ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Huntingtower, by John BuchanThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under theterms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: HuntingtowerAuthor: John BuchanRelease Date: December 6, 2011 [EBook #3782]Language: English*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUNTINGTOWER ***Produced by Edward A. White, Robert F. Jaffe, KirstenTozer, Charlene Taylor, Cathy Maxam and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (Thisbook was produced from scanned images of public domainmaterial from the Google Print project.)TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:In footnote number 1 (page 72) the author refers toa sketch on thefrontispiece of the book.  At the time of posting thisbook to Project Gutenberg, it was verified by the content provider thatthere is no frontispiece in this particular edition of Huntingtower.In the plain-text version of thisebook italics are indicated by_underscores_.Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without comment. Oneexample of an obvious typographical error is on page 237 where the word"shamefaceedly" waschanged to "shamefacedly". Other than obvioustypographical errors, the author's original spelling has been leftintact. This includes the use of unconventional spelling and dialect.Inconsistencies in the author's use ofhyphens and accent marks havebeen left unchanged, as in the original text.The following four changes were made to punctuation and spelling:     1. Page 96: An apostrophe was removed from the word "an'" inthe     phrase "I've found a ladder, an auld yin" (an old one).     2. Page 100: A question mark was changed to a period in the phrase     "... he realised that he was in the presence of something the like     of which hehad never met in his life before."     4. Page 187: An apostrophe was removed from the word "wing's" in     the phrase "... take the wings off a seagull."  HUNTINGTOWER  JOHN BUCHAN_By_ JOHNBUCHAN  HUNTINGTOWER  THE PATH OF THE KING  MR. STANDFAST  GREENMANTLE  THE WATCHERS BY THE THRESHOLD  SALUTE TO ADVENTURES  PRESTER JOHN  THE POWER HOUSE  THE THIRTY-NINESTEPS  THE BATTLE OF THE SOMMENEW YORK: GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY  HUNTINGTOWER  BY  JOHN BUCHAN  NEW [Illustration] YORK  GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY  COPYRIGHT, 1922,  BY GEORGE H. DORANCOMPANY  [Illustration]  HUNTINGTOWER.  II  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICATOW. P. KER_If the Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford has notforgotten the rock whence he was hewn, thissimple story may give him anhour of entertainment. I offer it to you because I think you have met myfriend Dickson McCunn, and I dare to hope that you may even in your manysojournings in the Westlands haveencountered one or other of theGorbals Die-Hards. If you share my kindly feeling for Dickson, you willbe interested in some facts which I have lately ascertained about hisancestry. In his veins there flows a portion ofthe redoubtable blood ofthe Nicol Jarvies. When the Bailie, you remember, returned from hisjourney to Rob Roy beyond the Highland Line, he espoused his housekeeperMattie, "an honest man's daughter and a nearcousin o' the Laird o'Limmerfield." The union was blessed with a son, who succeeded to theBailie's business and in due course begat daughters, one of whom marrieda certain Ebenezer McCunn, of whom there is recordin the archives ofthe Hammermen of Glasgow. Ebenezer's grandson, Peter by name, wasProvost of Kirkintilloch, and his second son was the father of my heroby his marriage with Robina Dickson, eldest daughter of oneRobertDickson, a tenant-farmer in the Lennox. So there are coloured threads inMr. McCunn's pedigree, and, like the Bailie, he can count kin, should hewish, with Rob Roy himself through "the auld wife ayont the fireatStuckavrallachan."__Such as it is, I dedicate to you the story, and ask for no betterverdict on it than that of that profound critic of life and literature,Mr. Huckleberry Finn, who observed of the_ Pilgrim's Progress,_that he"considered the statements interesting, but steep."_J. B.CONTENTS                                                    PAGE  PROLOGUE                                            11  CHAPTER     I HOW A RETIRED PROVISIONMERCHANT FELT        THE IMPULSE OF SPRING                         17    II OF MR. JOHN HERITAGE AND THE DIFFERENCE        IN POINTS OF VIEW                             28   III HOW CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER CAMETO        THE DARK TOWER                                46    IV DOUGAL                                         70     V OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER                   85    VI HOW MR. McCUNN DEPARTED WITH RELIEFAND        RETURNED WITH RESOLUTION                     114   VII SUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK                     135  VIII HOW A MIDDLE-AGED CRUSADER ACCEPTEDA        CHALLENGE                                    154    IX THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES               171     X DEALS WITH AN ESCAPE AND A JOURNEY            189    XI GRAVITY OUT OFBED                            209   XII HOW MR. McCUNN COMMITTED AN ASSAULT        UPON AN ALLY                                 225  XIII THE COMING OF THE DANISH BRIG                 244   XIV THE SECOND BATTLE OF THECRUIVES              257    XV THE GORBALS DIE-HARDS GO INTO ACTION          286   XVI IN WHICH A PRINCESS LEAVES A DARK TOWER        AND A PROVISION MERCHANT RETURNS TO        HISFAMILY                                   306HUNTINGTOWERPROLOGUEThe girl came into the room with a darting movement like a swallow,looked round her with the same birdlike quickness, and then ran acrossthe polishedfloor to where a young man sat on a sofa with one leg laidalong it."I have saved you this dance, Quentin," she said, pronouncing the namewith a pretty staccato. "You must be so lonely not dancing, so I willsit with you.What shall we talk about?"The young man did not answer at once, for his gaze was held by her face.He had never dreamed that the gawky and rather plain little girl whom hehad romped with long ago in Paris wouldgrow into such a being. Theclean delicate lines of her figure, the exquisite pure colouring of hairand skin, the charming young arrogance of the eyes--this was beauty, hereflected, a miracle, a revelation. Her virginalfineness and her dress,which was the tint of pale fire, gave her the air of a creature of iceand flame."About yourself, please, Saskia," he said. "Are you happy now that youare a grown-up lady?""Happy!" Her voice had athrill in it like music, frosty music. "Thedays are far too short. I grudge the hours when I must sleep. They sayit is sad for me to make my dÃ©but in a time of war. But the world isvery kind to me, and after all it is avictorious war for our Russia.And listen to this, Quentin. To-morrow I am to be allowed to beginnursing at the Alexander Hospital. What do you think of that?"The time was January, 1916, and the place a room in thegreat NirskiPalace. No hint of war, no breath from the snowy streets, entered thatcurious chamber where Prince Peter Nirski kept some of the chief of hisfamous treasures. It was notable for its lack of draperyandupholstering--only a sofa or two and a few fine rugs on the cedar floor.The walls were of a green marble veined like malachite, the ceiling wasof darker marble inlaid with white intaglios. Scattered everywhereweretables and cabinets laden with celadon china, and carved jade, andivories, and shimmering Persian and Rhodian vessels. In all the roomthere was scarcely anything of metal and no touch of gilding or brightcolour.The light came from green alabaster censers, and the place swamin a cold green radiance like some cavern below the sea. The air waswarm and scented, and though it was very quiet there, a hum of voicesand thestrains of dance music drifted to it from the pillared corridorin which could be seen the glare of lights from the great ballroombeyond.The young man had a thin face with lines of suffering round the mouthand eyes. Thewarm room had given him a high colour, which increasedhis air of fragility. He felt a little choked by the place, which seemedto him for both body and mind a hot-house, though he knew very well thatthe Nirski Palaceon this gala evening was in no way typical of the landor its masters. Only a week ago he had been eating black bread with itsowner in a hut on the Volhynian front."You have become amazing, Saskia," he said. "I won'tpay my oldplayfellow compliments; besides, you must be tired of them. I wish youhappiness all the day long like a fairy-tale Princess. But a crock likeme can't do much to help you to it. The service seems to be thewrongway round, for here you are wasting your time talking to me."She put her hand on his. "Poor Quentin! Is the leg very bad?"He laughed. "Oh, no. It's mending famously. I'll be able to get aboutwithout a stick inanother month, and then you've got to teach me allthe new dances."The jigging music of a two-step floated down the corridor. It made theyoung man's brow contract, for it brought to him a vision of dead facesin thegloom of a November dusk. He had once had a friend who used towhistle that air, and he had seen him die in the Hollebeke mud. Therewas something _macabre_ in the tune.... He was surely morbid thisevening, forthere seemed something _macabre_ about the house, the room,the dancing, all Russia.... These last days he had suffered from a senseof calamity impending, of a dark curtain drawing down upon a splendidworld. Theydidn't agree with him at the Embassy, but he could not getrid of the notion.The girl saw his sudden abstraction."What are you thinking about?" she asked. It had been her favouritequestion as a child."I was thinking thatI rather wished you were still in Paris.""But why?""Because I think you would be safer.""Oh, what nonsense, Quentin dear! Where should I be safe if not in myown Russia, where I have friends--oh, so many, and tribesand tribes ofrelations? It is France and England that are unsafe with the German gunsgrumbling at their doors.... My complaint is that my life is toocosseted and padded. I am too secure, and I do not want to besecure."The young man lifted a heavy casket from a table at his elbow. It was ofdark green imperial jade, with a wonderfully carved lid. He took off thelid and picked up three small oddments of ivory--a priest with abeard,a tiny soldier and a draught-ox. Putting the three in a triangle, hebalanced the jade box on them."Look, Saskia! If you were living inside that box you would think itvery secure. You would note the thickness of thewalls and the hardnessof the stone, and you would dream away in a peaceful green dusk. But allthe time it would be held up by trifles--brittle trifles."She shook her head. "You do not understand. You cannotunderstand. Weare a very old and strong people with roots deep, deep in the earth.""Please God you are right," he said. "But, Saskia, you know that if Ican ever serve you, you have only to command me. Now I can dono morefor you than the mouse for the lion--at the beginning of the story. Butthe story had an end, you remember, and some day it may be in my powerto help you. Promise to send for me."The girl laughed merrily."The King of Spain's daughter," she quoted,    "Came to visit me,     And all for the love     Of my little nut-tree."The other laughed also, as a young man in the uniform of thePreobrajenski Guard approached to claim thegirl. "Even a nut-tree maybe a shelter in a storm," he said."Of course I promise, Quentin," she said. "_Au revoir._ Soon I will comeand take you to supper, and we will talk of nothing but nut-trees."He watched the twoleave the room, her gown glowing like a tongue offire in the shadowy archway. Then he slowly rose to his feet, for hethought that for a little he would watch the dancing. Something movedbeside him, and he turned intime to prevent the jade casket fromcrashing to the floor. Two of the supports had slipped.He replaced the thing on its proper table and stood silent for amoment."The priest and the soldier gone, and only the beast ofburden left....If I were inclined to be superstitious, I should call that a dashed badomen."CHAPTER IHOW A RETIRED PROVISION MERCHANT FELT THE IMPULSE OF SPRINGMr. Dickson McCunn completed the polishingof his smooth cheeks with thetowel, glanced appreciatively at their reflection in the looking-glass,and then permitted his eyes to stray out of the window. In the littlegarden lilacs were budding, and there was a gold lineof daffodilsbeside the tiny greenhouse. Beyond the sooty wall a birch flaunted itsnew tassels, and the jackdaws were circling about the steeple of theGuthrie Memorial Kirk. A blackbird whistled from a thorn-bush, andMr.McCunn was inspired to follow its example. He began a tolerable versionof "Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch."He felt singularly light-hearted, and the immediate cause was his safetyrazor. A week ago he had bought thething in a sudden fit of enterprise,and now he shaved in five minutes, where before he had taken twenty, andno longer confronted his fellows, at least one day in three, with acountenance ludicrously mottled bysticking-plaster. Calculationrevealed to him the fact that in his fifty-five years, having begun toshave at eighteen, he had wasted three thousand three hundred andseventy hours--or one hundred and forty days--orbetween four and fivemonths--by his neglect of this admirable invention. Now he felt that hehad stolen a march on Time. He had fallen heir, thus late, to a fortunein unpurchasable leisure.He began to dress himself inthe sombre clothes in which he had beenaccustomed for thirty-five years and more to go down to the shop inMearns Street. And then a thought came to him which made him discard thegrey-striped trousers, sit downon the edge of his bed, and muse.Since Saturday the shop was a thing of the past. On Saturday athalf-past eleven, to the accompaniment of a glass of dubious sherry, hehad completed the arrangements by which theprovision shop in MearnsStreet, which had borne so long the legend of D. McCunn, together withthe branches in Crossmyloof and the Shaws, became the property of acompany, yclept the United Supply Stores, Limited.He had received inpayment cash, debentures and preference shares, and his lawyers and hisown acumen had acclaimed the bargain. But all the week-end he had been alittle sad. It was the end of so old a song, and heknew no other tuneto sing. He was comfortably off, healthy, free from any particular caresin life, but free too from any particular duties. "Will I be going toturn into a useless old man?" he asked himself.But he had wokeup this Monday to the sound of the blackbird, and theworld, which had seemed rather empty twelve hours before, was now briskand alluring. His prowess in quick shaving assured him of his youth."I'm no' that deadold," he observed, as he sat on the edge of the bed,to his reflection in the big looking-glass.It was not an old face. The sandy hair was a little thin on the top anda little grey at the temples, the figure was perhaps a littletoo fullfor youthful elegance, and an athlete would have censured the neck astoo fleshy for perfect health. But the cheeks were rosy, the skin clear,and the pale eyes singularly childlike. They were a little weak,thoseeyes, and had some difficulty in looking for long at the same object, sothat Mr. McCunn did not stare people in the face, and had, inconsequence, at one time in his career acquired a perfectly undeservedreputationfor cunning. He shaved clean, and looked uncommonly like awise, plump schoolboy. As he gazed at his simulacrum he stoppedwhistling "Roy's Wife" and let his countenance harden into a noblesternness. Then helaughed, and observed in the language of his youththat "There was life in the auld dowg yet." In that moment the soul ofMr. McCunn conceived the Great Plan.The first sign of it was that he swept all his businessgarmentsunceremoniously on to the floor. The next that he rootled at the bottomof a deep drawer and extracted a most disreputable tweed suit. It hadonce been what I believe is called a Lovat mixture, but was nowanondescript sub-fusc, with bright patches of colour like moss onwhinstone. He regarded it lovingly, for it had been for twenty years hisholiday wear, emerging annually for a hallowed month to be stained withsalt andbleached with sun. He put it on, and stood shrouded in anodour of camphor. A pair of thick nailed boots and a flannel shirt andcollar completed the equipment of the sportsman. He had another longlook at himself in theglass, and then descended whistling to breakfast.This time the tune was "Macgregor's Gathering," and the sound of itstirred the grimy lips of a man outside who was deliveringcoals--himself a Macgregor--to follow suit.Mr. McCunn was a veryfountain of music that morning.Tibby, the aged maid, had his newspaper and letters waiting by hisplate, and a dish of ham and eggs frizzling near the fire. He fell toravenously but still musingly,and he had reached the stage of sconesand jam before he glanced at his correspondence. There was a letter fromhis wife now holidaying at the Neuk Hydropathic. She reported that herhealth was improving, and thatshe had met various people who had knownsomebody who had known somebody else whom she had once known herself.Mr. McCunn read the dutiful pages and smiled. "Mamma's enjoying herselffine," he observed tothe teapot. He knew that for his wife the earthlyparadise was a hydropathic, where she put on her afternoon dress andevery jewel she possessed when she rose in the morning, ate large mealsof which the noveltyatoned for the nastiness, and collected an immensecasual acquaintance with whom she discussed ailments, ministers, suddendeaths, and the intricate genealogies of her class. For his part herancorously hatedhydropathics, having once spent a black week under theroof of one in his wife's company. He detested the food, the Turkishbaths (he had a passionate aversion to baring his body beforestrangers), the inability to findanything to do and the compulsion toendless small talk. A thought flitted over his mind which he was tooloyal to formulate. Once he and his wife had had similar likings, butthey had taken different roads since their childdied. Janet! He sawagain--he was never quite free from the sight--the solemn littlewhite-frocked girl who had died long ago in the spring.It may have been the thought of the Neuk Hydropathic, or more likely thethinclean scent of the daffodils with which Tibby had decked the table,but long ere breakfast was finished the Great Plan had ceased to be anairy vision and become a sober well-masoned structure. Mr. McCunn--Imayconfess it at the start--was an incurable romantic.He had had a humdrum life since the day when he had first entered hisuncle's shop with the hope of some day succeeding that honest grocer;and his feet had neverstrayed a yard from his sober rut. But his mind,like the Dying Gladiator's, had been far away. As a boy he had voyagedamong books, and they had given him a world where he could shape hiscareer according to hiswhimsical fancy. Not that Mr. McCunn was what isknown as a great reader. He read slowly and fastidiously, and sought inliterature for one thing alone. Sir Walter Scott had been his firstguide, but he read the novels notfor their insight into human characteror for their historical pageantry, but because they gave him materialwherewith to construct fantastic journeys. It was the same withDickens. A lit tavern, a stage-coach, post-horses,the clack of hoofs ona frosty road, went to his head like wine. He was a Jacobite not becausehe had any views on Divine Right, but because he had always before hiseyes a picture of a knot of adventurers in cloaks, newlanded fromFrance, among the western heather.On this select basis he had built up his small library--Defoe, Hakluyt,Hazlitt and the essayists, Boswell, some indifferent romances and ashelf of spirited poetry. His tastesbecame known, and he acquired areputation for a scholarly habit. He was president of the LiterarySociety of the Guthrie Memorial Kirk, and read to its members a varietyof papers full of a gusto which rarely becamecritical. He had beenthree times chairman at Burns Anniversary dinners, and had deliveredorations in eulogy of the national Bard; not because he greatly admiredhim--he thought him rather vulgar--but because he tookBurns as anemblem of the un-Burns-like literature which he loved. Mr. McCunn was noscholar and was sublimely unconscious of background. He grew his flowersin his small garden-plot oblivious of their origin so longas they gavehim the colour and scent he sought. Scent, I say, for he appreciatedmore than the mere picturesque. He had a passion for words and cadences,and would be haunted for weeks by a cunning phrase,


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Woodlanders, by Thomas HardyThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: The WoodlandersAuthor: Thomas HardyPosting Date: August 30, 2008 [EBook #482]Release Date: April,1996Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOODLANDERS ***THE WOODLANDERSbyThomas HardyCHAPTER I.The rambler who, for old association or other reasons, should tracetheforsaken coach-road running almost in a meridional line from Bristol tothe south shore of England, would find himself during the latter halfof his journey in the vicinity of some extensive woodlands,interspersed withapple-orchards.  Here the trees, timber orfruit-bearing, as the case may be, make the wayside hedges ragged bytheir drip and shade, stretching over the road with easefulhorizontality, as if they found the unsubstantialair an adequatesupport for their limbs.  At one place, where a hill is crossed, thelargest of the woods shows itself bisected by the high-way, as the headof thick hair is bisected by the white line of its parting.  The spotislonely.The physiognomy of a deserted highway expresses solitude to a degreethat is not reached by mere dales or downs, and bespeaks a tomb-likestillness more emphatic than that of glades and pools. The contrastofwhat is with what might be probably accounts for this.  To step, forinstance, at the place under notice, from the hedge of the plantationinto the adjoining pale thoroughfare, and pause amid its emptiness fora moment,was to exchange by the act of a single stride the simpleabsence of human companionship for an incubus of the forlorn.At this spot, on the lowering evening of a by-gone winter's day, therestood a man who had enteredupon the scene much in the aforesaidmanner.  Alighting into the road from a stile hard by, he, though by nomeans a "chosen vessel" for impressions, was temporarily influenced bysome such feeling of being suddenlymore alone than before he hademerged upon the highway.It could be seen by a glance at his rather finical style of dress thathe did not belong to the country proper; and from his air, after awhile, that though theremight be a sombre beauty in the scenery, musicin the breeze, and a wan procession of coaching ghosts in the sentimentof this old turnpike-road, he was mainly puzzled about the way.  Thedead men's work that hadbeen expended in climbing that hill, theblistered soles that had trodden it, and the tears that had wetted it,were not his concern; for fate had given him no time for any butpractical things.He looked north and south, andmechanically prodded the ground with hiswalking-stick.  A closer glance at his face corroborated the testimonyof his clothes.  It was self-complacent, yet there was small apparentground for such complacence.  Nothingirradiated it; to the eye of themagician in character, if not to the ordinary observer, the expressionenthroned there was absolute submission to and belief in a littleassortment of forms and habitudes.At first not a soulappeared who could enlighten him as he desired, orseemed likely to appear that night.  But presently a slight noise oflaboring wheels and the steady dig of a horse's shoe-tips becameaudible; and there loomed in thenotch of the hill and plantation thatthe road formed here at the summit a carrier's van drawn by a singlehorse.  When it got nearer, he said, with some relief to himself, "'TisMrs. Dollery's--this will help me."The vehiclewas half full of passengers, mostly women.  He held up hisstick at its approach, and the woman who was driving drew rein."I've been trying to find a short way to Little Hintock this lasthalf-hour, Mrs. Dollery," hesaid.  "But though I've been to GreatHintock and Hintock House half a dozen times I am at fault about thesmall village.  You can help me, I dare say?"She assured him that she could--that as she went to Great Hintockhervan passed near it--that it was only up the lane that branched out ofthe lane into which she was about to turn--just ahead. "Though,"continued Mrs. Dollery, "'tis such a little small place that, as a towngentleman,you'd need have a candle and lantern to find it if ye don'tknow where 'tis.  Bedad! I wouldn't live there if they'd pay me to.Now at Great Hintock you do see the world a bit."He mounted and sat beside her, with his feetoutside, where they wereever and anon brushed over by the horse's tail.This van, driven and owned by Mrs. Dollery, was rather a movableattachment of the roadway than an extraneous object, to those who knewitwell.  The old horse, whose hair was of the roughness and color ofheather, whose leg-joints, shoulders, and hoofs were distorted byharness and drudgery from colthood--though if all had their rights, heought,symmetrical in outline, to have been picking the herbage of someEastern plain instead of tugging here--had trodden this road almostdaily for twenty years.  Even his subjection was not made congruousthroughout, forthe harness being too short, his tail was not drawnthrough the crupper, so that the breeching slipped awkwardly to oneside.  He knew every subtle incline of the seven or eight miles ofground between Hintock andSherton Abbas--the market-town to which hejourneyed--as accurately as any surveyor could have learned it by aDumpy level.The vehicle had a square black tilt which nodded with the motion of thewheels, and at apoint in it over the driver's head was a hook to whichthe reins were hitched at times, when they formed a catenary curve fromthe horse's shoulders.  Somewhere about the axles was a loose chain,whose only knownpurpose was to clink as it went.  Mrs. Dollery, havingto hop up and down many times in the service of her passengers, wore,especially in windy weather, short leggings under her gown formodesty's sake, and instead ofa bonnet a felt hat tied down with ahandkerchief, to guard against an earache to which she was frequentlysubject.  In the rear of the van was a glass window, which she cleanedwith her pocket-handkerchief everymarket-day before starting.  Lookingat the van from the back, the spectator could thus see through itsinterior a square piece of the same sky and landscape that he sawwithout, but intruded on by the profiles of theseated passengers, who,as they rumbled onward, their lips moving and heads nodding in animatedprivate converse, remained in happy unconsciousness that theirmannerisms and facial peculiarities were sharplydefined to the publiceye.This hour of coming home from market was the happy one, if not thehappiest, of the week for them.  Snugly ensconced under the tilt, theycould forget the sorrows of the world without, andsurvey life andrecapitulate the incidents of the day with placid smiles.The passengers in the back part formed a group to themselves, and whilethe new-comer spoke to the proprietress, they indulged in aconfidentialchat about him as about other people, which the noise ofthe van rendered inaudible to himself and Mrs. Dollery, sitting forward."'Tis Barber Percombe--he that's got the waxen woman in his window atthe top of AbbeyStreet," said one.  "What business can bring him fromhis shop out here at this time and not a journeyman hair-cutter, but amaster-barber that's left off his pole because 'tis not genteel!"They listened to hisconversation, but Mr. Percombe, though he hadnodded and spoken genially, seemed indisposed to gratify the curiositywhich he had aroused; and the unrestrained flow of ideas which hadanimated the inside of the vanbefore his arrival was checkedthenceforward.Thus they rode on till they turned into a half-invisible little lane,whence, as it reached the verge of an eminence, could be discerned inthe dusk, about half a mile to the right,gardens and orchards sunk ina concave, and, as it were, snipped out of the woodland.  From thisself-contained place rose in stealthy silence tall stems of smoke,which the eye of imagination could trace downward totheir root onquiet hearth-stones festooned overhead with hams and flitches.  It wasone of those sequestered spots outside the gates of the world where mayusually be found more meditation than action, and morepassivity thanmeditation; where reasoning proceeds on narrow premises, and results ininferences wildly imaginative; yet where, from time to time, no lessthan in other places, dramas of a grandeur and unity trulySophocleanare enacted in the real, by virtue of the concentrated passions andclosely knit interdependence of the lives therein.This place was the Little Hintock of the master-barber's search. Thecoming night graduallyobscured the smoke of the chimneys, but theposition of the sequestered little world could still be distinguishedby a few faint lights, winking more or less ineffectually through theleafless boughs, and the undiscernedsongsters they bore, in the formof balls of feathers, at roost among them.Out of the lane followed by the van branched a yet smaller lane, at thecorner of which the barber alighted, Mrs. Dollery's van going on tothelarger village, whose superiority to the despised smaller one as anexemplar of the world's movements was not particularly apparent in itsmeans of approach."A very clever and learned young doctor, who, they say, isin leaguewith the devil, lives in the place you be going to--not because there'sanybody for'n to cure there, but because 'tis the middle of hisdistrict."The observation was flung at the barber by one of the women atparting,as a last attempt to get at his errand that way.But he made no reply, and without further pause the pedestrian plungedtowards the umbrageous nook, and paced cautiously over the dead leaveswhich nearlyburied the road or street of the hamlet. As very fewpeople except themselves passed this way after dark, a majority of thedenizens of Little Hintock deemed window-curtains unnecessary; and onthis account Mr.Percombe made it his business to stop opposite thecasements of each cottage that he came to, with a demeanor which showedthat he was endeavoring to conjecture, from the persons and things heobserved within, thewhereabouts of somebody or other who resided here.Only the smaller dwellings interested him; one or two houses, whosesize, antiquity, and rambling appurtenances signified thatnotwithstanding their remoteness theymust formerly have been, if theywere not still, inhabited by people of a certain social standing, beingneglected by him entirely.  Smells of pomace, and the hiss offermenting cider, which reached him from the backquarters of othertenements, revealed the recent occupation of some of the inhabitants,and joined with the scent of decay from the perishing leaves underfoot.Half a dozen dwellings were passed without result.  Thenext, whichstood opposite a tall tree, was in an exceptional state of radiance,the flickering brightness from the inside shining up the chimney andmaking a luminous mist of the emerging smoke.  The interior, asseenthrough the window, caused him to draw up with a terminative air andwatch.  The house was rather large for a cottage, and the door, whichopened immediately into the living-room, stood ajar, so that a ribbonoflight fell through the opening into the dark atmosphere without.Every now and then a moth, decrepit from the late season, would flitfor a moment across the out-coming rays and disappear again into thenight.CHAPTERII.In the room from which this cheerful blaze proceeded, he beheld a girlseated on a willow chair, and busily occupied by the light of the fire,which was ample and of wood.  With a bill-hook in one hand and aleatherglove, much too large for her, on the other, she was makingspars, such as are used by thatchers, with great rapidity.  She wore aleather apron for this purpose, which was also much too large for herfigure.  On her lefthand lay a bundle of the straight, smooth stickscalled spar-gads--the raw material of her manufacture; on her right, aheap of chips and ends--the refuse--with which the fire was maintained;in front, a pile of thefinished articles.  To produce them she took upeach gad, looked critically at it from end to end, cut it to length,split it into four, and sharpened each of the quarters with dexterousblows, which brought it to a triangularpoint precisely resembling thatof a bayonet.Beside her, in case she might require more light, a brass candlestickstood on a little round table, curiously formed of an old coffin-stool,with a deal top nailed on, the whitesurface of the latter contrastingoddly with the black carved oak of the substructure.  The socialposition of the household in the past was almost as definitively shownby the presence of this article as that of an esquire ornobleman byhis old helmets or shields. It had been customary for every well-to-dovillager, whose tenure was by copy of court-roll, or in any way morepermanent than that of the mere cotter, to keep a pair of thesestoolsfor the use of his own dead; but for the last generation or two afeeling of cui bono had led to the discontinuance of the custom, andthe stools were frequently made use of in the manner described.The youngwoman laid down the bill-hook for a moment and examined thepalm of her right hand, which, unlike the other, was ungloved, andshowed little hardness or roughness about it.  The palm was red andblistering, as if thispresent occupation were not frequent enough withher to subdue it to what it worked in.  As with so many right handsborn to manual labor, there was nothing in its fundamental shape tobear out the physiologicalconventionalism that gradations of birth,gentle or mean, show themselves primarily in the form of this member.Nothing but a cast of the die of destiny had decided that the girlshould handle the tool; and the fingerswhich clasped the heavy ashhaft might have skilfully guided the pencil or swept the string, hadthey only been set to do it in good time.Her face had the usual fulness of expression which is developed by alife ofsolitude.  Where the eyes of a multitude beat like waves upon acountenance they seem to wear away its individuality; but in the stillwater of privacy every tentacle of feeling and sentiment shoots out invisibleluxuriance, to be interpreted as readily as a child's look byan intruder.  In years she was no more than nineteen or twenty, but thenecessity of taking thought at a too early period of life had forcedthe provisional curvesof her childhood's face to a premature finality.Thus she had but little pretension to beauty, save in one prominentparticular--her hair.  Its abundance made it almost unmanageable; itscolor was, roughly speaking, andas seen here by firelight, brown, butcareful notice, or an observation by day, would have revealed that itstrue shade was a rare and beautiful approximation to chestnut.On this one bright gift of Time to the particularvictim of his nowbefore us the new-comer's eyes were fixed; meanwhile the fingers of hisright hand mechanically played over something sticking up from hiswaistcoat-pocket--the bows of a pair of scissors, whose polishmadethem feebly responsive to the light within.  In her present beholder'smind the scene formed by the girlish spar-maker composed itself into apost-Raffaelite picture of extremest quality, wherein the girl's hairalone,as the focus of observation, was depicted with intensity anddistinctness, and her face, shoulders, hands, and figure in general,being a blurred mass of unimportant detail lost in haze and obscurity.He hesitated nolonger, but tapped at the door and entered.  The youngwoman turned at the crunch of his boots on the sanded floor, andexclaiming, "Oh, Mr. Percombe, how you frightened me!" quite lost hercolor for a moment.Hereplied, "You should shut your door--then you'd hear folk open it.""I can't," she said; "the chimney smokes so.  Mr. Percombe, you look asunnatural out of your shop as a canary in a thorn-hedge. Surely youhave notcome out here on my account--for--""Yes--to have your answer about this." He touched her head with hiscane, and she winced.  "Do you agree?" he continued.  "It is necessarythat I should know at once, as the lady issoon going away, and ittakes time to make up.""Don't press me--it worries me.  I was in hopes you had thought no moreof it.  I can NOT part with it--so there!""Now, look here, Marty," said the barber, sitting down onthecoffin-stool table.  "How much do you get for making these spars?""Hush--father's up-stairs awake, and he don't know that I am doing hiswork.""Well, now tell me," said the man, more softly.  "How much do youget?""Eighteenpence a thousand," she said, reluctantly."Who are you making them for?""Mr. Melbury, the timber-dealer, just below here.""And how many can you make in a day?""In a day and half the night, threebundles--that's a thousand and ahalf.""Two and threepence." The barber paused.  "Well, look here," hecontinued, with the remains of a calculation in his tone, whichcalculation had been the reduction to figures of theprobable monetarymagnetism necessary to overpower the resistant force of her presentpurse and the woman's love of comeliness, "here's a sovereign--a goldsovereign, almost new." He held it out between his fingerand thumb."That's as much as you'd earn in a week and a half at that rough man'swork, and it's yours for just letting me snip off what you've got toomuch of."The girl's bosom moved a very little.  "Why can't the ladysend to someother girl who don't value her hair--not to me?" she exclaimed."Why, simpleton, because yours is the exact shade of her own, and 'tisa shade you can't match by dyeing.  But you are not going to refusemenow I've come all the way from Sherton o' purpose?""I say I won't sell it--to you or anybody.""Now listen," and he drew up a little closer beside her.  "The lady isvery rich, and won't be particular to a few shillings; soI willadvance to this on my own responsibility--I'll make the one sovereigntwo, rather than go back empty-handed.""No, no, no!" she cried, beginning to be much agitated.  "You area-tempting me, Mr. Percombe.  Yougo on like the Devil to Dr. Faustusin the penny book.  But I don't want your money, and won't agree.  Whydid you come? I said when you got me into your shop and urged me somuch, that I didn't mean to sell myhair!" The speaker was hot andstern."Marty, now hearken.  The lady that wants it wants it badly.  And,between you and me, you'd better let her have it.  'Twill be bad foryou if you don't.""Bad for me? Who is she,then?"The barber held his tongue, and the girl repeated the question."I am not at liberty to tell you.  And as she is going abroad soon itmakes no difference who she is at all.""She wants it to go abroad wi'?"Percombeassented by a nod.  The girl regarded him reflectively."Barber Percombe," she said, "I know who 'tis.  'Tis she at theHouse--Mrs. Charmond!""That's my secret.  However, if you agree to let me have it, I'll tellyou inconfidence.""I'll certainly not let you have it unless you tell me the truth. It isMrs. Charmond."The barber dropped his voice.  "Well--it is.  You sat in front of herin church the other day, and she noticed how exactly yourhair matchedher own.  Ever since then she's been hankering for it, and at lastdecided to get it.  As she won't wear it till she goes off abroad, sheknows nobody will recognize the change.  I'm commissioned to get itforher, and then it is to be made up.  I shouldn't have vamped all thesemiles for any less important employer.  Now, mind--'tis as much as mybusiness with her is worth if it should be known that I've let out hername;but honor between us two, Marty, and you'll say nothing thatwould injure me?""I don't wish to tell upon her," said Marty, coolly.  "But my hair ismy own, and I'm going to keep it.""Now, that's not fair, after what I'vetold you," said the nettledbarber.  "You see, Marty, as you are in the same parish, and in one ofher cottages, and your father is ill, and wouldn't like to turn out, itwould be as well to oblige her.  I say that as afriend.  But I won'tpress you to make up your mind to-night. You'll be coming to marketto-morrow, I dare say, and you can call then.  If you think it overyou'll be inclined to bring what I want, I know.""I've nothingmore to say," she answered.Her companion saw from her manner that it was useless to urge herfurther by speech.  "As you are a trusty young woman," he said, "I'llput these sovereigns up here for ornament, that youmay see howhandsome they are.  Bring the hair to-morrow, or return thesovereigns." He stuck them edgewise into the frame of a small mantlelooking-glass.  "I hope you'll bring it, for your sake and mine.  Ishouldhave thought she could have suited herself elsewhere; but asit's her fancy it must be indulged if possible. If you cut it offyourself, mind how you do it so as to keep all the locks one way." Heshowed her how this was tobe done."But I sha'nt," she replied, with laconic indifference.  "I value mylooks too much to spoil 'em.  She wants my hair to get another loverwith; though if stories are true she's broke the heart of many a


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Gambler, by Fyodor DostoyevskyThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: The GamblerAuthor: Fyodor DostoyevskyPosting Date: March 1, 2009 [EBook #2197]Release Date: May,2000[Last updated: July 24, 2011]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GAMBLER ***Produced by Martin Adamson.  HTML version by Al Haines.THE GAMBLERByFYODORDOSTOYEVSKYTranslated by C. J. HogarthIAt length I returned from two weeks leave of absence to find that mypatrons had arrived three days ago in Roulettenberg. I received fromthem a welcome quite different tothat which I had expected. TheGeneral eyed me coldly, greeted me in rather haughty fashion, anddismissed me to pay my respects to his sister. It was clear that fromSOMEWHERE money had been acquired. I thought Icould even detect acertain shamefacedness in the General's glance. Maria Philipovna, too,seemed distraught, and conversed with me with an air of detachment.Nevertheless, she took the money which I handed to her,counted it, andlistened to what I had to tell. To luncheon there were expected thatday a Monsieur Mezentsov, a French lady, and an Englishman; for,whenever money was in hand, a banquet in Muscovite style wasalwaysgiven. Polina Alexandrovna, on seeing me, inquired why I had been solong away. Then, without waiting for an answer, she departed. Evidentlythis was not mere accident, and I felt that I must throw somelightupon matters. It was high time that I did so.I was assigned a small room on the fourth floor of the hotel (for youmust know that I belonged to the General's suite). So far as I couldsee, the party had already gainedsome notoriety in the place, whichhad come to look upon the General as a Russian nobleman of greatwealth. Indeed, even before luncheon he charged me, among other things,to get two thousand-franc notes changedfor him at the hotel counter,which put us in a position to be thought millionaires at all events fora week! Later, I was about to take Mischa and Nadia for a walk when asummons reached me from the staircase that Imust attend the General.He began by deigning to inquire of me where I was going to take thechildren; and as he did so, I could see that he failed to look me inthe eyes. He WANTED to do so, but each time was met byme with such afixed, disrespectful stare that he desisted in confusion. In pompouslanguage, however, which jumbled one sentence into another, and atlength grew disconnected, he gave me to understand that I was toleadthe children altogether away from the Casino, and out into the park.Finally his anger exploded, and he added sharply:"I suppose you would like to take them to the Casino to play roulette?Well, excuse my speakingso plainly, but I know how addicted you are togambling. Though I am not your mentor, nor wish to be, at least I havea right to require that you shall not actually compromise me.""I have no money for gambling," Iquietly replied."But you will soon be in receipt of some," retorted the General,reddening a little as he dived into his writing desk and appliedhimself to a memorandum book. From it he saw that he had 120 roublesofmine in his keeping."Let us calculate," he went on. "We must translate these roubles intothalers. Here--take 100 thalers, as a round sum. The rest will be safein my hands."In silence I took the money."You must notbe offended at what I say," he continued. "You are tootouchy about these things. What I have said I have said merely as awarning. To do so is no more than my right."When returning home with the children beforeluncheon, I met acavalcade of our party riding to view some ruins. Two splendidcarriages, magnificently horsed, with Mlle. Blanche, Maria Philipovna,and Polina Alexandrovna in one of them, and the Frenchman,theEnglishman, and the General in attendance on horseback! The passers-bystopped to stare at them, for the effect was splendid--the Generalcould not have improved upon it. I calculated that, with the 4000francswhich I had brought with me, added to what my patrons seemedalready to have acquired, the party must be in possession of at least7000 or 8000 francs--though that would be none too much for Mlle.Blanche, who,with her mother and the Frenchman, was also lodging inour hotel. The latter gentleman was called by the lacqueys "Monsieur leComte," and Mlle. Blanche's mother was dubbed "Madame la Comtesse."Perhaps in verytruth they WERE "Comte et Comtesse."I knew that "Monsieur le Comte" would take no notice of me when we metat dinner, as also that the General would not dream of introducing us,nor of recommending me to the"Comte." However, the latter had livedawhile in Russia, and knew that the person referred to as an "uchitel"is never looked upon as a bird of fine feather. Of course, strictlyspeaking, he knew me; but I was an uninvitedguest at the luncheon--theGeneral had forgotten to arrange otherwise, or I should have beendispatched to dine at the table d'hote. Nevertheless, I presentedmyself in such guise that the General looked at me with atouch ofapproval; and, though the good Maria Philipovna was for showing me myplace, the fact of my having previously met the Englishman, Mr. Astley,saved me, and thenceforward I figured as one of thecompany.This strange Englishman I had met first in Prussia, where we hadhappened to sit vis-a-vis in a railway train in which I was travellingto overtake our party; while, later, I had run across him in France,and againin Switzerland--twice within the space of two weeks! Tothink, therefore, that I should suddenly encounter him again here, inRoulettenberg! Never in my life had I known a more retiring man, for hewas shy to the pitchof imbecility, yet well aware of the fact (for hewas no fool). At the same time, he was a gentle, amiable sort of anindividual, and, even on our first encounter in Prussia I had contrivedto draw him out, and he had toldme that he had just been to the NorthCape, and was now anxious to visit the fair at Nizhni Novgorod. How hehad come to make the General's acquaintance I do not know, but,apparently, he was much struck withPolina. Also, he was delighted thatI should sit next him at table, for he appeared to look upon me as hisbosom friend.During the meal the Frenchman was in great feather: he was discursiveand pompous to every one.In Moscow too, I remembered, he had blown agreat many bubbles. Interminably he discoursed on finance and Russianpolitics, and though, at times, the General made feints to contradicthim, he did so humbly, and asthough wishing not wholly to lose sightof his own dignity.For myself, I was in a curious frame of mind. Even before luncheon washalf finished I had asked myself the old, eternal question: "WHY do Icontinue to danceattendance upon the General, instead of having lefthim and his family long ago?" Every now and then I would glance atPolina Alexandrovna, but she paid me no attention; until eventually Ibecame so irritated that Idecided to play the boor.First of all I suddenly, and for no reason whatever, plunged loudly andgratuitously into the general conversation. Above everything I wantedto pick a quarrel with the Frenchman; and, with thatend in view Iturned to the General, and exclaimed in an overbearing sort ofway--indeed, I think that I actually interrupted him--that that summerit had been almost impossible for a Russian to dine anywhere attablesd'hote. The General bent upon me a glance of astonishment."If one is a man of self-respect," I went on, "one risks abuse by sodoing, and is forced to put up with insults of every kind. Both atParis and on theRhine, and even in Switzerland--there are so manyPoles, with their sympathisers, the French, at these tables d'hote thatone cannot get a word in edgeways if one happens only to be a Russian."This I said in French. TheGeneral eyed me doubtfully, for he did notknow whether to be angry or merely to feel surprised that I should sofar forget myself."Of course, one always learns SOMETHING EVERYWHERE," said the Frenchmanin acareless, contemptuous sort of tone."In Paris, too, I had a dispute with a Pole," I continued, "and thenwith a French officer who supported him. After that a section of theFrenchmen present took my part. They did so assoon as I told them thestory of how once I threatened to spit into Monsignor's coffee.""To spit into it?" the General inquired with grave disapproval in histone, and a stare, of astonishment, while the Frenchman lookedat meunbelievingly."Just so," I replied. "You must know that, on one occasion, when, fortwo days, I had felt certain that at any moment I might have to departfor Rome on business, I repaired to the Embassy of theHoly See inParis, to have my passport visaed. There I encountered a sacristan ofabout fifty, and a man dry and cold of mien. After listening politely,but with great reserve, to my account of myself, this sacristanaskedme to wait a little. I was in a great hurry to depart, but of course Isat down, pulled out a copy of L'Opinion Nationale, and fell to readingan extraordinary piece of invective against Russia which it happenedtocontain. As I was thus engaged I heard some one enter an adjoining roomand ask for Monsignor; after which I saw the sacristan make a low bowto the visitor, and then another bow as the visitor took his leave.Iventured to remind the good man of my own business also; whereupon,with an expression of, if anything, increased dryness, he again askedme to wait. Soon a third visitor arrived who, like myself, had comeonbusiness (he was an Austrian of some sort); and as soon as ever he hadstated his errand he was conducted upstairs! This made me very angry. Irose, approached the sacristan, and told him that, since Monsignorwasreceiving callers, his lordship might just as well finish off my affairas well. Upon this the sacristan shrunk back in astonishment. It simplypassed his understanding that any insignificant Russian should daretocompare himself with other visitors of Monsignor's! In a tone of theutmost effrontery, as though he were delighted to have a chance ofinsulting me, he looked me up and down, and then said: "Do you supposethatMonsignor is going to put aside his coffee for YOU?" But I onlycried the louder: "Let me tell you that I am going to SPIT into thatcoffee! Yes, and if you do not get me my passport visaed this veryminute, I shall take it toMonsignor myself.""What? While he is engaged with a Cardinal?" screeched the sacristan,again shrinking back in horror. Then, rushing to the door, he spreadout his arms as though he would rather die than let meenter.Thereupon I declared that I was a heretic and a barbarian--"Je suisheretique et barbare," I said, "and that these archbishops andcardinals and monsignors, and the rest of them, meant nothing at all tome. In aword, I showed him that I was not going to give way. He lookedat me with an air of infinite resentment. Then he snatched up mypassport, and departed with it upstairs. A minute later the passporthad been visaed! Hereit is now, if you care to see it,"--and I pulledout the document, and exhibited the Roman visa."But--" the General began."What really saved you was the fact that you proclaimed yourself aheretic and a barbarian,"remarked the Frenchman with a smile. "Celan'etait pas si bete.""But is that how Russian subjects ought to be treated? Why, when theysettle here they dare not utter even a word--they are ready even todeny the factthat they are Russians! At all events, at my hotel inParis I received far more attention from the company after I had toldthem about the fracas with the sacristan. A fat Polish nobleman, whohad been the most offensiveof all who were present at the tabled'hote, at once went upstairs, while some of the Frenchmen were simplydisgusted when I told them that two years ago I had encountered a manat whom, in 1812, a French 'hero'fired for the mere fun of discharginghis musket. That man was then a boy of ten and his family are stillresiding in Moscow.""Impossible!" the Frenchman spluttered. "No French soldier would fireat a child!""Neverthelessthe incident was as I say," I replied. "A very respectedex-captain told me the story, and I myself could see the scar left onhis cheek."The Frenchman then began chattering volubly, and the General supportedhim; but Irecommended the former to read, for example, extracts fromthe memoirs of General Perovski, who, in 1812, was a prisoner in thehands of the French. Finally Maria Philipovna said something tointerrupt theconversation. The General was furious with me for havingstarted the altercation with the Frenchman. On the other hand, Mr.Astley seemed to take great pleasure in my brush with Monsieur, and,rising from the table,proposed that we should go and have a drinktogether. The same afternoon, at four o'clock, I went to have mycustomary talk with Polina Alexandrovna; and, the talk soon extended toa stroll. We entered the Park, andapproached the Casino, where Polinaseated herself upon a bench near the fountain, and sent Nadia away to alittle distance to play with some other children. Mischa also Idispatched to play by the fountain, and in thisfashion we--that is tosay, Polina and myself--contrived to find ourselves alone.Of course, we began by talking on business matters. Polina seemedfurious when I handed her only 700 gulden, for she had thoughttoreceive from Paris, as the proceeds of the pledging of her diamonds, atleast 2000 gulden, or even more."Come what may, I MUST have money," she said. "And get it somehow Iwill--otherwise I shall be ruined."Iasked her what had happened during my absence."Nothing; except that two pieces of news have reached us from St.Petersburg. In the first place, my grandmother is very ill, andunlikely to last another couple of days.We had this from TimothyPetrovitch himself, and he is a reliable person. Every moment we areexpecting to receive news of the end.""All of you are on the tiptoe of expectation?" I queried."Of course--all of us, andevery minute of the day. For ayear-and-a-half now we have been looking for this.""Looking for it?""Yes, looking for it. I am not her blood relation, you know--I ammerely the General's step-daughter.  Yet I am certainthat the old ladyhas remembered me in her will.""Yes, I believe that you WILL come in for a good deal," I said withsome assurance."Yes, for she is fond of me. But how come you to think so?"I answered this questionwith another one. "That Marquis of yours," Isaid, "--is HE also familiar with your family secrets?""And why are you yourself so interested in them?" was her retort as sheeyed me with dry grimness."Never mind. If I amnot mistaken, the General has succeeded inborrowing money of the Marquis.""It may be so.""Is it likely that the Marquis would have lent the money if he had notknown something or other about your grandmother? Didyou notice, too,that three times during luncheon, when speaking of her, he called her'La Baboulenka'? [Dear little Grandmother]. What loving, friendlybehaviour, to be sure!""Yes, that is true. As soon as ever he learntthat I was likely toinherit something from her he began to pay me his addresses. I thoughtyou ought to know that.""Then he has only just begun his courting? Why, I thought he had beendoing so a long while!""YouKNOW he has not," retorted Polina angrily. "But where on earth didyou pick up this Englishman?" She said this after a pause."I KNEW you would ask about him!" Whereupon I told her of my previousencounters withAstley while travelling."He is very shy," I said, "and susceptible. Also, he is in love withyou.--""Yes, he is in love with me," she replied."And he is ten times richer than the Frenchman. In fact, what does theFrenchmanpossess? To me it seems at least doubtful that he possessesanything at all.""Oh, no, there is no doubt about it. He does possess some chateau orother. Last night the General told me that for certain. NOW areyousatisfied?""Nevertheless, in your place I should marry the Englishman.""And why?" asked Polina."Because, though the Frenchman is the handsomer of the two, he is alsothe baser; whereas the Englishman is notonly a man of honour, but tentimes the wealthier of the pair.""Yes? But then the Frenchman is a marquis, and the cleverer of thetwo," remarked Polina imperturbably."Is that so?" I repeated."Yes; absolutely."Polina wasnot at all pleased at my questions; I could see that she wasdoing her best to irritate me with the brusquerie of her answers. But Itook no notice of this."It amuses me to see you grow angry," she continued. "However,inasmuchas I allow you to indulge in these questions and conjectures, you oughtto pay me something for the privilege.""I consider that I have a perfect right to put these questions to you,"was my calm retort; "for thereason that I am ready to pay for them,and also care little what becomes of me."Polina giggled."Last time you told me--when on the Shlangenberg--that at a word fromme you would be ready to jump down a thousandfeet into the abyss. Someday I may remind you of that saying, in order to see if you will be asgood as your word. Yes, you may depend upon it that I shall do so. Ihate you because I have allowed you to go to suchlengths, and I alsohate you and still more--because you are so necessary to me. For thetime being I want you, so I must keep you."Then she made a movement to rise. Her tone had sounded very angry.Indeed, of lateher talks with me had invariably ended on a note oftemper and irritation--yes, of real temper."May I ask you who is this Mlle. Blanche?" I inquired (since I did notwish Polina to depart without an explanation)."YouKNOW who she is--just Mlle. Blanche. Nothing further hastranspired. Probably she will soon be Madame General--that is to say,if the rumours that Grandmamma is nearing her end should prove true.Mlle. Blanche, withher mother and her cousin, the Marquis, know verywell that, as things now stand, we are ruined.""And is the General at last in love?""That has nothing to do with it. Listen to me. Take these 700 florins,and go and playroulette with them. Win as much for me as you can, forI am badly in need of money."So saying, she called Nadia back to her side, and entered the Casino,where she joined the rest of our party. For myself, I took, inmusingastonishment, the first path to the left. Something had seemed tostrike my brain when she told me to go and play roulette. Strangelyenough, that something had also seemed to make me hesitate, and to setmeanalysing my feelings with regard to her. In fact, during the twoweeks of my absence I had felt far more at my ease than I did now, onthe day of my return; although, while travelling, I had moped like animbecile,rushed about like a man in a fever, and actually beheld herin my dreams. Indeed, on one occasion (this happened in Switzerland,when I was asleep in the train) I had spoken aloud to her, and set allmy fellow-travellerslaughing. Again, therefore, I put to myself thequestion: "Do I, or do I not love her?" and again I could return myselfno answer or, rather, for the hundredth time I told myself that Idetested her. Yes, I detested her;there were moments (more especiallyat the close of our talks together) when I would gladly have given halfmy life to have strangled her! I swear that, had there, at suchmoments, been a sharp knife ready to my hand,I would have seized thatknife with pleasure, and plunged it into her breast. Yet I also swearthat if, on the Shlangenberg, she had REALLY said to me, "Leap intothat abyss," I should have leapt into it, and with equalpleasure. Yes,this I knew well. One way or the other, the thing must soon be ended.She, too, knew it in some curious way; the thought that I was fullyconscious of her inaccessibility, and of the impossibility of myeverrealising my dreams, afforded her, I am certain, the keenest possiblepleasure. Otherwise, is it likely that she, the cautious and cleverwoman that she was, would have indulged in this familiarity andopenness withme? Hitherto (I concluded) she had looked upon me in thesame light that the old Empress did upon her servant--the Empress whohesitated not to unrobe herself before her slave, since she did notaccount a slave aman. Yes, often Polina must have taken me forsomething less than a man!"Still, she had charged me with a commission--to win what I could atroulette. Yet all the time I could not help wondering WHY it wassonecessary for her to win something, and what new schemes could havesprung to birth in her ever-fertile brain. A host of new and unknownfactors seemed to have arisen during the last two weeks. Well, itbehoved meto divine them, and to probe them, and that as soon aspossible. Yet not now: at the present moment I must repair to theroulette-table.III confess I did not like it. Although I had made up my mind to play, Ifelt averse


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Story of a Bad Boy, by Thomas Bailey AldrichThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Story of a Bad BoyAuthor: Thomas Bailey AldrichRelease Date: February 25, 2006 [EBook #1948]LastUpdated: June 5, 2010Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF A BAD BOY ***Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David WidgerTHE STORY OF A BAD BOYby ThomasBailey AldrichChapter One--In Which I Introduce MyselfThis is the story of a bad boy. Well, not such a very bad, but a prettybad boy; and I ought to know, for I am, or rather I was, that boymyself.Lest the title shouldmislead the reader, I hasten to assure him herethat I have no dark confessions to make. I call my story the story ofa bad boy, partly to distinguish myself from those faultless younggentlemen who generally figure innarratives of this kind, and partlybecause I really was not a cherub. I may truthfully say I was anamiable, impulsive lad, blessed with fine digestive powers, and nohypocrite. I didn't want to be an angel and with theangels stand; Ididn't think the missionary tracts presented to me by the Rev. WibirdHawkins were half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn't send mylittle pocket-money to the natives of the Feejee Islands, butspentit royally in peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was a realhuman boy, such as you may meet anywhere in New England, and no morelike the impossible boy in a storybook than a sound orange is likeonethat has been sucked dry. But let us begin at the beginning.Whenever a new scholar came to our school, I used to confront him atrecess with the following words: "My name's Tom Bailey; what's yourname?" If thename struck me favorably, I shook hands with the newpupil cordially; but if it didn't, I would turn on my heel, for I wasparticular on this point. Such names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Sprigginswere deadly affronts to myear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake, and thelike, were passwords to my confidence and esteem.Ah me! some of those dear fellows are rather elderly boys by thistime--lawyers, merchants, sea-captains, soldiers,authors, what not? PhilAdams (a special good name that Adams) is consul at Shanghai, where Ipicture him to myself with his head closely shaved--he never had too muchhair--and a long pigtail banging down behind.He is married, I hear;and I hope he and she that was Miss Wang Wang are very happy together,sitting cross-legged over their diminutive cups of tea in a skybluetower hung with bells. It is so I think of him; to me he ishencefortha jewelled mandarin, talking nothing but broken China. Whitcomb is ajudge, sedate and wise, with spectacles balanced on the bridge of thatremarkable nose which, in former days, was so plentifully sprinkledwithfreckles that the boys christened him Pepper Whitcomb. Just to thinkof little Pepper Whitcomb being a judge! What would he do to me now, Iwonder, if I were to sing out "Pepper!" some day in court? FredLangdonis in California, in the native-wine business--he used to make the bestlicorice-water I ever tasted! Binny Wallace sleeps in the Old SouthBurying-Ground; and Jack Harris, too, is dead--Harris, who commandedusboys, of old, in the famous snow-ball battles of Slatter's Hill. Was ityesterday I saw him at the head of his regiment on its way to join theshattered Army of the Potomac? Not yesterday, but six years ago. It wasat thebattle of the Seven Pines. Gallant Jack Harris, that never drewrein until he had dashed into the Rebel battery! So they found him--lyingacross the enemy's guns.How we have parted, and wandered, and married, anddied! I wonder whathas become of all the boys who went to the Temple Grammar School atRivermouth when I was a youngster? "All, all are gone, the old familiarfaces!"It is with no ungentle hand I summon them back,for a moment, from thatPast which has closed upon them and upon me. How pleasantly they liveagain in my memory! Happy, magical Past, in whose fairy atmosphere evenConway, mine ancient foe, stands forthtransfigured, with a sort ofdreamy glory encircling his bright red hair!With the old school formula I commence these sketches of my boyhood. Myname is Tom Bailey; what is yours, gentle reader? I take for grantedit isneither Wiggins nor Spriggins, and that we shall get on famouslytogether, and be capital friends forever.Chapter Two--In Which I Entertain Peculiar ViewsI was born at Rivermouth, but, before I had a chance to becomevery wellacquainted with that pretty New England town, my parents removed to NewOrleans, where my father invested his money so securely in the bankingbusiness that he was never able to get any of it out again.But of thishereafter.I was only eighteen months old at the time of the removal, and it didn'tmake much difference to me where I was, because I was so small; butseveral years later, when my father proposed to takeme North to beeducated, I had my own peculiar views on the subject. I instantly kickedover the little Negro boy who happened to be standing by me at themoment, and, stamping my foot violently on the floor of thepiazza,declared that I would not be taken away to live among a lot of Yankees!You see I was what is called "a Northern man with Southern principles."I had no recollection of New England: my earliest memorieswereconnected with the South, with Aunt Chloe, my old Negro nurse, andwith the great ill-kept garden in the centre of which stood our house--awhitewashed stone house it was, with wide verandas--shut out fromthestreet by lines of orange, fig, and magnolia trees. I knew I was bornat the North, but hoped nobody would find it out. I looked upon themisfortune as something so shrouded by time and distance that maybenobodyremembered it. I never told my schoolmates I was a Yankee,because they talked about the Yankees in such a scornful way it mademe feel that it was quite a disgrace not to be born in Louisiana, or atleast in one of theBorder States. And this impression was strengthenedby Aunt Chloe, who said, "dar wasn't no gentl'men in the Norf no way,"and on one occasion terrified me beyond measure by declaring that,"if any of dem meanwhites tried to git her away from marster, she wasjes'gwine to knock 'em on de head wid a gourd!"The way this poor creature's eyes flashed, and the tragic air with whichshe struck at an imaginary "mean white," areamong the most vivid thingsin my memory of those days.To be frank, my idea of the North was about as accurate as thatentertained by the well-educated Englishmen of the present dayconcerning America. I supposedthe inhabitants were divided into twoclasses--Indians and white people; that the Indians occasionally dasheddown on New York, and scalped any woman or child (giving the preferenceto children) whom they caughtlingering in the outskirts afternightfall; that the white men were either hunters or schoolmasters, andthat it was winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailing styleof architecture I took to be log-cabins.With thisdelightful picture of Northern civilization in my eye, thereader will easily understand my terror at the bare thought of beingtransported to Rivermouth to school, and possibly will forgive me forkicking over little blackSam, and otherwise misconducting myself, whenmy father announced his determination to me. As for kicking little Sam--Ialways did that, more or less gently, when anything went wrong with me.My father was greatlyperplexed and troubled by this unusually violentoutbreak, and especially by the real consternation which he saw writtenin every line of my countenance. As little black Sam picked himself up,my father took my hand inhis and led me thoughtfully to the library.I can see him now as he leaned back in the bamboo chair and questionedme. He appeared strangely agitated on learning the nature of myobjections to going North, andproceeded at once to knock down all mypine log houses, and scatter all the Indian tribes with which I hadpopulated the greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States."Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain withsuch silly stories?"asked my father, wiping the tears from his eyes."Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.""And you really thought your grandfather wore a blanket embroidered withbeads, and ornamented his leggins with thescalps of his enemies?""Well, sir, I didn't think that exactly.""Didn't think that exactly? Tom, you will be the death of me."He hid his face in his handkerchief, and, when he looked up, he seemedto have been sufferingacutely. I was deeply moved myself, though I didnot clearly understand what I had said or done to cause him to feel sobadly. Perhaps I had hurt his feelings by thinking it even possible thatGrandfather Nutter was anIndian warrior.My father devoted that evening and several subsequent evenings to givingme a clear and succinct account of New England; its early struggles, itsprogress, and its present condition--faint and confusedglimmeringsof all which I had obtained at school, where history had never been afavorite pursuit of mine.I was no longer unwilling to go North; on the contrary, the proposedjourney to a new world full of wonders keptme awake nights. I promisedmyself all sorts of fun and adventures, though I was not entirely atrest in my mind touching the savages, and secretly resolved to go onboard the ship--the journey was to be made bysea--with a certain littlebrass pistol in my trousers-pocket, in case of any difficulty with thetribes when we landed at Boston.I couldn't get the Indian out of my head. Only a short time previouslythe Cherokees--or was itthe Camanches?--had been removed from theirhunting-grounds in Arkansas; and in the wilds of the Southwest the redmen were still a source of terror to the border settlers. "Troublewith the Indians" was the staplenews from Florida published in the NewOrleans papers. We were constantly hearing of travellers being attackedand murdered in the interior of that State. If these things were done inFlorida, why not inMassachusetts?Yet long before the sailing day arrived I was eager to be off. Myimpatience was increased by the fact that my father had purchased for mea fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it to Rivermouth afortnightprevious to the date set for our own departure--for both my parents wereto accompany me. The pony (which nearly kicked me out of bed one nightin a dream), and my father's promise that he and my motherwould come toRivermouth every other summer, completely resigned me to the situation.The pony's name was Gitana, which is the Spanish for gypsy; so I alwayscalled her--she was a lady pony--Gypsy.At length thetime came to leave the vine-covered mansion among theorange-trees, to say goodby to little black Sam (I am convinced he washeartily glad to get rid of me), and to part with simple Aunt Chloe,who, in the confusion ofher grief, kissed an eyelash into my eye, andthen buried her face in the bright bandana turban which she had mountedthat morning in honor of our departure.I fancy them standing by the open garden gate; the tearsare rollingdown Aunt Chloe's cheeks; Sam's six front teeth are glistening likepearls; I wave my hand to him manfully then I call out "goodby" in amuffled voice to Aunt Chloe; they and the old home fade away. I amneverto see them again!Chapter Three--On Board the TyphoonI do not remember much about the voyage to Boston, for after the firstfew hours at sea I was dreadfully unwell.The name of our ship was the "A No. 1,fast-sailing packet Typhoon."I learned afterwards that she sailed fast only in the newspaperadvertisements. My father owned one quarter of the Typhoon, and that iswhy we happened to go in her. I tried to guess whichquarter of the shiphe owned, and finally concluded it must be the hind quarter--the cabin,in which we had the cosiest of state-rooms, with one round window in theroof, and two shelves or boxes nailed up against thewall to sleep in.There was a good deal of confusion on deck while we were getting underway. The captain shouted orders (to which nobody seemed to pay anyattention) through a battered tin trumpet, and grew so redin the facethat he reminded me of a scooped-out pumpkin with a lighted candleinside. He swore right and left at the sailors without the slightestregard for their feelings. They didn't mind it a bit, however, but wentonsinging--     "Heave ho!     With the rum below,     And hurrah for the Spanish Main O!"I will not be positive about "the Spanish Main," but it was hurrah forsomething O. I considered them very jolly fellows, and soindeed theywere. One weather-beaten tar in particular struck my fancy--a thick-set,jovial man, about fifty years of age, with twinkling blue eyes and afringe of gray hair circling his head like a crown. As he took offhistarpaulin I observed that the top of his head was quite smooth and flat,as if somebody had sat down on him when he was very young.There was something noticeably hearty in this man's bronzed face, aheartinessthat seemed to extend to his loosely knotted neckerchief. Butwhat completely won my good-will was a picture of enviable lovelinesspainted on his left arm. It was the head of a woman with the body of afish. Her flowinghair was of livid green, and she held a pink comb inone hand. I never saw anything so beautiful. I determined to know thatman. I think I would have given my brass pistol to have had such apicture painted on myarm.While I stood admiring this work of art, a fat wheezy steamtug, withthe word AJAX in staring black letters on the paddlebox, came puffing upalongside the Typhoon. It was ridiculously small and conceited,comparedwith our stately ship. I speculated as to what it was going to do. In afew minutes we were lashed to the little monster, which gave a snort anda shriek, and commenced backing us out from the levee (wharf)with thegreatest ease.I once saw an ant running away with a piece of cheese eight or ten timeslarger than itself. I could not help thinking of it, when I found thechubby, smoky-nosed tug-boat towing the Typhoon outinto the MississippiRiver.In the middle of the stream we swung round, the current caught us, andaway we flew like a great winged bird. Only it didn't seem as if we weremoving. The shore, with the countlesssteamboats, the tangled rigging ofthe ships, and the long lines of warehouses, appeared to be gliding awayfrom us.It was grand sport to stand on the quarter-deck and watch all this.Before long there was nothing to beseen on other side but stretches oflow swampy land, covered with stunted cypress trees, from which droopeddelicate streamers of Spanish moss--a fine place for alligators and Congosnakes. Here and there we passed ayellow sand-bar, and here and there asnag lifted its nose out of the water like a shark."This is your last chance to see the city, To see the city, Tom," saidmy father, as we swept round a bend of the river.I turned andlooked. New Orleans was just a colorless mass of somethingin the distance, and the dome of the St. Charles Hotel, upon whichthe sun shimmered for a moment, was no bigger than the top of old AuntChloe'sthimble.What do I remember next? The gray sky and the fretful blue waters of theGulf. The steam-tug had long since let slip her hawsers and gone pantingaway with a derisive scream, as much as to say, "I've done myduty, nowlook out for yourself, old Typhoon!"The ship seemed quite proud of being left to take care of itself, and,with its huge white sails bulged out, strutted off like a vain turkey.I had been standing by my father nearthe wheel-house all this while,observing things with that nicety of perception which belongs onlyto children; but now the dew began falling, and we went below to havesupper.The fresh fruit and milk, and the slices ofcold chicken, looked verynice; yet somehow I had no appetite There was a general smell of tarabout everything. Then the ship gave sudden lurches that made it amatter of uncertainty whether one was going to put hisfork to his mouthor into his eye. The tumblers and wineglasses, stuck in a rack over thetable, kept clinking and clinking; and the cabin lamp, suspended by fourgilt chains from the ceiling, swayed to and fro crazily. Nowthe floorseemed to rise, and now it seemed to sink under one's feet like afeather-bed.There were not more than a dozen passengers on board, includingourselves; and all of these, excepting a bald-headed oldgentleman--aretired sea-captain--disappeared into their staterooms at an early hourof the evening.After supper was cleared away, my father and the elderly gentleman,whose name was Captain Truck, played atcheckers; and I amused myselffor a while by watching the trouble they had in keeping the men in theproper places. Just at the most exciting point of the game, the shipwould careen, and down would go the whitecheckers pell-mell among theblack. Then my father laughed, but Captain Truck would grow very angry,and vow that he would have won the game in a move or two more, ifthe confounded old chicken-coop--that's whathe called the ship--hadn'tlurched."I--I think I will go to bed now, please," I said, laying my band on myfather's knee, and feeling exceedingly queer.It was high time, for the Typhoon was plunging about in themostalarming fashion. I was speedily tucked away in the upper berth, whereI felt a trifle more easy at first. My clothes were placed on a narrowshelf at my feet, and it was a great comfort to me to know that mypistolwas so handy, for I made no doubt we should fall in withPirates before many hours. This is the last thing I remember with anydistinctness. At midnight, as I was afterwards told, we were struck bya gale which never leftus until we came in sight of the Massachusettscoast.For days and days I had no sensible idea of what was going on around me.That we were being hurled somewhere upside-down, and that I didn't likeit, was about all Iknew. I have, indeed, a vague impression that myfather used to climb up to the berth and call me his "Ancient Mariner,"bidding me cheer up. But the Ancient Mariner was far from cheering up,if I recollect rightly; and Idon't believe that venerable navigatorwould have cared much if it had been announced to him, through aspeaking-trumpet, that "a low, black, suspicious craft, with rakingmasts, was rapidly bearing down upon us!"Infact, one morning, I thought that such was the case, for bang! wentthe big cannon I had noticed in the bow of the ship when we came onboard, and which had suggested to me the idea of Pirates. Bang! wentthe gunagain in a few seconds. I made a feeble effort to get at mytrousers-pocket! But the Typhoon was only saluting Cape Cod--thefirst land sighted by vessels approaching the coast from a southerlydirection.The vessel hadceased to roll, and my sea-sickness passed away asrapidly as it came. I was all right now, "only a little shaky in mytimbers and a little blue about the gills," as Captain Truck remarked tomy mother, who, like myself,had been confined to the state-room duringthe passage.At Cape Cod the wind parted company with us without saying as muchas "Excuse me"; so we were nearly two days in making the run which infavorable weather isusually accomplished in seven hours. That's whatthe pilot said.I was able to go about the ship now, and I lost no time in cultivatingthe acquaintance of the sailor with the green-haired lady on his arm.I found him in theforecastle--a sort of cellar in the front part of thevessel. He was an agreeable sailor, as I had expected, and we became thebest of friends in five minutes.He had been all over the world two or three times, and knew noend ofstories. According to his own account, he must have been shipwreckedat least twice a year ever since his birth. He had served under Decaturwhen that gallant officer peppered the Algerines and made thempromisenot to sell their prisoners of war into slavery; he had worked a gunat the bombardment of Vera Cruz in the Mexican War, and he had been onAlexander Selkirk's Island more than once. There were very fewthings hehadn't done in a seafaring way."I suppose, sir," I remarked, "that your name isn't Typhoon?""Why, Lord love ye, lad, my name's Benjamin Watson, of Nantucket. ButI'm a true blue Typhooner," he added,which increased my respect forhim; I don't know why, and I didn't know then whether Typhoon was thename of a vegetable or a profession.Not wishing to be outdone in frankness, I disclosed to him that my namewasTom Bailey, upon which he said he was very glad to hear it.When we got more intimate, I discovered that Sailor Ben, as he wishedme to call him, was a perfect walking picturebook. He had two anchors, astar, and afrigate in full sail on his right arm; a pair of lovely bluehands clasped on his breast, and I've no doubt that other parts of hisbody were illustrated in the same agreeable manner. I imagine he wasfond of drawings, and