the motes in hiseyes, or to what vagabond he is a satellite himself; or to be devoured by themonsters that swarm all around him, while contemplating the monsters in a dropof vinegar. Which would have advanced the most at the end of a month,—the boywho had made his own jackknife from the ore which he had dug and smelted,reading as much as would be necessary for this,—or the boy who had attended thelectures on metallurgy at the Institute in the mean while, and had received aRodgers’ penknife from his father? Which would be most likely to cut hisfingers?... To my astonishment I was informed on leaving college that I hadstudied navigation!—why, if I had taken one turn down the harbor I should haveknown more about it. Even the poor student studies and is taught onlypolitical economy, while that economy of living which is synonymous withphilosophy is not even sincerely professed in our colleges. The consequence is,that while he is reading Adam Smith, Ricardo, and Say, he runs his father indebt irretrievably.
As with our colleges, so with a hundred “modern improvements”; there is anillusion about them; there is not always a positive advance. The devil goes onexacting compound interest to the last for his early share and numeroussucceeding investments in them. Our inventions are wont to be pretty toys,which distract our attention from serious things. They are but improved meansto an unimproved end, an end which it was already but too easy to arrive at; asrailroads lead to Boston or New York. We are in great haste to construct amagnetic telegraph from Maine to Texas; but Maine and Texas, it may be, havenothing important to communicate. Either is in such a predicament as the manwho was earnest to be introduced to a distinguished deaf woman, but when he waspresented, and one end of her ear trumpet was put into his hand, had nothing tosay. As if the main object were to talk fast and not to talk sensibly. We areeager to tunnel under the Atlantic and bring the old world some weeks nearer tothe new; but perchance the first news that will leak through into the broad,flapping American ear will be that the Princess Adelaide has the whoopingcough. After all, the man whose horse trots a mile in a minute does not carrythe most important messages; he is not an evangelist, nor does he come roundeating locusts and wild honey. I doubt if Flying Childers ever carried a peckof corn to mill.
One says to me, “I wonder that you do not lay up money; you love to travel; youmight take the cars and go to Fitchburg to-day and see the country.” But I amwiser than that. I have learned that the swiftest traveller is he that goesafoot. I say to my friend, Suppose we try who will get there first. Thedistance is thirty miles; the fare ninety cents. That is almost a day’s wages.I remember when wages were sixty cents a day for laborers on this very road.Well, I start now on foot, and get there before night; I have travelled at thatrate by the week together. You will in the mean while have earned your fare,and arrive there some time to-morrow, or possibly this evening, if you arelucky enough to get a job in season. Instead of going to Fitchburg, you will beworking here the greater part of the day. And so, if the railroad reached roundthe world, I think that I should keep ahead of you; and as for seeing thecountry and getting experience of that kind, I should have to cut youracquaintance altogether.
Such is the universal law, which no man can ever outwit, and with regard to therailroad even we may say it is as broad as it is long. To make a railroad roundthe world available to all mankind is equivalent to grading the whole surfaceof the planet. Men have an indistinct notion that if they keep up this activityof joint stocks and spades long enough all will at length ride somewhere, innext to no time, and for nothing; but though a crowd rushes to the depot, andthe conductor shouts “All aboard!” when the smoke is blown away and the vaporcondensed, it will be perceived that a few are riding, but the rest are runover,—and it will be called, and will be, “A melancholy accident.” No doubtthey can ride at last who shall have earned their fare, that is, if theysurvive so long, but they will probably have lost their elasticity and desireto travel by that time. This spending of the best part of one’s life earningmoney in order to enjoy a questionable liberty during the least valuable partof it, reminds me of the Englishman who went to India to make a fortune first,in order that he might return to England and live the life of a poet. He shouldhave gone up garret at once. “What!” exclaim a million Irishmen starting upfrom all the shanties in the land, “is not this railroad which we have built agood thing?” Yes, I answer, comparatively good, that is, you might havedone worse; but I wish, as you are brothers of mine, that you could have spentyour time better than digging in this dirt.
Before I finished my house, wishing to earn ten or twelve dollars by somehonest and agreeable method, in order to meet my unusual expenses, I plantedabout two acres and a half of light and sandy soil near it chiefly with beans,but also a small part with potatoes, corn, peas, and turnips. The whole lotcontains eleven acres, mostly growing up to pines and hickories, and was soldthe preceding season for eight dollars and eight cents an acre. One farmer saidthat it was “good for nothing but to raise cheeping squirrels on.” I put nomanure whatever on this land, not being the owner, but merely a squatter, andnot expecting to cultivate so much again, and I did not quite hoe it all once.I got out several cords of stumps in ploughing, which supplied me with fuel fora long time, and left small circles of virgin mould, easily distinguishablethrough the summer by the greater luxuriance of the beans there. The dead andfor the most part unmerchantable wood behind my house, and the driftwood fromthe pond, have supplied the remainder of my fuel. I was obliged to hire a teamand a man for the ploughing, though I held the plough myself. My farm outgoesfor the first season were, for implements, seed, work, &c., $14.72½. Theseed corn was given me. This never costs anything to speak of, unless you plantmore than enough. I got twelve bushels of beans, and eighteen bushels ofpotatoes, beside some peas and sweet corn. The yellow corn and turnips were toolate to come to any thing. My whole income from the farm was
beside produce consumed and on hand at the time this estimate was made of thevalue of $4.50,—the amount on hand much more than balancing a little grasswhich I did not raise. All things considered, that is, considering theimportance of a man’s soul and of to-day, notwithstanding the short timeoccupied by my experiment, nay, partly even because of its transient character,I believe that that was doing better than any farmer in Concord did that year.
The next year I did better still, for I spaded up all the land which Irequired, about a third of an acre, and I learned from the experience of bothyears, not being in the least awed by many celebrated works on husbandry,Arthur Young among the rest, that if one would live simply and eat only thecrop which he raised, and raise no more than he ate, and not exchange it for aninsufficient quantity of more luxurious and expensive things, he would need tocultivate only a few rods of ground, and that it would be cheaper to spade upthat than to use oxen to plough it, and to select a fresh spot from time totime than to manure the old, and he could do all his necessary farm work as itwere with his left hand at odd hours in the summer; and thus he would not betied to an ox, or horse, or cow, or pig, as at present. I desire to speakimpartially on this point, and as one not interested in the success or failureof the present economical and social arrangements. I was more independent thanany farmer in Concord, for I was not anchored to a house or farm, but couldfollow the bent of my genius, which is a very crooked one, every moment. Besidebeing better off than they already, if my house had been burned or my crops hadfailed, I should have been nearly as well off as before.
I am wont to think that men are not so much the keepers of herds as herds arethe keepers of men, the former are so much the freer. Men and oxen exchangework; but if we consider necessary work only, the oxen will be seen to havegreatly the advantage, their farm is so much the larger. Man does some of hispart of the exchange work in his six weeks of haying, and it is no boy’s play.Certainly no nation that lived simply in all respects, that is, no nation ofphilosophers, would commit so great a blunder as to use the labor of animals.True, there never was and is not likely soon to be a nation of philosophers,nor am I certain it is desirable that there should be. However, I shouldnever have broken a horse or bull and taken him to board for any work he mightdo for me, for fear I should become a horse-man or a herds-man merely; and ifsociety seems to be the gainer by so doing, are we certain that what is oneman’s gain is not another’s loss, and that the stable-boy has equal cause withhis master to be satisfied? Granted that some public works would not have beenconstructed without this aid, and let man share the glory of such with the oxand horse; does it follow that he could not have accomplished works yet moreworthy of himself in that case? When men begin to do, not merely unnecessary orartistic, but luxurious and idle work, with their assistance, it is inevitablethat a few do all the exchange work with the oxen, or, in other words, becomethe slaves of the strongest. Man thus not only works for the animal within him,but, for a symbol of this, he works for the animal without him. Though we havemany substantial houses of brick or stone, the prosperity of the farmer isstill measured by the degree to which the barn overshadows the house. This townis said to have the largest houses for oxen, cows, and horses hereabouts, andit is not behindhand in its public buildings; but there are very few halls forfree worship or free speech in this county. It should not be by theirarchitecture, but why not even by their power of abstract thought, that nationsshould seek to commemorate themselves? How much more admirable theBhagvat-Geeta than all the ruins of the East! Towers and temples are the luxuryof princes. A simple and independent mind does not toil at the bidding of anyprince. Genius is not a retainer to any emperor, nor is its material silver, orgold, or marble, except to a trifling extent. To what end, pray, is so muchstone hammered? In Arcadia, when I was there, I did not see any hammeringstone. Nations are possessed with an insane ambition to perpetuate the memoryof themselves by the amount of hammered stone they leave. What if equal painswere taken to smooth and polish their manners? One piece of good sense would bemore memorable than a monument as high as the moon. I love better to see stonesin place. The grandeur of Thebes was a vulgar grandeur. More sensible is a rodof stone wall that bounds an honest man’s field than a hundred-gated Thebesthat has wandered farther from the true end of life. The religion andcivilization which are barbaric and heathenish build splendid temples; but whatyou might call Christianity does not. Most of the stone a nation hammers goestoward its tomb only. It buries itself alive. As for the Pyramids, there isnothing to wonder at in them so much as the fact that so many men could befound degraded enough to spend their lives constructing a tomb for someambitious booby, whom it would have been wiser and manlier to have drowned inthe Nile, and then given his body to the dogs. I might possibly invent someexcuse for them and him, but I have no time for it. As for the religion andlove of art of the builders, it is much the same all the world over, whetherthe building be an Egyptian temple or the United States Bank. It costs morethan it comes to. The mainspring is vanity, assisted by the love of garlic andbread and butter. Mr. Balcom, a promising young architect, designs it on theback of his Vitruvius, with hard pencil and ruler, and the job is let out toDobson & Sons, stonecutters. When the thirty centuries begin to look downon it, mankind begin to look up at it. As for your high towers and monuments,there was a crazy fellow once in this town who undertook to dig through toChina, and he got so far that, as he said, he heard the Chinese pots andkettles rattle; but I think that I shall not go out of my way to admire thehole which he made. Many are concerned about the monuments of the West and theEast,—to know who built them. For my part, I should like to know who in thosedays did not build them,—who were above such trifling. But to proceed with mystatistics.
By surveying, carpentry, and day-labor of various other kinds in the village inthe mean while, for I have as many trades as fingers, I had earned $13.34. Theexpense of food for eight months, namely, from July 4th to March 1st, the timewhen these estimates were made, though I lived there more than two years,—notcounting potatoes, a little green corn, and some peas, which I had raised, norconsidering the value of what was on hand at the last date, was
Yes, I did eat $8.74, all told; but I should not thus unblushingly publish myguilt, if I did not know that most of my readers were equally guilty withmyself, and that their deeds would look no better in print. The next year Isometimes caught a mess of fish for my dinner, and once I went so far as toslaughter a woodchuck which ravaged my bean-field,—effect his transmigration,as a Tartar would say,—and devour him, partly for experiment’s sake; but thoughit afforded me a momentary enjoyment, notwithstanding a musky flavor, I sawthat the longest use would not make that a good practice, however it might seemto have your woodchucks ready dressed by the village butcher.
Clothing and some incidental expenses within the same dates, though little canbe inferred from this item, amounted to
So that all the pecuniary outgoes, excepting for washing and mending, which forthe most part were done out of the house, and their bills have not yet beenreceived,—and these are all and more than all the ways by which moneynecessarily goes out in this part of the world,—were
I address myself now to those of my readers who have a living to get. And tomeet this I have for farm produce sold
which subtracted from the sum of the outgoes leaves a balance of $25.21¾ on theone side,—this being very nearly the means with which I started, and themeasure of expenses to be incurred,—and on the other, beside the leisure andindependence and health thus secured, a comfortable house for me as long as Ichoose to occupy it.
These statistics, however accidental and therefore uninstructive they mayappear, as they have a certain completeness, have a certain value also. Nothingwas given me of which I have not rendered some account. It appears from theabove estimate, that my food alone cost me in money about twenty-seven cents aweek. It was, for nearly two years after this, rye and Indian meal withoutyeast, potatoes, rice, a very little salt pork, molasses, and salt, and mydrink water. It was fit that I should live on rice, mainly, who loved so wellthe philosophy of India. To meet the objections of some inveterate cavillers, Imay as well state, that if I dined out occasionally, as I always had done, andI trust shall have opportunities to do again, it was frequently to thedetriment of my domestic arrangements. But the dining out, being, as I havestated, a constant element, does not in the least affect a comparativestatement like this.
I learned from my two years’ experience that it would cost incredibly littletrouble to obtain one’s necessary food, even in this latitude; that a man mayuse as simple a diet as the animals, and yet retain health and strength. I havemade a satisfactory dinner, satisfactory on several accounts, simply off a dishof purslane (Portulaca oleracea) which I gathered in my cornfield,boiled and salted. I give the Latin on account of the savoriness of the trivialname. And pray what more can a reasonable man desire, in peaceful times, inordinary noons, than a sufficient number of ears of green sweet-corn boiled,with the addition of salt? Even the little variety which I used was a yieldingto the demands of appetite, and not of health. Yet men have come to such a passthat they frequently starve, not for want of necessaries, but for want ofluxuries; and I know a good woman who thinks that her son lost his life becausehe took to drinking water only.
The reader will perceive that I am treating the subject rather from an economicthan a dietetic point of view, and he will not venture to put my abstemiousnessto the test unless he has a well-stocked larder.
Bread I at first made of pure Indian meal and salt, genuine hoe-cakes, which Ibaked before my fire out of doors on a shingle or the end of a stick of timbersawed off in building my house; but it was wont to get smoked and to have apiny flavor. I tried flour also; but have at last found a mixture of rye andIndian meal most convenient and agreeable. In cold weather it was no littleamusement to bake several small loaves of this in succession, tending andturning them as carefully as an Egyptian his hatching eggs. They were a realcereal fruit which I ripened, and they had to my senses a fragrance like thatof other noble fruits, which I kept in as long as possible by wrapping them incloths. I made a study of the ancient and indispensable art of bread-making,consulting such authorities as offered, going back to the primitive days andfirst invention of the unleavened kind, when from the wildness of nuts andmeats men first reached the mildness and refinement of this diet, andtravelling gradually down in my studies through that accidental souring of thedough which, it is supposed, taught the leavening process, and through thevarious fermentations thereafter, till I came to “good, sweet, wholesomebread,” the staff of life. Leaven, which some deem the soul of bread, thespiritus which fills its cellular tissue, which is religiously preservedlike the vestal fire,—some precious bottle-full, I suppose, first brought overin the Mayflower, did the business for America, and its influence is stillrising, swelling, spreading, in cerealian billows over the land,—this seed Iregularly and faithfully procured from the village, till at length one morningI forgot the rules, and scalded my yeast; by which accident I discovered thateven this was not indispensable,—for my discoveries were not by the syntheticbut analytic process,—and I have gladly omitted it since, though mosthousewives earnestly assured me that safe and wholesome bread without yeastmight not be, and elderly people prophesied a speedy decay of the vital forces.Yet I find it not to be an essential ingredient, and after going without it fora year am still in the land of the living; and I am glad to escape thetrivialness of carrying a bottle-full in my pocket, which would sometimes popand discharge its contents to my discomfiture. It is simpler and morerespectable to omit it. Man is an animal who more than any other can adapthimself to all climates and circumstances. Neither did I put any sal soda, orother acid or alkali, into my bread. It would seem that I made it according tothe recipe which Marcus Porcius Cato gave about two centuries before Christ.“Panem depsticium sic facito. Manus mortariumque bene lavato. Farinam inmortarium indito, aquæ paulatim addito, subigitoque pulchre. Ubi benesubegeris, defingito, coquitoque sub testu.” Which I take to mean—“Make kneadedbread thus. Wash your hands and trough well. Put the meal into the trough, addwater gradually, and knead it thoroughly. When you have kneaded it well, mouldit, and bake it under a cover,” that is, in a baking-kettle. Not a word aboutleaven. But I did not always use this staff of life. At one time, owing to theemptiness of my purse, I saw none of it for more than a month.
Every New Englander might easily raise all his own breadstuffs in this land ofrye and Indian corn, and not depend on distant and fluctuating markets forthem. Yet so far are we from simplicity and independence that, in Concord,fresh and sweet meal is rarely sold in the shops, and hominy and corn in astill coarser form are hardly used by any. For the most part the farmer givesto his cattle and hogs the grain of his own producing, and buys flour, which isat least no more wholesome, at a greater cost, at the store. I saw that I couldeasily raise my bushel or two of rye and Indian corn, for the former will growon the poorest land, and the latter does not require the best, and grind themin a hand-mill, and so do without rice and pork; and if I must have someconcentrated sweet, I found by experiment that I could make a very goodmolasses either of pumpkins or beets, and I knew that I needed only to set outa few maples to obtain it more easily still, and while these were growing Icould use various substitutes beside those which I have named. “For,” as theForefathers sang,—
“we can make liquor to sweeten our lipsOf pumpkins and parsnips and walnut-tree chips.”
Finally, as for salt, that grossest of groceries, to obtain this might be a fitoccasion for a visit to the seashore, or, if I did without it altogether, Ishould probably drink the less water. I do not learn that the Indians evertroubled themselves to go after it.
Thus I could avoid all trade and barter, so far as my food was concerned, andhaving a shelter already, it would only remain to get clothing and fuel. Thepantaloons which I now wear were woven in a farmer’s family,—thank Heaven thereis so much virtue still in man; for I think the fall from the farmer to theoperative as great and memorable as that from the man to the farmer;—and in anew country, fuel is an encumbrance. As for a habitat, if I were not permittedstill to squat, I might purchase one acre at the same price for which the landI cultivated was sold—namely, eight dollars and eight cents. But as it was, Iconsidered that I enhanced the value of the land by squatting on it.
There is a certain class of unbelievers who sometimes ask me such questions as,if I think that I can live on vegetable food alone; and to strike at the rootof the matter at once,—for the root is faith,—I am accustomed to answer such,that I can live on board nails. If they cannot understand that, they cannotunderstand much that I have to say. For my part, I am glad to hear ofexperiments of this kind being tried; as that a young man tried for a fortnightto live on hard, raw corn on the ear, using his teeth for all mortar. Thesquirrel tribe tried the same and succeeded. The human race is interested inthese experiments, though a few old women who are incapacitated for them, orwho own their thirds in mills, may be alarmed.
My furniture, part of which I made myself, and the rest cost me nothing ofwhich I have not rendered an account, consisted of a bed, a table, a desk,three chairs, a looking-glass three inches in diameter, a pair of tongs andandirons, a kettle, a skillet, and a frying-pan, a dipper, a wash-bowl, twoknives and forks, three plates, one cup, one spoon, a jug for oil, a jug formolasses, and a japanned lamp. None is so poor that he need sit on a pumpkin.That is shiftlessness. There is a plenty of such chairs as I like best in thevillage garrets to be had for taking them away. Furniture! Thank God, I can sitand I can stand without the aid of a furniture warehouse. What man but aphilosopher would not be ashamed to see his furniture packed in a cart andgoing up country exposed to the light of heaven and the eyes of men, a beggarlyaccount of empty boxes? That is Spaulding’s furniture. I could never tell frominspecting such a load whether it belonged to a so called rich man or a poorone; the owner always seemed poverty-stricken. Indeed, the more you have ofsuch things the poorer you are. Each load looks as if it contained the contentsof a dozen shanties; and if one shanty is poor, this is a dozen times as poor.Pray, for what do we move ever but to get rid of our furniture, ourexuviæ; at last to go from this world to another newly furnished, andleave this to be burned? It is the same as if all these traps were buckled to aman’s belt, and he could not move over the rough country where our lines arecast without dragging them,—dragging his trap. He was a lucky fox that left histail in the trap. The muskrat will gnaw his third leg off to be free. No wonderman has lost his elasticity. How often he is at a dead set! “Sir, if I may beso bold, what do you mean by a dead set?” If you are a seer, whenever you meeta man you will see all that he owns, ay, and much that he pretends to disown,behind him, even to his kitchen furniture and all the trumpery which he savesand will not burn, and he will appear to be harnessed to it and making whatheadway he can. I think that the man is at a dead set who has got through aknot hole or gateway where his sledge load of furniture cannot follow him. Icannot but feel compassion when I hear some trig, compact-looking man,seemingly free, all girded and ready, speak of his “furniture,” as whether itis insured or not. “But what shall I do with my furniture?” My gay butterfly isentangled in a spider’s web then. Even those who seem for a long while not tohave any, if you inquire more narrowly you will find have some stored insomebody’s barn. I look upon England to-day as an old gentleman who istravelling with a great deal of baggage, trumpery which has accumulated fromlong housekeeping, which he has not the courage to burn; great trunk, littletrunk, bandbox and bundle. Throw away the first three at least. It wouldsurpass the powers of a well man nowadays to take up his bed and walk, and Ishould certainly advise a sick one to lay down his bed and run. When I have metan immigrant tottering under a bundle which contained his all—looking like anenormous wen which had grown out of the nape of his neck—I have pitied him, notbecause that was his all, but because he had all that to carry. If Ihave got to drag my trap, I will take care that it be a light one and do notnip me in a vital part. But perchance it would be wisest never to put one’s pawinto it.
I would observe, by the way, that it costs me nothing for curtains, for I haveno gazers to shut out but the sun and moon, and I am willing that they shouldlook in. The moon will not sour milk nor taint meat of mine, nor will the suninjure my furniture or fade my carpet, and if he is sometimes too warm afriend, I find it still better economy to retreat behind some curtain whichnature has provided, than to add a single item to the details of housekeeping.A lady once offered me a mat, but as I had no room to spare within the house,nor time to spare within or without to shake it, I declined it, preferring towipe my feet on the sod before my door. It is best to avoid the beginnings ofevil.
Not long since I was present at the auction of a deacon’s effects, for his lifehad not been ineffectual:—
“The evil that men do lives after them.”
As usual, a great proportion was trumpery which had begun to accumulate in hisfather’s day. Among the rest was a dried tapeworm. And now, after lying half acentury in his garret and other dust holes, these things were not burned;instead of a bonfire, or purifying destruction of them, there was anauction, or increasing of them. The neighbors eagerly collected to viewthem, bought them all, and carefully transported them to their garrets and dustholes, to lie there till their estates are settled, when they will start again.When a man dies he kicks the dust.
The customs of some savage nations might, perchance, be profitably imitated byus, for they at least go through the semblance of casting their sloughannually; they have the idea of the thing, whether they have the reality ornot. Would it not be well if we were to celebrate such a “busk,” or “feast offirst fruits,” as Bartram describes to have been the custom of the MucclasseIndians? “When a town celebrates the busk,” says he, “having previouslyprovided themselves with new clothes, new pots, pans, and other householdutensils and furniture, they collect all their worn out clothes and otherdespicable things, sweep and cleanse their houses, squares, and the whole townof their filth, which with all the remaining grain and other old provisionsthey cast together into one common heap, and consume it with fire. After havingtaken medicine, and fasted for three days, all the fire in the town isextinguished. During this fast they abstain from the gratification of everyappetite and passion whatever. A general amnesty is proclaimed; all malefactorsmay return to their town.—”
“On the fourth morning, the high priest, by rubbing dry wood together, producesnew fire in the public square, from whence every habitation in the town issupplied with the new and pure flame.”
They then feast on the new corn and fruits, and dance and sing for three days,“and the four following days they receive visits and rejoice with their friendsfrom neighboring towns who have in like manner purified and preparedthemselves.”
The Mexicans also practised a similar purification at the end of everyfifty-two years, in the belief that it was time for the world to come to anend.
I have scarcely heard of a truer sacrament, that is, as the dictionary definesit, “outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace,” than this, andI have no doubt that they were originally inspired directly from Heaven to dothus, though they have no biblical record of the revelation.
For more than five years I maintained myself thus solely by the labor of myhands, and I found, that by working about six weeks in a year, I could meet allthe expenses of living. The whole of my winters, as well as most of my summers,I had free and clear for study. I have thoroughly tried school-keeping, andfound that my expenses were in proportion, or rather out of proportion, to myincome, for I was obliged to dress and train, not to say think and believe,accordingly, and I lost my time into the bargain. As I did not teach for thegood of my fellow-men, but simply for a livelihood, this was a failure. I havetried trade; but I found that it would take ten years to get under way in that,and that then I should probably be on my way to the devil. I was actuallyafraid that I might by that time be doing what is called a good business. Whenformerly I was looking about to see what I could do for a living, some sadexperience in conforming to the wishes of friends being fresh in my mind to taxmy ingenuity, I thought often and seriously of picking huckleberries; thatsurely I could do, and its small profits might suffice,—for my greatest skillhas been to want but little,—so little capital it required, so littledistraction from my wonted moods, I foolishly thought. While my acquaintanceswent unhesitatingly into trade or the professions, I contemplated thisoccupation as most like theirs; ranging the hills all summer to pick theberries which came in my way, and thereafter carelessly dispose of them; so, tokeep the flocks of Admetus. I also dreamed that I might gather the wild herbs,or carry evergreens to such villagers as loved to be reminded of the woods,even to the city, by hay-cart loads. But I have since learned that trade curseseverything it handles; and though you trade in messages from heaven, the wholecurse of trade attaches to the business.
As I preferred some things to others, and especially valued my freedom, as Icould fare hard and yet succeed well, I did not wish to spend my time inearning rich carpets or other fine furniture, or delicate cookery, or a housein the Grecian or the Gothic style just yet. If there are any to whom it is nointerruption to acquire these things, and who know how to use them whenacquired, I relinquish to them the pursuit. Some are “industrious,” and appearto love labor for its own sake, or perhaps because it keeps them out of worsemischief; to such I have at present nothing to say. Those who would not knowwhat to do with more leisure than they now enjoy, I might advise to work twiceas hard as they do,—work till they pay for themselves, and get their freepapers. For myself I found that the occupation of a day-laborer was the mostindependent of any, especially as it required only thirty or forty days in ayear to support one. The laborer’s day ends with the going down of the sun, andhe is then free to devote himself to his chosen pursuit, independent of hislabor; but his employer, who speculates from month to month, has no respitefrom one end of the year to the other.
In short, I am convinced, both by faith and experience, that to maintain one’sself on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime, if we will live simply andwisely; as the pursuits of the simpler nations are still the sports of the moreartificial. It is not necessary that a man should earn his living by the sweatof his brow, unless he sweats easier than I do.
One young man of my acquaintance, who has inherited some acres, told me that hethought he should live as I did, if he had the means. I would not haveany one adopt my mode of living on any account; for, beside that beforehe has fairly learned it I may have found out another for myself, I desire thatthere may be as many different persons in the world as possible; but I wouldhave each one be very careful to find out and pursue his own way, andnot his father’s or his mother’s or his neighbor’s instead. The youth may buildor plant or sail, only let him not be hindered from doing that which he tellsme he would like to do. It is by a mathematical point only that we are wise, asthe sailor or the fugitive slave keeps the polestar in his eye; but that issufficient guidance for all our life. We may not arrive at our port within acalculable period, but we would preserve the true course.
Undoubtedly, in this case, what is true for one is truer still for a thousand,as a large house is not proportionally more expensive than a small one, sinceone roof may cover, one cellar underlie, and one wall separate severalapartments. But for my part, I preferred the solitary dwelling. Moreover, itwill commonly be cheaper to build the whole yourself than to convince anotherof the advantage of the common wall; and when you have done this, the commonpartition, to be much cheaper, must be a thin one, and that other may prove abad neighbor, and also not keep his side in repair. The only coöperation whichis commonly possible is exceedingly partial and superficial; and what littletrue coöperation there is, is as if it were not, being a harmony inaudible tomen. If a man has faith, he will coöperate with equal faith everywhere; if hehas not faith, he will continue to live like the rest of the world, whatevercompany he is joined to. To coöperate, in the highest as well as the lowestsense, means to get our living together. I heard it proposed lately thattwo young men should travel together over the world, the one without money,earning his means as he went, before the mast and behind the plow, the othercarrying a bill of exchange in his pocket. It was easy to see that they couldnot long be companions or coöperate, since one would not operate at all.They would part at the first interesting crisis in their adventures. Above all,as I have implied, the man who goes alone can start to-day; but he who travelswith another must wait till that other is ready, and it may be a long timebefore they get off.
But all this is very selfish, I have heard some of my townsmen say. I confessthat I have hitherto indulged very little in philanthropic enterprises. I havemade some sacrifices to a sense of duty, and among others have sacrificed thispleasure also. There are those who have used all their arts to persuade me toundertake the support of some poor family in the town; and if I had nothing todo,—for the devil finds employment for the idle,—I might try my hand at somesuch pastime as that. However, when I have thought to indulge myself in thisrespect, and lay their Heaven under an obligation by maintaining certain poorpersons in all respects as comfortably as I maintain myself, and have evenventured so far as to make them the offer, they have one and all unhesitatinglypreferred to remain poor. While my townsmen and women are devoted in so manyways to the good of their fellows, I trust that one at least may be spared toother and less humane pursuits. You must have a genius for charity as well asfor any thing else. As for Doing-good, that is one of the professions which arefull. Moreover, I have tried it fairly, and, strange as it may seem, amsatisfied that it does not agree with my constitution. Probably I should notconsciously and deliberately forsake my particular calling to do the good whichsociety demands of me, to save the universe from annihilation; and I believethat a like but infinitely greater steadfastness elsewhere is all that nowpreserves it. But I would not stand between any man and his genius; and to himwho does this work, which I decline, with his whole heart and soul and life, Iwould say, Persevere, even if the world call it doing evil, as it is mostlikely they will.
I am far from supposing that my case is a peculiar one; no doubt many of myreaders would make a similar defence. At doing something,—I will not engagethat my neighbors shall pronounce it good,—I do not hesitate to say that Ishould be a capital fellow to hire; but what that is, it is for my employer tofind out. What good I do, in the common sense of that word, must beaside from my main path, and for the most part wholly unintended. Men say,practically, Begin where you are and such as you are, without aiming mainly tobecome of more worth, and with kindness aforethought go about doing good. If Iwere to preach at all in this strain, I should say rather, Set about beinggood. As if the sun should stop when he had kindled his fires up to thesplendor of a moon or a star of the sixth magnitude, and go about like a RobinGoodfellow, peeping in at every cottage window, inspiring lunatics, andtainting meats, and making darkness visible, instead of steadily increasing hisgenial heat and beneficence till he is of such brightness that no mortal canlook him in the face, and then, and in the mean while too, going about theworld in his own orbit, doing it good, or rather, as a truer philosophy hasdiscovered, the world going about him getting good. When Phaeton, wishing toprove his heavenly birth by his beneficence, had the sun’s chariot but one day,and drove out of the beaten track, he burned several blocks of houses in thelower streets of heaven, and scorched the surface of the earth, and dried upevery spring, and made the great desert of Sahara, till at length Jupiterhurled him headlong to the earth with a thunderbolt, and the sun, through griefat his death, did not shine for a year.
There is no odor so bad as that which arises from goodness tainted. It ishuman, it is divine, carrion. If I knew for a certainty that a man was comingto my house with the conscious design of doing me good, I should run for mylife, as from that dry and parching wind of the African deserts called thesimoom, which fills the mouth and nose and ears and eyes with dust till you aresuffocated, for fear that I should get some of his good done to me,—some of itsvirus mingled with my blood. No,—in this case I would rather suffer evil thenatural way. A man is not a good man to me because he will feed me if Ishould be starving, or warm me if I should be freezing, or pull me out of aditch if I should ever fall into one. I can find you a Newfoundland dog thatwill do as much. Philanthropy is not love for one’s fellow-man in the broadestsense. Howard was no doubt an exceedingly kind and worthy man in his way, andhas his reward; but, comparatively speaking, what are a hundred Howards tous, if their philanthropy do not help us in our best estate, whenwe are most worthy to be helped? I never heard of a philanthropic meeting inwhich it was sincerely proposed to do any good to me, or the like of me.
The Jesuits were quite balked by those Indians who, being burned at the stake,suggested new modes of torture to their tormentors. Being superior to physicalsuffering, it sometimes chanced that they were superior to any consolationwhich the missionaries could offer; and the law to do as you would be done byfell with less persuasiveness on the ears of those who, for their part, did notcare how they were done by, who loved their enemies after a new fashion, andcame very near freely forgiving them all they did.
Be sure that you give the poor the aid they most need, though it be yourexample which leaves them far behind. If you give money, spend yourself withit, and do not merely abandon it to them. We make curious mistakes sometimes.Often the poor man is not so cold and hungry as he is dirty and ragged andgross. It is partly his taste, and not merely his misfortune. If you give himmoney, he will perhaps buy more rags with it. I was wont to pity the clumsyIrish laborers who cut ice on the pond, in such mean and ragged clothes, whileI shivered in my more tidy and somewhat more fashionable garments, till, onebitter cold day, one who had slipped into the water came to my house to warmhim, and I saw him strip off three pairs of pants and two pairs of stockingsere he got down to the skin, though they were dirty and ragged enough, it istrue, and that he could afford to refuse the extra garments which Ioffered him, he had so many intra ones. This ducking was the very thinghe needed. Then I began to pity myself, and I saw that it would be a greatercharity to bestow on me a flannel shirt than a whole slop-shop on him. Thereare a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at theroot, and it may be that he who bestows the largest amount of time and money onthe needy is doing the most by his mode of life to produce that misery which hestrives in vain to relieve. It is the pious slave-breeder devoting the proceedsof every tenth slave to buy a Sunday’s liberty for the rest. Some show theirkindness to the poor by employing them in their kitchens. Would they not bekinder if they employed themselves there? You boast of spending a tenth part ofyour income in charity; maybe you should spend the nine tenths so, and donewith it. Society recovers only a tenth part of the property then. Is this owingto the generosity of him in whose possession it is found, or to the remissnessof the officers of justice?
Philanthropy is almost the only virtue which is sufficiently appreciated bymankind. Nay, it is greatly overrated; and it is our selfishness whichoverrates it. A robust poor man, one sunny day here in Concord, praised afellow-townsman to me, because, as he said, he was kind to the poor; meaninghimself. The kind uncles and aunts of the race are more esteemed than its truespiritual fathers and mothers. I once heard a reverend lecturer on England, aman of learning and intelligence, after enumerating her scientific, literary,and political worthies, Shakespeare, Bacon, Cromwell, Milton, Newton, andothers, speak next of her Christian heroes, whom, as if his profession requiredit of him, he elevated to a place far above all the rest, as the greatest ofthe great. They were Penn, Howard, and Mrs. Fry. Every one must feel thefalsehood and cant of this. The last were not England’s best men and women;only, perhaps, her best philanthropists.
I would not subtract any thing from the praise that is due to philanthropy, butmerely demand justice for all who by their lives and works are a blessing tomankind. I do not value chiefly a man’s uprightness and benevolence, which are,as it were, his stem and leaves. Those plants of whose greenness withered wemake herb tea for the sick, serve but a humble use, and are most employed byquacks. I want the flower and fruit of a man; that some fragrance be waftedover from him to me, and some ripeness flavor our intercourse. His goodnessmust not be a partial and transitory act, but a constant superfluity, whichcosts him nothing and of which he is unconscious. This is a charity that hidesa multitude of sins. The philanthropist too often surrounds mankind with theremembrance of his own cast-off griefs as an atmosphere, and calls it sympathy.We should impart our courage, and not our despair, our health and ease, and notour disease, and take care that this does not spread by contagion. From whatsouthern plains comes up the voice of wailing? Under what latitudes reside theheathen to whom we would send light? Who is that intemperate and brutal manwhom we would redeem? If any thing ail a man, so that he does not perform hisfunctions, if he have a pain in his bowels even,—for that is the seat ofsympathy,—he forthwith sets about reforming—the world. Being a microcosmhimself, he discovers, and it is a true discovery, and he is the man to makeit,—that the world has been eating green apples; to his eyes, in fact, theglobe itself is a great green apple, which there is danger awful to think ofthat the children of men will nibble before it is ripe; and straightway hisdrastic philanthropy seeks out the Esquimaux and the Patagonian, and embracesthe populous Indian and Chinese villages; and thus, by a few years ofphilanthropic activity, the powers in the mean while using him for their ownends, no doubt, he cures himself of his dyspepsia, the globe acquires a faintblush on one or both of its cheeks, as if it were beginning to be ripe, andlife loses its crudity and is once more sweet and wholesome to live. I neverdreamed of any enormity greater than I have committed. I never knew, and nevershall know, a worse man than myself.
I believe that what so saddens the reformer is not his sympathy with hisfellows in distress, but, though he be the holiest son of God, is his privateail. Let this be righted, let the spring come to him, the morning rise over hiscouch, and he will forsake his generous companions without apology. My excusefor not lecturing against the use of tobacco is, that I never chewed it; thatis a penalty which reformed tobacco-chewers have to pay; though there arethings enough I have chewed, which I could lecture against. If you should everbe betrayed into any of these philanthropies, do not let your left hand knowwhat your right hand does, for it is not worth knowing. Rescue the drowning andtie your shoe-strings. Take your time, and set about some free labor.
Our manners have been corrupted by communication with the saints. Ourhymn-books resound with a melodious cursing of God and enduring him forever.One would say that even the prophets and redeemers had rather consoled thefears than confirmed the hopes of man. There is nowhere recorded a simple andirrepressible satisfaction with the gift of life, any memorable praise of God.All health and success does me good, however far off and withdrawn it mayappear; all disease and failure helps to make me sad and does me evil, howevermuch sympathy it may have with me or I with it. If, then, we would indeedrestore mankind by truly Indian, botanic, magnetic, or natural means, let usfirst be as simple and well as Nature ourselves, dispel the clouds which hangover our own brows, and take up a little life into our pores. Do not stay to bean overseer of the poor, but endeavor to become one of the worthies of theworld.
I read in the Gulistan, or Flower Garden, of Sheik Sadi of Shiraz, that “Theyasked a wise man, saying; Of the many celebrated trees which the Most High Godhas created lofty and umbrageous, they call none azad, or free, excepting thecypress, which bears no fruit; what mystery is there in this? He replied; Eachhas its appropriate produce, and appointed season, during the continuance ofwhich it is fresh and blooming, and during their absence dry and withered; toneither of which states is the cypress exposed, being always flourishing; andof this nature are the azads, or religious independents.—Fix not thy heart onthat which is transitory; for the Dijlah, or Tigris, will continue to flowthrough Bagdad after the race of caliphs is extinct: if thy hand has plenty, beliberal as the date tree; but if it affords nothing to give away, be an azad,or free man, like the cypress.”
COMPLEMENTAL VERSES
The Pretensions of Poverty
“Thou dost presume too much, poor needy wretch,To claim a station in the firmamentBecause thy humble cottage, or thy tub,Nurses some lazy or pedantic virtueIn the cheap sunshine or by shady springs,With roots and pot-herbs; where thy right hand,Tearing those humane passions from the mind,Upon whose stocks fair blooming virtues flourish,Degradeth nature, and benumbeth sense,And, Gorgon-like, turns active men to stone.We not require the dull societyOf your necessitated temperance,Or that unnatural stupidityThat knows nor joy nor sorrow; nor your forc’dFalsely exalted passive fortitudeAbove the active. This low abject brood,That fix their seats in mediocrity,Become your servile minds; but we advanceSuch virtues only as admit excess,Brave, bounteous acts, regal magnificence,All-seeing prudence, magnanimityThat knows no bound, and that heroic virtueFor which antiquity hath left no name,But patterns only, such as Hercules,Achilles, Theseus. Back to thy loath’d cell;And when thou seest the new enlightened sphere,Study to know but what those worthies were.” T. CAREW
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Where I Lived, and What I Lived For
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At a certain season of our life we are accustomed to consider every spot as thepossible site of a house. I have thus surveyed the country on every side withina dozen miles of where I live. In imagination I have bought all the farms insuccession, for all were to be bought, and I knew their price. I walked overeach farmer’s premises, tasted his wild apples, discoursed on husbandry withhim, took his farm at his price, at any price, mortgaging it to him in my mind;even put a higher price on it,—took everything but a deed of it,—took his wordfor his deed, for I dearly love to talk,—cultivated it, and him too to someextent, I trust, and withdrew when I had enjoyed it long enough, leaving him tocarry it on. This experience entitled me to be regarded as a sort ofreal-estate broker by my friends. Wherever I sat, there I might live, and thelandscape radiated from me accordingly. What is a house but a sedes, aseat?—better if a country seat. I discovered many a site for a house not likelyto be soon improved, which some might have thought too far from the village,but to my eyes the village was too far from it. Well, there I might live, Isaid; and there I did live, for an hour, a summer and a winter life; saw how Icould let the years run off, buffet the winter through, and see the spring comein. The future inhabitants of this region, wherever they may place theirhouses, may be sure that they have been anticipated. An afternoon sufficed tolay out the land into orchard, woodlot, and pasture, and to decide what fineoaks or pines should be left to stand before the door, and whence each blastedtree could be seen to the best advantage; and then I let it lie, fallowperchance, for a man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he canafford to let alone.
My imagination carried me so far that I even had the refusal of severalfarms,—the refusal was all I wanted,—but I never got my fingers burned byactual possession. The nearest that I came to actual possession was when Ibought the Hollowell place, and had begun to sort my seeds, and collectedmaterials with which to make a wheelbarrow to carry it on or off with; butbefore the owner gave me a deed of it, his wife—every man has such awife—changed her mind and wished to keep it, and he offered me ten dollars torelease him. Now, to speak the truth, I had but ten cents in the world, and itsurpassed my arithmetic to tell, if I was that man who had ten cents, or whohad a farm, or ten dollars, or all together. However, I let him keep the tendollars and the farm too, for I had carried it far enough; or rather, to begenerous, I sold him the farm for just what I gave for it, and, as he was not arich man, made him a present of ten dollars, and still had my ten cents, andseeds, and materials for a wheelbarrow left. I found thus that I had been arich man without any damage to my poverty. But I retained the landscape, and Ihave since annually carried off what it yielded without a wheelbarrow. Withrespect to landscapes,—
“I am monarch of all I survey,My right there is none to dispute.”
I have frequently seen a poet withdraw, having enjoyed the most valuable partof a farm, while the crusty farmer supposed that he had got a few wild applesonly. Why, the owner does not know it for many years when a poet has put hisfarm in rhyme, the most admirable kind of invisible fence, has fairly impoundedit, milked it, skimmed it, and got all the cream, and left the farmer only theskimmed milk.
The real attractions of the Hollowell farm, to me, were; its completeretirement, being, about two miles from the village, half a mile from thenearest neighbor, and separated from the highway by a broad field; its boundingon the river, which the owner said protected it by its fogs from frosts in thespring, though that was nothing to me; the gray color and ruinous state of thehouse and barn, and the dilapidated fences, which put such an interval betweenme and the last occupant; the hollow and lichen-covered apple trees, gnawed byrabbits, showing what kind of neighbors I should have; but above all, therecollection I had of it from my earliest voyages up the river, when the housewas concealed behind a dense grove of red maples, through which I heard thehouse-dog bark. I was in haste to buy it, before the proprietor finishedgetting out some rocks, cutting down the hollow apple trees, and grubbing upsome young birches which had sprung up in the pasture, or, in short, had madeany more of his improvements. To enjoy these advantages I was ready to carry iton; like Atlas, to take the world on my shoulders,—I never heard whatcompensation he received for that,—and do all those things which had no othermotive or excuse but that I might pay for it and be unmolested in my possessionof it; for I knew all the while that it would yield the most abundant crop ofthe kind I wanted if I could only afford to let it alone. But it turned out asI have said.
All that I could say, then, with respect to farming on a large scale, (I havealways cultivated a garden,) was, that I had had my seeds ready. Many thinkthat seeds improve with age. I have no doubt that time discriminates betweenthe good and the bad; and when at last I shall plant, I shall be less likely tobe disappointed. But I would say to my fellows, once for all, As long aspossible live free and uncommitted. It makes but little difference whether youare committed to a farm or the county jail.
Old Cato, whose “De Re Rusticâ” is my “Cultivator,” says, and the onlytranslation I have seen makes sheer nonsense of the passage, “When you think ofgetting a farm, turn it thus in your mind, not to buy greedily; nor spare yourpains to look at it, and do not think it enough to go round it once. Theoftener you go there the more it will please you, if it is good.” I think Ishall not buy greedily, but go round and round it as long as I live, and beburied in it first, that it may please me the more at last.
The present was my next experiment of this kind, which I purpose to describemore at length; for convenience, putting the experience of two years into one.As I have said, I do not propose to write an ode to dejection, but to brag aslustily as chanticleer in the morning, standing on his roost, if only to wakemy neighbors up.
When first I took up my abode in the woods, that is, began to spend my nightsas well as days there, which, by accident, was on Independence Day, or theFourth of July, 1845, my house was not finished for winter, but was merely adefence against the rain, without plastering or chimney, the walls being ofrough, weather-stained boards, with wide chinks, which made it cool at night.The upright white hewn studs and freshly planed door and window casings gave ita clean and airy look, especially in the morning, when its timbers weresaturated with dew, so that I fancied that by noon some sweet gum would exudefrom them. To my imagination it retained throughout the day more or less ofthis auroral character, reminding me of a certain house on a mountain which Ihad visited the year before. This was an airy and unplastered cabin, fit toentertain a travelling god, and where a goddess might trail her garments. Thewinds which passed over my dwelling were such as sweep over the ridges ofmountains, bearing the broken strains, or celestial parts only, of terrestrialmusic. The morning wind forever blows, the poem of creation is uninterrupted;but few are the ears that hear it. Olympus is but the outside of the earthevery where.
The only house I had been the owner of before, if I except a boat, was a tent,which I used occasionally when making excursions in the summer, and this isstill rolled up in my garret; but the boat, after passing from hand to hand,has gone down the stream of time. With this more substantial shelter about me,I had made some progress toward settling in the world. This frame, so slightlyclad, was a sort of crystallization around me, and reacted on the builder. Itwas suggestive somewhat as a picture in outlines. I did not need to go outdoorsto take the air, for the atmosphere within had lost none of its freshness. Itwas not so much within doors as behind a door where I sat, even in the rainiestweather. The Harivansa says, “An abode without birds is like a meat withoutseasoning.” Such was not my abode, for I found myself suddenly neighbor to thebirds; not by having imprisoned one, but having caged myself near them. I wasnot only nearer to some of those which commonly frequent the garden and theorchard, but to those wilder and more thrilling songsters of the forest whichnever, or rarely, serenade a villager,—the wood-thrush, the veery, the scarlettanager, the field-sparrow, the whippoorwill, and many others.
I was seated by the shore of a small pond, about a mile and a half south of thevillage of Concord and somewhat higher than it, in the midst of an extensivewood between that town and Lincoln, and about two miles south of that our onlyfield known to fame, Concord Battle Ground; but I was so low in the woods thatthe opposite shore, half a mile off, like the rest, covered with wood, was mymost distant horizon. For the first week, whenever I looked out on the pond itimpressed me like a tarn high up on the side of a mountain, its bottom farabove the surface of other lakes, and, as the sun arose, I saw it throwing offits nightly clothing of mist, and here and there, by degrees, its soft ripplesor its smooth reflecting surface was revealed, while the mists, like ghosts,were stealthily withdrawing in every direction into the woods, as at thebreaking up of some nocturnal conventicle. The very dew seemed to hang upon thetrees later into the day than usual, as on the sides of mountains.
This small lake was of most value as a neighbor in the intervals of a gentlerain storm in August, when, both air and water being perfectly still, but thesky overcast, mid-afternoon had all the serenity of evening, and thewood-thrush sang around, and was heard from shore to shore. A lake like this isnever smoother than at such a time; and the clear portion of the air above itbeing shallow and darkened by clouds, the water, full of light and reflections,becomes a lower heaven itself so much the more important. From a hill top nearby, where the wood had been recently cut off, there was a pleasing vistasouthward across the pond, through a wide indentation in the hills which formthe shore there, where their opposite sides sloping toward each other suggesteda stream flowing out in that direction through a wooded valley, but streamthere was none. That way I looked between and over the near green hills to somedistant and higher ones in the horizon, tinged with blue. Indeed, by standingon tiptoe I could catch a glimpse of some of the peaks of the still bluer andmore distant mountain ranges in the north-west, those true-blue coins fromheaven’s own mint, and also of some portion of the village. But in otherdirections, even from this point, I could not see over or beyond the woodswhich surrounded me. It is well to have some water in your neighborhood, togive buoyancy to and float the earth. One value even of the smallest well is,that when you look into it you see that earth is not continent but insular.This is as important as that it keeps butter cool. When I looked across thepond from this peak toward the Sudbury meadows, which in time of flood Idistinguished elevated perhaps by a mirage in their seething valley, like acoin in a basin, all the earth beyond the pond appeared like a thin crustinsulated and floated even by this small sheet of interverting water, and I wasreminded that this on which I dwelt was but dry land.
Though the view from my door was still more contracted, I did not feel crowdedor confined in the least. There was pasture enough for my imagination. The lowshrub-oak plateau to which the opposite shore arose, stretched away toward theprairies of the West and the steppes of Tartary, affording ample room for allthe roving families of men. “There are none happy in the world but beings whoenjoy freely a vast horizon,”—said Damodara, when his herds required new andlarger pastures.
Both place and time were changed, and I dwelt nearer to those parts of theuniverse and to those eras in history which had most attracted me. Where Ilived was as far off as many a region viewed nightly by astronomers. We arewont to imagine rare and delectable places in some remote and more celestialcorner of the system, behind the constellation of Cassiopeia’s Chair, far fromnoise and disturbance. I discovered that my house actually had its site in sucha withdrawn, but forever new and unprofaned, part of the universe. If it wereworth the while to settle in those parts near to the Pleiades or the Hyades, toAldebaran or Altair, then I was really there, or at an equal remoteness fromthe life which I had left behind, dwindled and twinkling with as fine a ray tomy nearest neighbor, and to be seen only in moonless nights by him. Such wasthat part of creation where I had squatted;—
“There was a shepherd that did live, And held his thoughts as highAs were the mounts whereon his flocks Did hourly feed him by.”
What should we think of the shepherd’s life if his flocks always wandered tohigher pastures than his thoughts?
Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity,and I may say innocence, with Nature herself. I have been as sincere aworshipper of Aurora as the Greeks. I got up early and bathed in the pond; thatwas a religious exercise, and one of the best things which I did. They say thatcharacters were engraven on the bathing tub of king Tching-thang to thiseffect: “Renew thyself completely each day; do it again, and again, and foreveragain.” I can understand that. Morning brings back the heroic ages. I was asmuch affected by the faint hum of a mosquito making its invisible andunimaginable tour through my apartment at earliest dawn, when I was sittingwith door and windows open, as I could be by any trumpet that ever sang offame. It was Homer’s requiem; itself an Iliad and Odyssey in the air, singingits own wrath and wanderings. There was something cosmical about it; a standingadvertisement, till forbidden, of the everlasting vigor and fertility of theworld. The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is theawakening hour. Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, atleast, some part of us awakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and night.Little is to be expected of that day, if it can be called a day, to which weare not awakened by our Genius, but by the mechanical nudgings of someservitor, are not awakened by our own newly-acquired force and aspirations fromwithin, accompanied by the undulations of celestial music, instead of factorybells, and a fragrance filling the air—to a higher life than we fell asleepfrom; and thus the darkness bear its fruit, and prove itself to be good, noless than the light. That man who does not believe that each day contains anearlier, more sacred, and auroral hour than he has yet profaned, has despairedof life, and is pursuing a descending and darkening way. After a partialcessation of his sensuous life, the soul of man, or its organs rather, arereinvigorated each day, and his Genius tries again what noble life it can make.All memorable events, I should say, transpire in morning time and in a morningatmosphere. The Vedas say, “All intelligences awake with the morning.” Poetryand art, and the fairest and most memorable of the actions of men, date fromsuch an hour. All poets and heroes, like Memnon, are the children of Aurora,and emit their music at sunrise. To him whose elastic and vigorous thoughtkeeps pace with the sun, the day is a perpetual morning. It matters not whatthe clocks say or the attitudes and labors of men. Morning is when I am awakeand there is a dawn in me. Moral reform is the effort to throw off sleep. Whyis it that men give so poor an account of their day if they have not beenslumbering? They are not such poor calculators. If they had not been overcomewith drowsiness, they would have performed something. The millions are awakeenough for physical labor; but only one in a million is awake enough foreffective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred millions to a poetic ordivine life. To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who wasquite awake. How could I have looked him in the face?
We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, butby an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in oursoundest sleep. I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionableability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor. It is something tobe able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make afew objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the veryatmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affectthe quality of the day, that is the highest of arts. Every man is tasked tomake his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his mostelevated and critical hour. If we refused, or rather used up, such paltryinformation as we get, the oracles would distinctly inform us how this might bedone.
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only theessential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, andnot, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to livewhat was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation,unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all themarrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all thatwas not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into acorner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, whythen to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness tothe world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to givea true account of it in my next excursion. For most men, it appears to me, arein a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is of the devil or of God, andhave somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man here to“glorify God and enjoy him forever.”
Still we live meanly, like ants; though the fable tells us that we were longago changed into men; like pygmies we fight with cranes; it is error uponerror, and clout upon clout, and our best virtue has for its occasion asuperfluous and evitable wretchedness. Our life is frittered away by detail. Anhonest man has hardly need to count more than his ten fingers, or in extremecases he may add his ten toes, and lump the rest. Simplicity, simplicity,simplicity! I say, let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or athousand; instead of a million count half a dozen, and keep your accounts onyour thumb nail. In the midst of this chopping sea of civilized life, such arethe clouds and storms and quicksands and thousand-and-one items to be allowedfor, that a man has to live, if he would not founder and go to the bottom andnot make his port at all, by dead reckoning, and he must be a great calculatorindeed who succeeds. Simplify, simplify. Instead of three meals a day, if it benecessary eat but one; instead of a hundred dishes, five; and reduce otherthings in proportion. Our life is like a German Confederacy, made up of pettystates, with its boundary forever fluctuating, so that even a German cannottell you how it is bounded at any moment. The nation itself, with all its socalled internal improvements, which, by the way are all external andsuperficial, is just such an unwieldy and overgrown establishment, clutteredwith furniture and tripped up by its own traps, ruined by luxury and heedlessexpense, by want of calculation and a worthy aim, as the million households inthe land; and the only cure for it as for them is in a rigid economy, a sternand more than Spartan simplicity of life and elevation of purpose. It lives toofast. Men think that it is essential that the Nation have commerce, andexport ice, and talk through a telegraph, and ride thirty miles an hour,without a doubt, whether they do or not; but whether we should live likebaboons or like men, is a little uncertain. If we do not get out sleepers, andforge rails, and devote days and nights to the work, but go to tinkering uponour lives to improve them, who will build railroads? And ifrailroads are not built, how shall we get to heaven in season? But if we stayat home and mind our business, who will want railroads? We do not ride on therailroad; it rides upon us. Did you ever think what those sleepers are thatunderlie the railroad? Each one is a man, an Irish-man, or a Yankee man. Therails are laid on them, and they are covered with sand, and the cars runsmoothly over them. They are sound sleepers, I assure you. And every few yearsa new lot is laid down and run over; so that, if some have the pleasure ofriding on a rail, others have the misfortune to be ridden upon. And when theyrun over a man that is walking in his sleep, a supernumerary sleeper in thewrong position, and wake him up, they suddenly stop the cars, and make a hueand cry about it, as if this were an exception. I am glad to know that it takesa gang of men for every five miles to keep the sleepers down and level in theirbeds as it is, for this is a sign that they may sometime get up again.
Why should we live with such hurry and waste of life? We are determined to bestarved before we are hungry. Men say that a stitch in time saves nine, and sothey take a thousand stitches to-day to save nine to-morrow. As forwork, we haven’t any of any consequence. We have the Saint Vitus’ dance,and cannot possibly keep our heads still. If I should only give a few pulls atthe parish bell-rope, as for a fire, that is, without setting the bell, thereis hardly a man on his farm in the outskirts of Concord, notwithstanding thatpress of engagements which was his excuse so many times this morning, nor aboy, nor a woman, I might almost say, but would forsake all and follow thatsound, not mainly to save property from the flames, but, if we will confess thetruth, much more to see it burn, since burn it must, and we, be it known, didnot set it on fire,—or to see it put out, and have a hand in it, if that isdone as handsomely; yes, even if it were the parish church itself. Hardly a mantakes a half hour’s nap after dinner, but when he wakes he holds up his headand asks, “What’s the news?” as if the rest of mankind had stood his sentinels.Some give directions to be waked every half hour, doubtless for no otherpurpose; and then, to pay for it, they tell what they have dreamed. After anight’s sleep the news is as indispensable as the breakfast. “Pray tell me anything new that has happened to a man any where on this globe,”—and he reads itover his coffee and rolls, that a man has had his eyes gouged out this morningon the Wachito River; never dreaming the while that he lives in the darkunfathomed mammoth cave of this world, and has but the rudiment of an eyehimself.
For my part, I could easily do without the post-office. I think that there arevery few important communications made through it. To speak critically, I neverreceived more than one or two letters in my life—I wrote this some yearsago—that were worth the postage. The penny-post is, commonly, an institutionthrough which you seriously offer a man that penny for his thoughts which is sooften safely offered in jest. And I am sure that I never read any memorablenews in a newspaper. If we read of one man robbed, or murdered, or killed byaccident, or one house burned, or one vessel wrecked, or one steamboat blownup, or one cow run over on the Western Railroad, or one mad dog killed, or onelot of grasshoppers in the winter,—we never need read of another. One isenough. If you are acquainted with the principle, what do you care for a myriadinstances and applications? To a philosopher all news, as it is called,is gossip, and they who edit and read it are old women over their tea. Yet nota few are greedy after this gossip. There was such a rush, as I hear, the otherday at one of the offices to learn the foreign news by the last arrival, thatseveral large squares of plate glass belonging to the establishment were brokenby the pressure,—news which I seriously think a ready wit might write atwelve-month, or twelve years, beforehand with sufficient accuracy. As forSpain, for instance, if you know how to throw in Don Carlos and the Infanta,and Don Pedro and Seville and Granada, from time to time in the rightproportions,—they may have changed the names a little since I saw thepapers,—and serve up a bull-fight when other entertainments fail, it will betrue to the letter, and give us as good an idea of the exact state or ruin ofthings in Spain as the most succinct and lucid reports under this head in thenewspapers: and as for England, almost the last significant scrap of news fromthat quarter was the revolution of 1649; and if you have learned the history ofher crops for an average year, you never need attend to that thing again,unless your speculations are of a merely pecuniary character. If one may judgewho rarely looks into the newspapers, nothing new does ever happen in foreignparts, a French revolution not excepted.
What news! how much more important to know what that is which was never old!“Kieou-he-yu (great dignitary of the state of Wei) sent a man to Khoung-tseu toknow his news. Khoung-tseu caused the messenger to be seated near him, andquestioned him in these terms: What is your master doing? The messengeranswered with respect: My master desires to diminish the number of his faults,but he cannot come to the end of them. The messenger being gone, thephilosopher remarked: What a worthy messenger! What a worthy messenger!” Thepreacher, instead of vexing the ears of drowsy farmers on their day of rest atthe end of the week,—for Sunday is the fit conclusion of an ill-spent week, andnot the fresh and brave beginning of a new one,—with this one otherdraggle-tail of a sermon, should shout with thundering voice, “Pause! Avast!Why so seeming fast, but deadly slow?”
Shams and delusions are esteemed for soundest truths, while reality isfabulous. If men would steadily observe realities only, and not allowthemselves to be deluded, life, to compare it with such things as we know,would be like a fairy tale and the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments. If werespected only what is inevitable and has a right to be, music and poetry wouldresound along the streets. When we are unhurried and wise, we perceive thatonly great and worthy things have any permanent and absolute existence,—thatpetty fears and petty pleasures are but the shadow of the reality. This isalways exhilarating and sublime. By closing the eyes and slumbering, andconsenting to be deceived by shows, men establish and confirm their daily lifeof routine and habit everywhere, which still is built on purely illusoryfoundations. Children, who play life, discern its true law and relations moreclearly than men, who fail to live it worthily, but who think that they arewiser by experience, that is, by failure. I have read in a Hindoo book, that“there was a king’s son, who, being expelled in infancy from his native city,was brought up by a forester, and, growing up to maturity in that state,imagined himself to belong to the barbarous race with which he lived. One ofhis father’s ministers having discovered him, revealed to him what he was, andthe misconception of his character was removed, and he knew himself to be aprince. So soul,” continues the Hindoo philosopher, “from the circumstances inwhich it is placed, mistakes its own character, until the truth is revealed toit by some holy teacher, and then it knows itself to be Brahme.” Iperceive that we inhabitants of New England live this mean life that we dobecause our vision does not penetrate the surface of things. We think that thatis which appears to be. If a man should walk through this townand see only the reality, where, think you, would the “Mill-dam” go to? If heshould give us an account of the realities he beheld there, we should notrecognize the place in his description. Look at a meeting-house, or acourt-house, or a jail, or a shop, or a dwelling-house, and say what that thingreally is before a true gaze, and they would all go to pieces in your accountof them. Men esteem truth remote, in the outskirts of the system, behind thefarthest star, before Adam and after the last man. In eternity there is indeedsomething true and sublime. But all these times and places and occasions arenow and here. God himself culminates in the present moment, and will never bemore divine in the lapse of all the ages. And we are enabled to apprehend atall what is sublime and noble only by the perpetual instilling and drenching ofthe reality that surrounds us. The universe constantly and obediently answersto our conceptions; whether we travel fast or slow, the track is laid for us.Let us spend our lives in conceiving then. The poet or the artist never yet hadso fair and noble a design but some of his posterity at least could accomplishit.
Let us spend one day as deliberately as Nature, and not be thrown off the trackby every nutshell and mosquito’s wing that falls on the rails. Let us riseearly and fast, or break fast, gently and without perturbation; let companycome and let company go, let the bells ring and the children cry,—determined tomake a day of it. Why should we knock under and go with the stream? Let us notbe upset and overwhelmed in that terrible rapid and whirlpool called a dinner,situated in the meridian shallows. Weather this danger and you are safe, forthe rest of the way is down hill. With unrelaxed nerves, with morning vigor,sail by it, looking another way, tied to the mast like Ulysses. If the enginewhistles, let it whistle till it is hoarse for its pains. If the bell rings,why should we run? We will consider what kind of music they are like. Let ussettle ourselves, and work and wedge our feet downward through the mud andslush of opinion, and prejudice, and tradition, and delusion, and appearance,that alluvion which covers the globe, through Paris and London, through NewYork and Boston and Concord, through church and state, through poetry andphilosophy and religion, till we come to a hard bottom and rocks in place,which we can call reality, and say, This is, and no mistake; and thenbegin, having a point d’appui, below freshet and frost and fire, a placewhere you might found a wall or a state, or set a lamp-post safely, or perhapsa gauge, not a Nilometer, but a Realometer, that future ages might know howdeep a freshet of shams and appearances had gathered from time to time. If youstand right fronting and face to face to a fact, you will see the sun glimmeron both its surfaces, as if it were a cimeter, and feel its sweet edge dividingyou through the heart and marrow, and so you will happily conclude your mortalcareer. Be it life or death, we crave only reality. If we are really dying, letus hear the rattle in our throats and feel cold in the extremities; if we arealive, let us go about our business.
Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink Isee the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slidesaway, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper; fish in the sky, whose bottomis pebbly with stars. I cannot count one. I know not the first letter of thealphabet. I have always been regretting that I was not as wise as the day I wasborn. The intellect is a cleaver; it discerns and rifts its way into the secretof things. I do not wish to be any more busy with my hands than is necessary.My head is hands and feet. I feel all my best faculties concentrated in it. Myinstinct tells me that my head is an organ for burrowing, as some creatures usetheir snout and fore-paws, and with it I would mine and burrow my way throughthese hills. I think that the richest vein is somewhere hereabouts; so by thedivining-rod and thin rising vapors I judge; and here I will begin to mine.
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With a little more deliberation in the choice of their pursuits, all men wouldperhaps become essentially students and observers, for certainly their natureand destiny are interesting to all alike. In accumulating property forourselves or our posterity, in founding a family or a state, or acquiring fameeven, we are mortal; but in dealing with truth we are immortal, and need fearno change nor accident. The oldest Egyptian or Hindoo philosopher raised acorner of the veil from the statue of the divinity; and still the tremblingrobe remains raised, and I gaze upon as fresh a glory as he did, since it was Iin him that was then so bold, and it is he in me that now reviews the vision.No dust has settled on that robe; no time has elapsed since that divinity wasrevealed. That time which we really improve, or which is improvable, is neitherpast, present, nor future.
My residence was more favorable, not only to thought, but to serious reading,than a university; and though I was beyond the range of the ordinarycirculating library, I had more than ever come within the influence of thosebooks which circulate round the world, whose sentences were first written onbark, and are now merely copied from time to time on to linen paper. Says thepoet Mîr Camar Uddîn Mast, “Being seated to run through the region of thespiritual world; I have had this advantage in books. To be intoxicated by asingle glass of wine; I have experienced this pleasure when I have drunk theliquor of the esoteric doctrines.” I kept Homer’s Iliad on my table through thesummer, though I looked at his page only now and then. Incessant labor with myhands, at first, for I had my house to finish and my beans to hoe at the sametime, made more study impossible. Yet I sustained myself by the prospect ofsuch reading in future. I read one or two shallow books of travel in theintervals of my work, till that employment made me ashamed of myself, and Iasked where it was then that I lived.
The student may read Homer or Æschylus in the Greek without danger ofdissipation or luxuriousness, for it implies that he in some measure emulatetheir heroes, and consecrate morning hours to their pages. The heroic books,even if printed in the character of our mother tongue, will always be in alanguage dead to degenerate times; and we must laboriously seek the meaning ofeach word and line, conjecturing a larger sense than common use permits out ofwhat wisdom and valor and generosity we have. The modern cheap and fertilepress, with all its translations, has done little to bring us nearer to theheroic writers of antiquity. They seem as solitary, and the letter in whichthey are printed as rare and curious, as ever. It is worth the expense ofyouthful days and costly hours, if you learn only some words of an ancientlanguage, which are raised out of the trivialness of the street, to beperpetual suggestions and provocations. It is not in vain that the farmerremembers and repeats the few Latin words which he has heard. Men sometimesspeak as if the study of the classics would at length make way for more modernand practical studies; but the adventurous student will always study classics,in whatever language they may be written and however ancient they may be. Forwhat are the classics but the noblest recorded thoughts of man? They are theonly oracles which are not decayed, and there are such answers to the mostmodern inquiry in them as Delphi and Dodona never gave. We might as well omitto study Nature because she is old. To read well, that is, to read true booksin a true spirit, is a noble exercise, and one that will task the reader morethan any exercise which the customs of the day esteem. It requires a trainingsuch as the athletes underwent, the steady intention almost of the whole lifeto this object. Books must be read as deliberately and reservedly as they werewritten. It is not enough even to be able to speak the language of that nationby which they are written, for there is a memorable interval between the spokenand the written language, the language heard and the language read. The one iscommonly transitory, a sound, a tongue, a dialect merely, almost brutish, andwe learn it unconsciously, like the brutes, of our mothers. The other is thematurity and experience of that; if that is our mother tongue, this is ourfather tongue, a reserved and select expression, too significant to be heard bythe ear, which we must be born again in order to speak. The crowds of men whomerely spoke the Greek and Latin tongues in the middle ages were notentitled by the accident of birth to read the works of genius written inthose languages; for these were not written in that Greek or Latin which theyknew, but in the select language of literature. They had not learned the noblerdialects of Greece and Rome, but the very materials on which they were writtenwere waste paper to them, and they prized instead a cheap contemporaryliterature. But when the several nations of Europe had acquired distinct thoughrude written languages of their own, sufficient for the purposes of theirrising literatures, then first learning revived, and scholars were enabled todiscern from that remoteness the treasures of antiquity. What the Roman andGrecian multitude could not hear, after the lapse of ages a few scholarsread, and a few scholars only are still reading it.
However much we may admire the orator’s occasional bursts of eloquence, thenoblest written words are commonly as far behind or above the fleeting spokenlanguage as the firmament with its stars is behind the clouds. There arethe stars, and they who can may read them. The astronomers forever comment onand observe them. They are not exhalations like our daily colloquies andvaporous breath. What is called eloquence in the forum is commonly found to berhetoric in the study. The orator yields to the inspiration of a transientoccasion, and speaks to the mob before him, to those who can hear him;but the writer, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would bedistracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks to theintellect and health of mankind, to all in any age who can understandhim.
No wonder that Alexander carried the Iliad with him on his expeditions in aprecious casket. A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something atonce more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It isthe work of art nearest to life itself. It may be translated into everylanguage, and not only be read but actually breathed from all human lips;—notbe represented on canvas or in marble only, but be carved out of the breath oflife itself. The symbol of an ancient man’s thought becomes a modern man’sspeech. Two thousand summers have imparted to the monuments of Grecianliterature, as to her marbles, only a maturer golden and autumnal tint, forthey have carried their own serene and celestial atmosphere into all lands toprotect them against the corrosion of time. Books are the treasured wealth ofthe world and the fit inheritance of generations and nations. Books, the oldestand the best, stand naturally and rightfully on the shelves of every cottage.They have no cause of their own to plead, but while they enlighten and sustainthe reader his common sense will not refuse them. Their authors are a naturaland irresistible aristocracy in every society, and, more than kings oremperors, exert an influence on mankind. When the illiterate and perhapsscornful trader has earned by enterprise and industry his coveted leisure andindependence, and is admitted to the circles of wealth and fashion, he turnsinevitably at last to those still higher but yet inaccessible circles ofintellect and genius, and is sensible only of the imperfection of his cultureand the vanity and insufficiency of all his riches, and further proves his goodsense by the pains which he takes to secure for his children that intellectualculture whose want he so keenly feels; and thus it is that he becomes thefounder of a family.
Those who have not learned to read the ancient classics in the language inwhich they were written must have a very imperfect knowledge of the history ofthe human race; for it is remarkable that no transcript of them has ever beenmade into any modern tongue, unless our civilization itself may be regarded assuch a transcript. Homer has never yet been printed in English, nor Æschylus,nor Virgil even—works as refined, as solidly done, and as beautiful almost asthe morning itself; for later writers, say what we will of their genius, haverarely, if ever, equalled the elaborate beauty and finish and the lifelong andheroic literary labors of the ancients. They only talk of forgetting them whonever knew them. It will be soon enough to forget them when we have thelearning and the genius which will enable us to attend to and appreciate them.That age will be rich indeed when those relics which we call Classics, and thestill older and more than classic but even less known Scriptures of thenations, shall have still further accumulated, when the Vaticans shall befilled with Vedas and Zendavestas and Bibles, with Homers and Dantes andShakespeares, and all the centuries to come shall have successively depositedtheir trophies in the forum of the world. By such a pile we may hope to scaleheaven at last.
The works of the great poets have never yet been read by mankind, for onlygreat poets can read them. They have only been read as the multitude read thestars, at most astrologically, not astronomically. Most men have learned toread to serve a paltry convenience, as they have learned to cipher in order tokeep accounts and not be cheated in trade; but of reading as a nobleintellectual exercise they know little or nothing; yet this only is reading, ina high sense, not that which lulls us as a luxury and suffers the noblerfaculties to sleep the while, but what we have to stand on tip-toe to read anddevote our most alert and wakeful hours to.
I think that having learned our letters we should read the best that is inliterature, and not be forever repeating our a b abs, and words of onesyllable, in the fourth or fifth classes, sitting on the lowest and foremostform all our lives. Most men are satisfied if they read or hear read, andperchance have been convicted by the wisdom of one good book, the Bible, andfor the rest of their lives vegetate and dissipate their faculties in what iscalled easy reading. There is a work in several volumes in our CirculatingLibrary entitled Little Reading, which I thought referred to a town of thatname which I had not been to. There are those who, like cormorants andostriches, can digest all sorts of this, even after the fullest dinner of meatsand vegetables, for they suffer nothing to be wasted. If others are themachines to provide this provender, they are the machines to read it. They readthe nine thousandth tale about Zebulon and Sephronia, and how they loved asnone had ever loved before, and neither did the course of their true love runsmooth,—at any rate, how it did run and stumble, and get up again and go on!how some poor unfortunate got up on to a steeple, who had better never havegone up as far as the belfry; and then, having needlessly got him up there, thehappy novelist rings the bell for all the world to come together and hear, Odear! how he did get down again! For my part, I think that they had bettermetamorphose all such aspiring heroes of universal noveldom into manweathercocks, as they used to put heroes among the constellations, and let themswing round there till they are rusty, and not come down at all to botherhonest men with their pranks. The next time the novelist rings the bell I willnot stir though the meeting-house burn down. “The Skip of the Tip-Toe-Hop, aRomance of the Middle Ages, by the celebrated author of ‘Tittle-Tol-Tan,’ toappear in monthly parts; a great rush; don’t all come together.” All this theyread with saucer eyes, and erect and primitive curiosity, and with unweariedgizzard, whose corrugations even yet need no sharpening, just as some littlefour-year-old bencher his two-cent gilt-covered edition of Cinderella,—withoutany improvement, that I can see, in the pronunciation, or accent, or emphasis,or any more skill in extracting or inserting the moral. The result is dulnessof sight, a stagnation of the vital circulations, and a general deliquium andsloughing off of all the intellectual faculties. This sort of gingerbread isbaked daily and more sedulously than pure wheat or rye-and-Indian in almostevery oven, and finds a surer market.
The best books are not read even by those who are called good readers. Whatdoes our Concord culture amount to? There is in this town, with a very fewexceptions, no taste for the best or for very good books even in Englishliterature, whose words all can read and spell. Even the college-bred and socalled liberally educated men here and elsewhere have really little or noacquaintance with the English classics; and as for the recorded wisdom ofmankind, the ancient classics and Bibles, which are accessible to all who willknow of them, there are the feeblest efforts any where made to becomeacquainted with them. I know a woodchopper, of middle age, who takes a Frenchpaper, not for news as he says, for he is above that, but to “keep himself inpractice,” he being a Canadian by birth; and when I ask him what he considersthe best thing he can do in this world, he says, beside this, to keep up andadd to his English. This is about as much as the college bred generally do oraspire to do, and they take an English paper for the purpose. One who has justcome from reading perhaps one of the best English books will find how many withwhom he can converse about it? Or suppose he comes from reading a Greek orLatin classic in the original, whose praises are familiar even to the so calledilliterate; he will find nobody at all to speak to, but must keep silence aboutit. Indeed, there is hardly the professor in our colleges, who, if he hasmastered the difficulties of the language, has proportionally mastered thedifficulties of the wit and poetry of a Greek poet, and has any sympathy toimpart to the alert and heroic reader; and as for the sacred Scriptures, orBibles of mankind, who in this town can tell me even their titles? Most men donot know that any nation but the Hebrews have had a scripture. A man, any man,will go considerably out of his way to pick up a silver dollar; but here aregolden words, which the wisest men of antiquity have uttered, and whose worththe wise of every succeeding age have assured us of;—and yet we learn to readonly as far as Easy Reading, the primers and class-books, and when we leaveschool, the “Little Reading,” and story books, which are for boys andbeginners; and our reading, our conversation and thinking, are all on a verylow level, worthy only of pygmies and manikins.
I aspire to be acquainted with wiser men than this our Concord soil hasproduced, whose names are hardly known here. Or shall I hear the name of Platoand never read his book? As if Plato were my townsman and I never saw him,—mynext neighbor and I never heard him speak or attended to the wisdom of hiswords. But how actually is it? His Dialogues, which contain what was immortalin him, lie on the next shelf, and yet I never read them. We are underbred andlow-lived and illiterate; and in this respect I confess I do not make any verybroad distinction between the illiterateness of my townsman who cannot read atall, and the illiterateness of him who has learned to read only what is forchildren and feeble intellects. We should be as good as the worthies ofantiquity, but partly by first knowing how good they were. We are a race oftit-men, and soar but little higher in our intellectual flights than thecolumns of the daily paper.
It is not all books that are as dull as their readers. There are probably wordsaddressed to our condition exactly, which, if we could really hear andunderstand, would be more salutary than the morning or the spring to our lives,and possibly put a new aspect on the face of things for us. How many a man hasdated a new era in his life from the reading of a book. The book exists for usperchance which will explain our miracles and reveal new ones. The at presentunutterable things we may find somewhere uttered. These same questions thatdisturb and puzzle and confound us have in their turn occurred to all the wisemen; not one has been omitted; and each has answered them, according to hisability, by his words and his life. Moreover, with wisdom we shall learnliberality. The solitary hired man on a farm in the outskirts of Concord, whohas had his second birth and peculiar religious experience, and is driven as hebelieves into the silent gravity and exclusiveness by his faith, may think itis not true; but Zoroaster, thousands of years ago, travelled the same road andhad the same experience; but he, being wise, knew it to be universal, andtreated his neighbors accordingly, and is even said to have invented andestablished worship among men. Let him humbly commune with Zoroaster then, andthrough the liberalizing influence of all the worthies, with Jesus Christhimself, and let “our church” go by the board.
We boast that we belong to the nineteenth century and are making the most rapidstrides of any nation. But consider how little this village does for its ownculture. I do not wish to flatter my townsmen, nor to be flattered by them, forthat will not advance either of us. We need to be provoked,—goaded like oxen,as we are, into a trot. We have a comparatively decent system of commonschools, schools for infants only; but excepting the half-starved Lyceum in thewinter, and latterly the puny beginning of a library suggested by the state, noschool for ourselves. We spend more on almost any article of bodily aliment orailment than on our mental aliment. It is time that we had uncommon schools,that we did not leave off our education when we begin to be men and women. Itis time that villages were universities, and their elder inhabitants thefellows of universities, with leisure—if they are indeed so well off—to pursueliberal studies the rest of their lives. Shall the world be confined to oneParis or one Oxford forever? Cannot students be boarded here and get a liberaleducation under the skies of Concord? Can we not hire some Abelard to lectureto us? Alas! what with foddering the cattle and tending the store, we are keptfrom school too long, and our education is sadly neglected. In this country,the village should in some respects take the place of the nobleman of Europe.It should be the patron of the fine arts. It is rich enough. It wants only themagnanimity and refinement. It can spend money enough on such things as farmersand traders value, but it is thought Utopian to propose spending money forthings which more intelligent men know to be of far more worth. This town hasspent seventeen thousand dollars on a town-house, thank fortune or politics,but probably it will not spend so much on living wit, the true meat to put intothat shell, in a hundred years. The one hundred and twenty-five dollarsannually subscribed for a Lyceum in the winter is better spent than any otherequal sum raised in the town. If we live in the nineteenth century, why shouldwe not enjoy the advantages which the nineteenth century offers? Why should ourlife be in any respect provincial? If we will read newspapers, why not skip thegossip of Boston and take the best newspaper in the world at once?—not besucking the pap of “neutral family” papers, or browsing “Olive-Branches” herein New England. Let the reports of all the learned societies come to us, and wewill see if they know any thing. Why should we leave it to Harper &Brothers and Redding & Co. to select our reading? As the nobleman ofcultivated taste surrounds himself with whatever conduces to hisculture,—genius—learning—wit—books—paintings—statuary—music—philosophicalinstruments, and the like; so let the village do,—not stop short at apedagogue, a parson, a sexton, a parish library, and three selectmen, becauseour pilgrim forefathers got through a cold winter once on a bleak rock withthese. To act collectively is according to the spirit of our institutions; andI am confident that, as our circumstances are more flourishing, our means aregreater than the nobleman’s. New England can hire all the wise men in the worldto come and teach her, and board them round the while, and not be provincial atall. That is the uncommon school we want. Instead of noblemen, let ushave noble villages of men. If it is necessary, omit one bridge over the river,go round a little there, and throw one arch at least over the darker gulf ofignorance which surrounds us.
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