Short stories reader, part II

Dr Asliye Dagman
Flaubert to
Tolstoy

Contents
THE DANCE OF DEATH - Gustave Flaubert.......................................................................... 2
THE LEGEND OF SAINT JULIAN THE HOSPITALLER – Gustave Flaubert ..................... 9
A SIMPLE SOUL – Gustave Flaubert..................................................................................... 28
THE THREE STRANGERS – Thomas Hardy ........................................................................ 50
THE WITHERED ARM – Thomas Hardy .............................................................................. 66
A VERY SHORT STORY - Ernest Hemingway .................................................................... 87
IN ANOTHER COUNTRY – Ernest Hemingway .................................................................. 89
The Snows of Kilimanjaro – Ernest Hemingway .................................................................... 98
A MOTHER - James Joyce.................................................................................................... 116
A PAINFUL CASE - James Joyce ........................................................................................ 125
EVELINE - James Joyce ....................................................................................................... 131
GRACE - James Joyce ........................................................................................................... 134
THE METAMORPHOSIS - FRANZ KAFKA ..................................................................... 153
A FRAGMENT OF STAINED GLASS – DH Lawrence ..................................................... 185
ODOUR OF CHRYSANTHEMUMS – DH Lawrence......................................................... 194
THE PRUSSIAN OFFICER – DH Lawrence ....................................................................... 219
THE THORN IN THE FLESH – DH Lawrence ................................................................... 235
ABANDONED – Guy de Maupassant .................................................................................. 250
BOULE DE SUIF - Guy de Mauppasant .............................................................................. 257
MADEMOISELLE FIFI – Guy de Maupassant .................................................................... 286
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE – Guy de Maupassant ......................................................... 294
TWO FRIENDS – Guy de Maupassant ................................................................................. 302
THE YELLOW WALLPAPER - Charlotte Perkins Gilman ................................................. 309
A Prisoner in the Caucasus- Leo Tolstoy .............................................................................. 324
Aloysha The Pot - Leo Tolstoy .............................................................................................. 344
God Sees The Truth, But Waits - Leo Tolstoy ...................................................................... 349
How Much Land Does A Man Need - Leo Tolstoy ............................................................. 355
Ivan The Fool - Leo Tolstoy .................................................................................................. 369
The Empty Drum - Leo Tolstoy............................................................................................. 394
1

THE DANCE OF DEATH - Gustave Flaubert.
"Many words for few things!"
"Death ends all; judgment comes to all."
* * * * *
DEATH SPEAKS
At night, in winter, when the snow-flakes fall slowly from heaven like great white tears, I
raise my voice; its resonance thrills the cypress trees and makes them bud anew.
I pause an instant in my swift course over earth; throw myself down among cold tombs; and,
while dark-plumaged birds rise suddenly in terror from my side, while the dead slumber
peacefully, while cypress branches droop low o'er my head, while all around me weeps or lies
in deep repose, my burning eyes rest on the great white clouds, gigantic winding-sheets,
unrolling their slow length across the face of heaven.
How many nights, and years, and ages have I journeyed thus! A witness of the universal birth
and of a like decay; Innumerable are the generations I have garnered with my scythe. Like
God, I am eternal! The nurse of Earth, I cradle it each night upon a bed both soft and warm.
The same recurring feasts; the same unending toil! Each morning I depart, each evening I
return, bearing within my mantle's ample folds all that my scythe has gathered. And then I
scatter them to the four winds of Heaven!
* * * * *
When the high billows run, when the heavens weep, and shrieking winds lash ocean into
madness, then in the turmoil and the tumult do I fling myself upon the surging waves, and lo!
the tempest softly cradles me, as in her hammock sways a queen. The foaming waters cool
my weary feet, burning from bathing in the falling tears of countless generations that have
clung to them in vain endeavour to arrest my steps.
Then, when the storm has ceased, after its roar has calmed me like a lullaby, I bow my head:
the hurricane, raging in fury but a moment earlier dies instantly. No longer does it live, but
neither do the men, the ships, the navies that lately sailed upon the bosom of the waters.
'Mid all that I have seen and known,—peoples and thrones, loves, glories, sorrows, virtues—
what have I ever loved Nothing—except the mantling shroud that covers me!
My horse! ah, yes! my horse! I love thee too! How thou rushest o'er the world! thy hoofs of
steel resounding on the heads bruised by thy speeding feet. Thy tail is straight and crisp, thine
eyes dart flames, the mane upon thy neck flies in the wind, as on we dash upon our maddened
course. Never art thou weary! Never do we rest! Never do we sleep! Thy neighing portends
war; thy smoking nostrils spread a pestilence that, mist-like, hovers over earth. Where'er my
arrows fly, thou overturnest pyramids and empires, trampling crowns beneath thy hoofs; All
men respect thee; nay, adore thee! To invoke thy favour, popes offer thee their triple crowns,
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and kings their sceptres; peoples, their secret sorrows; poets, their renown. All cringe and
kneel before thee, yet thou rushest on over their prostrate forms.
Ah, noble steed! Sole gift from heaven! Thy tendons are of iron, thy head is of bronze. Thou
canst pursue thy course for centuries as swiftly as if borne up by eagle's wings; and when,
once in a thousand years, resistless hunger comes, thy food is human flesh, thy drink, men's
tears. My steed! I love thee as Pale Death alone can love!
* * * * *
Ah! I have lived so long! How many things I know! How many mysteries of the universe are
shut within my breast!
Sometimes, after I have hurled a myriad of darts, and, after coursing o'er the world on my
pale horse, have gathered many lives, a weariness assails me, and I long to rest.
But on my work must go; my path I must pursue; it leads through infinite space and all the
worlds. I sweep away men's plans together with their triumphs, their loves together with their
crimes, their very all.
I rend my winding-sheet; a frightful craving tortures me incessantly, as if some serpent stung
continually within.
I throw a backward glance, and see the smoke of fiery ruins left behind; the darkness of the
night; the agony of the world. I see the graves that are the work of these, my hands; I see the
background of the past—'tis nothingness! My weary body, heavy head, and tired feet, sink,
seeking rest. My eyes turn towards a glowing horizon, boundless, immense, seeming to grow
increasingly in height and depth. I shall devour it, as I have devoured all else.
When, O God! shall I sleep in my turn When wilt Thou cease creating When may I,
digging my own grave, stretch myself out within my tomb, and, swinging thus upon the
world, list the last breath, the death-gasp, of expiring nature
When that time comes, away my darts and shroud I'll hurl. Then shall I free my horse, and he
shall graze upon the grass that grows upon the Pyramids, sleep in the palaces of emperors,
drink the last drop of water from the sea, and snuff the odour of the last slow drop of blood!
By day, by night, through the countless ages, he shall roam through fields eternal as the fancy
takes him; shall leap with one great bound from Atlas to the Himalayas; shall course, in his
insolent pride, from heaven to earth; disport himself by caracoling in the dust of crumbled
empires; shall speed across the beds of dried-up oceans; shall bound o'er ruins of enormous
cities; inhale the void with swelling chest, and roll and stretch at ease.
Then haply, faithful one, weary as I, thou finally shalt seek some precipice from which to cast
thyself; shalt halt, panting before the mysterious ocean of infinity; and then, with foaming
mouth, dilated nostrils, and extended neck turned towards the horizon, thou shalt, as I, pray
for eternal sleep; for repose for thy fiery feet; for a bed of green leaves, whereon reclining
thou canst close thy burning eyes forever. There, waiting motionless upon the brink, thou
shalt desire a power stronger than thyself to kill thee at a single blow—shalt pray for union
with the dying storm, the faded flower, the shrunken corpse. Thou shalt seek sleep, because
eternal life is torture, and the tomb is peace.
3

Why are we here What hurricane has hurled us into this abyss What tempest soon shall
bear us away towards the forgotten planets whence we came
Till then, my glorious steed, thou shalt run thy course; thou mayst please thine ear with the
crunching of the heads crushed under thy feet. Thy course is long, but courage! Long time
hast thou carried me: but longer time still must elapse, and yet we shall not age.
Stars may be quenched, the mountains crumble, the earth finally wear away its diamond axis;
but we two, we alone are immortal, for the impalpable lives forever!
But to-day them canst lie at my feet, and polish thy teeth against the moss-grown tombs, for
Satan has abandoned me, and a power unknown compels me to obey his will. Lo! the dead
seek to rise from their graves.
* * * * *
Satan, I love thee! Thou alone canst comprehend my joys and my deliriums. But, more
fortunate than I, thou wilt some day, when earth shall be no more, recline and sleep within the
realms of space.
But I, who have lived so long, have worked so ceaselessly, with only virtuous loves and
solemn thoughts,—I must endure immortality. Man has his tomb, and glory its oblivion; the
day dies into night but I—!
And I am doomed to lasting solitude upon my way, strewn with the bones of men and marked
by ruins. Angels have fellow-angels; demons their companions of darkness; but I hear only
sounds of a clanking scythe, my whistling arrows, and my speeding horse. Always the echo
of the surging billows that sweep over and engulf mankind!
SATAN.
Dost thou complain,—thou, the most fortunate creature under heaven The only, splendid,
great, unchangeable, eternal one—like God, who is the only Being that equals thee! Dost
thou repine, who some day in thy turn shalt disappear forever, after thou hast crushed the
universe beneath thy horse's feet
When God's work of creating has ceased; when the heavens have disappeared and the stars
are quenched; when spirits rise from their retreats and wander in the depths with sighs and
groans; then, what unpicturable delight for thee! Then shalt thou sit on the eternal thrones of
heaven and of hell—shalt overthrow the planets, stars, and worlds—shalt loose thy steed in
fields of emeralds and diamonds—shalt make his litter of the wings torn from the angels,—
shalt cover him with the robe of righteousness! Thy saddle shall be broidered with the stars of
the empyrean,—and then thou wilt destroy it! After thou hast annihilated everything, —when
naught remains but empty space,—thy coffin shattered and thine arrows broken, then make
thyself a crown of stone from heaven's highest mount, and cast thyself into the abyss of
oblivion. Thy fall may last a million aeons, but thou shalt die at last. Because the world must
end; all, all must die,—except Satan! Immortal more than God! I live to bring chaos into
other worlds!
DEATH.
4

But thou hast not, as I, this vista of eternal nothingness before thee; thou dost not suffer with
this death-like cold, as I.
SATAN.
Nay, but I quiver under fierce and unrelaxing hearts of molten lava, which burn the doomed
and which e'en I cannot escape.
For thou, at least, hast only to destroy. But I bring birth and I give life. I direct empires and
govern the affairs of States and of hearts.
I must be everywhere. The precious metals flow, the diamonds glitter, and men's names
resound at my command. I whisper in the ears of women, of poets, and of statesmen, words
of love, of glory, of ambition. With Messalina and Nero, at Paris and at Babylon, within the
self-same moment do I dwell. Let a new island be discovered, I fly to it ere man can set foot
there; though it be but a rock encircled by the sea, I am there in advance of men who will
dispute for its possession. I lounge, at the same instant, on a courtesan's couch and on the
perfumed beds of emperors. Hatred and envy, pride and wrath, pour from my lips in
simultaneous utterance. By night and day I work. While men ate burning Christians, I
luxuriate voluptuously in baths perfumed with roses; I race in chariots; yield to deep despair;
or boast aloud in pride.
At times I have believed that I embodied the whole world, and all that I have seen took place,
in verity, within my being.
Sometimes I weary, lose my reason, and indulge in such mad follies that the most worthless
of my minions ridicule me while they pity me.
No creature cares for me; nowhere am I loved,—neither in heaven, of which I am a son, nor
yet in hell, where I am lord, nor upon earth, where men deem me a god. Naught do I see but
paroxysms of rage, rivers of blood, or maddened frenzy. Ne'er shall my eyelids close in
slumber, never my spirit find repose, whilst thou, at least, canst rest thy head upon the cool,
green freshness of the grave. Yea, I must ever dwell amid the glare of palaces, must listen to
the curses of the starving, or inhale the stench of crimes that cry aloud to heaven.
God, whom I hate, has punished me indeed! But my soul is greater even than His wrath; in
one deep sigh I could the whole world draw into my breast, where it would burn eternally,
even as I.
When, Lord, shall thy great trumpet sound Then a great harmony shall hover over sea and
hill. Ah! would that I could suffer with humanity; their cries and sobs should drown the
sound of mine!
[Innumerable skeletons, riding in chariots, advance at a rapid pace, with cries of joy and
triumph. They drag broken branches and crowns of laurel, from which the dried and yellow
leaves fall continually in the wind and the dust.]
Lo, a triumphal throng from Rome, the Eternal City! Her Coliseum and her Capitol are now
two grains of sands that served once as a pedestal; but Death has swung his scythe: the
5

monuments have fallen. Behold! At their head comes Nero, pride of my heart, the greatest
poet earth has known!
[Nero advances in a chariot drawn by twelve skeleton horses. With the sceptre in his hand, he
strikes the bony backs of his steeds. He stands erect, his shroud flapping behind him in
billowy folds. He turns, as if upon a racecourse; his eyes are flaming and he cries loudly:]
NERO.
Quick! Quick! And faster still, until your feet dash fire from the flinty stones and your
nostrils fleck your breasts with foam. What! do not the wheels smoke yet Hear ye the
fanfares, whose sound reached even to Ostia; the clapping of the hands, the cries of joy See
how the populace shower saffron on my head! See how my pathway is already damp with
sprayed perfume! My chariot whirls on; the pace is swifter than the wind as I shake the
golden reins! Faster and faster! The dust clouds rise; my mantle floats upon the breeze, which
in my ears sings "Triumph! triumph!" Faster and faster! Hearken to the shouts of joy, list to
the stamping feet and the plaudits of the multitude. Jupiter himself looks down on us from
heaven. Faster! yea, faster still!
[Nero's chariot now seems to be drawn by demons: a black cloud of dust and smoke envelops
him; in his erratic course he crashes into tombs, and the re-awakened corpses are crushed
under the wheels of the chariot, which now turns, comes forward, and stops.]
NERO.
Now, let six hundred of my women dance the Grecian Dances silently before me, the while I
lave myself with roses in a bath of porphyry. Then let them circle me, with interlacing arms,
that I may see on all sides alabaster forms in graceful evolution, swaying like tall reeds
bending over an amorous pool.
And I will give the empire and the sea, the Senate, the Olympus, the Capitol, to her who shall
embrace me the most ardently; to her whose heart shall throb beneath my own; to her who
shall enmesh me in her flowing hair, smile on me sweetest, and enfold me in the warmest
clasp; to her who soothing me with songs of love shall waken me to joy and heights of
rapture! Rome shall be still this night; no barque shall cleave the waters of the Tiber, since 'tis
my wish to see the mirrored moon on its untroubled face and hear the voice of woman
floating over it. Let perfumed breezes pass through all my draperies! Ah, I would die,
voluptuously intoxicated.
Then, while I eat of some rare meat, that only I may taste, let some one sing, while damsels,
lightly draped, serve me from plates of gold and watch my rest. One slave shall cut her
sister's throat, because it is my pleasure—a favourite with the gods—to mingle the perfume
of blood with that of food, and cries of victims soothe my nerves.
This night I shall burn Rome. The flames shall light up heaven, and Tiber shall roll in waves
of fire!
Then, I shall build of aloes wood a stage to float upon the Italian sea, and the Roman
populace shall throng thereto chanting my praise. Its draperies shall be of purple, and on it I
shall have a bed of eagles' plumage. There I shall sit, and at my side shall be the loveliest
6

woman in the empire, while all the universe applauds the achievements of a god! And though
the tempest roar round me, its rage shall be extinguished 'neath my feet, and sounds of music
shall o'ercome the clamor of the waves!
* * * * *
What didst thou say Vindex revolts, my legions fly, my women flee in terror Silence and
tears alone remain, and I hear naught but the rolling of thunder. Must I die, now
DEATH.
Instantly!
NERO.
Must I give up my days of feasting and delight, my spectacles, my triumphs, my chariots and
the applause of multitudes
DEATH.
All! All!
SATAN.
Haste, Master of the World! One comes—One who will put thee to the sword. An emperor
knows how to die!
NERO.
Die! I have scarce begun to live! Oh, what great deeds I should accomplish—deeds that
should make Olympus tremble! I would fill up the bed of hoary ocean and speed across it in a
triumphal car. I would still live—would see the sun once more, the Tiber, the Campagna, the
Circus on the golden sands. Ah! let me live!
DEATH.
I will give thee a mantle for the tomb, and an eternal bed that shall be softer and more
peaceful than the Imperial couch.
NERO.
Yet, I am loth to die.
DEATH.
Die, then!
[He gathers up the shroud, lying beside him on the ground, and bears away Nero—wrapped
in its folds.]
7

THE LEGEND OF SAINT JULIAN THE HOSPITALLER – Gustave Flaubert
CHAPTER I
THE CURSE
Julian's father and mother dwelt in a castle built on the slope of a hill, in the heart of the
woods.
The towers at its four corners had pointed roofs covered with leaden tiles, and the foundation
rested upon solid rocks, which descended abruptly to the bottom of the moat.
In the courtyard, the stone flagging was as immaculate as the floor of a church. Long rainspouts,
representing dragons with yawning jaws, directed the water towards the cistern, and
on each window-sill of the castle a basil or a heliotrope bush bloomed, in painted flower-pots.
A second enclosure, surrounded by a fence, comprised a fruit-orchard, a garden decorated
with figures wrought in bright-hued flowers, an arbour with several bowers, and a mall for
the diversion of the pages. On the other side were the kennel, the stables, the bakery, the
wine-press and the barns. Around these spread a pasture, also enclosed by a strong hedge.
Peace had reigned so long that the portcullis was never lowered; the moats were filled with
water; swallows built their nests in the cracks of the battlements, and as soon as the sun shone
too strongly, the archer who all day long paced to and fro on the curtain, withdrew to the
watch-tower and slept soundly.
Inside the castle, the locks on the doors shone brightly; costly tapestries hung in the
apartments to keep out the cold; the closets overflowed with linen, the cellar was filled with
casks of wine, and the oak chests fairly groaned under the weight of money-bags.
In the armoury could be seen, between banners and the heads of wild beasts, weapons of all
nations and of all ages, from the slings of the Amalekites and the javelins of the Garamantes,
to the broad-swords of the Saracens and the coats of mail of the Normans.
The largest spit in the kitchen could hold an ox; the chapel was as gorgeous as a king's
oratory. There was even a Roman bath in a secluded part of the castle, though the good lord
of the manor refrained from using it, as he deemed it a heathenish practice.
Wrapped always in a cape made of fox-skins, he wandered about the castle, rendered justice
among his vassals and settled his neighbours' quarrels. In the winter, he gazed dreamily at the
falling snow, or had stories read aloud to him. But as soon as the fine weather returned, he
would mount his mule and sally forth into the country roads, edged with ripening wheat, to
talk with the peasants, to whom he distributed advice. After a number of adventures he took
unto himself a wife of high lineage.
She was pale and serious, and a trifle haughty. The horns of her head-dress touched the top of
the doors and the hem of her gown trailed far behind her. She conducted her household like a
9

cloister. Every morning she distributed work to the maids, supervised the making of
preserves and unguents, and afterwards passed her time in spinning, or in embroidering altarcloths.
In response to her fervent prayers, God granted her a son!
Then there was great rejoicing; and they gave a feast which lasted three days and four nights,
with illuminations and soft music. Chickens as large as sheep, and the rarest spices were
served; for the entertainment of the guests, a dwarf crept out of a pie; and when the bowls
were too few, for the crowd swelled continuously, the wine was drunk from helmets and
hunting-horns.
The young mother did not appear at the feast. She was quietly resting in bed. One night she
awoke, and beheld in a moonbeam that crept through the window something that looked like
a moving shadow. It was an old man clad in sackcloth, who resembled a hermit. A rosary
dangled at his side and he carried a beggar's sack on his shoulder. He approached the foot of
the bed, and without opening his lips said: "Rejoice, O mother! Thy son shall be a saint."
She would have cried out, but the old man, gliding along the moonbeam, rose through the air
and disappeared. The songs of the banqueters grew louder. She could hear angels' voices, and
her head sank back on the pillow, which was surmounted by the bone of a martyr, framed in
precious stones.
The following day, the servants, upon being questioned, declared, to a man, that they had
seen no hermit. Then, whether dream or fact, this must certainly have been a communication
from heaven; but she took care not to speak of it, lest she should be accused of presumption.
The guests departed at daybreak, and Julian's father stood at the castle gate, where he had just
bidden farewell to the last one, when a beggar suddenly emerged from the mist and
confronted him. He was a gipsy—for he had a braided beard and wore silver bracelets on
each arm. His eyes burned and, in an inspired way, he muttered some disconnected words:
"Ah! Ah! thy son!—great bloodshed—great glory—happy always—an emperor's family."
Then he stooped to pick up the alms thrown to him, and disappeared in the tall grass.
The lord of the manor looked up and down the road and called as loudly as he could. But no
one answered him! The wind only howled and the morning mists were fast dissolving.
He attributed his vision to a dullness of the brain resulting from too much sleep. "If I should
speak of it," quoth he, "people would laugh at me." Still, the glory that was to be his son's
dazzled him, albeit the meaning of the prophecy was not clear to him, and he even doubted
that he had heard it.
The parents kept their secret from each other. But both cherished the child with equal
devotion, and as they considered him marked by God, they had great regard for his person.
His cradle was lined with the softest feathers, and lamp representing a dove burned
continually over it; three nurses rocked him night and day, and with his pink cheeks and blue
eyes, brocaded cloak and embroidered cap he looked like a little Jesus. He cut all his teeth
without even a whimper.
When he was seven years old his mother taught him to sing, and his father lifted him upon a
tall horse, to inspire him with courage. The child smiled with delight, and soon became
10

familiar with everything pertaining to chargers. An old and very learned monk taught him the
Gospel, the Arabic numerals, the Latin letters, and the art of painting delicate designs on
vellum. They worked in the top of a tower, away from all noise and disturbance.
When the lesson was over, they would go down into the garden and study the flowers.
Sometimes a herd of cattle passed through the valley below, in charge of a man in Oriental
dress. The lord of the manor, recognising him as a merchant, would despatch a servant after
him. The stranger, becoming confident, would stop on his way and after being ushered into
the castle-hall, would display pieces of velvet and silk, trinkets and strange objects whose use
was unknown in those parts. Then, in due time, he would take leave, without having been
molested and with a handsome profit.
At other times, a band of pilgrims would knock at the door. Their wet garments would be
hung in front of the hearth and after they had been refreshed by food they would relate their
travels, and discuss the uncertainty of vessels on the high seas, their long journeys across
burning sands, the ferocity of the infidels, the caves of Syria, the Manger and the Holy
Sepulchre. They made presents to the young heir of beautiful shells, which they carried in
their cloaks.
The lord of the manor very often feasted his brothers-at-arms, and over the wine the old
warriors would talk of battles and attacks, of war-machines and of the frightful wounds they
had received, so that Julian, who was a listener, would scream with excitement; then his
father felt convinced that some day he would be a conqueror. But in the evening, after the
Angelus, when he passed through the crowd of beggars who clustered about the church-door,
he distributed his alms with so much modesty and nobility that his mother fully expected to
see him become an archbishop in time.
His seat in the chapel was next to his parents, and no matter how long the services lasted, he
remained kneeling on his prie-dieu, with folded hands and his velvet cap lying close beside
him on the floor.
One day, during mass, he raised his head and beheld a little white mouse crawling out of a
hole in the wall. It scrambled to the first altar-step and then, after a few gambols, ran back in
the same direction. On the following Sunday, the idea of seeing the mouse again worried him.
It returned; and every Sunday after that he watched for it; and it annoyed him so much that he
grew to hate it and resolved to do away with it.
So, having closed the door and strewn some crumbs on the steps of the altar, he placed
himself in front of the hole with a stick. After a long while a pink snout appeared, and then
whole mouse crept out. He struck it lightly with his stick and stood stunned at the sight of the
little, lifeless body. A drop of blood stained the floor. He wiped it away hastily with his
sleeve, and picking up the mouse, threw it away, without saying a word about it to anyone.
All sorts of birds pecked at the seeds in the garden. He put some peas in a hollow reed, and
when he heard birds chirping in a tree, he would approach cautiously, lift the tube and swell
his cheeks; then, when the little creatures dropped about him in multitudes, he could not
refrain from laughing and being delighted with his own cleverness.
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One morning, as he was returning by way of the curtain, he beheld a fat pigeon sunning itself
on the top of the wall. He paused to gaze at it; where he stood the rampart was cracked and a
piece of stone was near at hand; he gave his arm a jerk and the well-aimed missile struck the
bird squarely, sending it straight into the moat below.
He sprang after it, unmindful of the brambles, and ferreted around the bushes with the
litheness of a young dog.
The pigeon hung with broken wings in the branches of a privet hedge.
The persistence of its life irritated the boy. He began to strangle it, and its convulsions made
his heart beat quicker, and filled him with a wild, tumultuous voluptuousness, the last throb
of its heart making him feel like fainting.
At supper that night, his father declared that at his age a boy should begin to hunt; and he
arose and brought forth an old writing-book which contained, in questions and answers,
everything pertaining to the pastime. In it, a master showed a supposed pupil how to train
dogs and falcons, lay traps, recognise a stag by its fumets, and a fox or a wolf by footprints.
He also taught the best way of discovering their tracks, how to start them, where their refuges
are usually to be found, what winds are the most favourable, and further enumerated the
various cries, and the rules of the quarry.
When Julian was able to recite all these things by heart, his father made up a pack of hounds
for him. There were twenty-four greyhounds of Barbary, speedier than gazelles, but liable to
get out of temper; seventeen couples of Breton dogs, great barkers, with broad chests and
russet coats flecked with white. For wild-boar hunting and perilous doublings, there were
forty boarhounds as hairy as bears.
The red mastiffs of Tartary, almost as large as donkeys, with broad backs and straight legs,
were destined for the pursuit of the wild bull. The black coats of the spaniels shone like satin;
the barking of the setters equalled that of the beagles. In a special enclosure were eight
growling bloodhounds that tugged at their chains and rolled their eyes, and these dogs leaped
at men's throats and were not afraid even of lions.
All ate wheat bread, drank from marble troughs, and had high-sounding names.
Perhaps the falconry surpassed the pack; for the master of the castle, by paying great sums of
money, had secured Caucasian hawks, Babylonian sakers, German gerfalcons, and pilgrim
falcons captured on the cliffs edging the cold seas, in distant lands. They were housed in a
thatched shed and were chained to the perch in the order of size. In front of them was a little
grass-plot where, from time to time, they were allowed to disport themselves.
Bag-nets, baits, traps and all sorts of snares were manufactured.
Often they would take out pointers who would set almost immediately; then the whippers-in,
advancing step by step, would cautiously spread a huge net over their motionless bodies. At
the command, the dogs would bark and arouse the quails; and the ladies of the
neighbourhood, with their husbands, children and hand-maids, would fall upon them and
capture them with ease.
12

At other times they used a drum to start hares; and frequently foxes fell into the ditches
prepared for them, while wolves caught their paws in the traps.
But Julian scorned these convenient contrivances; he preferred to hunt away from the crowd,
alone with his steed and his falcon. It was almost always a large, snow-white, Scythian bird.
His leather hood was ornamented with a plume, and on his blue feet were bells; and he
perched firmly on his master's arm while they galloped across the plains. Then Julian would
suddenly untie his tether and let him fly, and the bold bird would dart through the air like an
arrow, One might perceive two spots circle around, unite, and then disappear in the blue
heights. Presently the falcon would return with a mutilated bird, and perch again on his
master's gauntlet with trembling wings.
Julian loved to sound his trumpet and follow his dogs over hills and streams, into the woods;
and when the stag began to moan under their teeth, he would kill it deftly, and delight in the
fury of the brutes, which would devour the pieces spread out on the warm hide.
On foggy days, he would hide in the marshes to watch for wild geese, otters and wild ducks.
At daybreak, three equerries waited for him at the foot of the steps; and though the old monk
leaned out of the dormer-window and made signs to him to return, Julian would not look
around.
He heeded neither the broiling sun, the rain nor the storm; he drank spring water and ate wild
berries, and when he was tired, he lay down under a tree; and he would come home at night
covered with earth and blood, with thistles in his hair and smelling of wild beasts. He grew to
be like them. And when his mother kissed him, he responded coldly to her caress and seemed
to be thinking of deep and serious things.
He killed bears with a knife, bulls with a hatchet, and wild boars with a spear; and once, with
nothing but a stick, he defended himself against some wolves, which were gnawing corpses at
the foot of a gibbet.
* * * * *
One winter morning he set out before daybreak, with a bow slung across his shoulder and a
quiver of arrows attached to the pummel of his saddle. The hoofs of his steed beat the ground
with regularity and his two beagles trotted close behind. The wind was blowing hard and
icicles clung to his cloak. A part of the horizon cleared, and he beheld some rabbits playing
around their burrows. In an instant, the two dogs were upon them, and seizing as many as
they could, they broke their backs in the twinkling of an eye.
Soon he came to a forest. A woodcock, paralysed by the cold, perched on a branch, with its
head hidden under its wing. Julian, with a lunge of his sword, cut off its feet, and without
stopping to pick it up, rode away.
Three hours later he found himself on the top of a mountain so high that the sky seemed
almost black. In front of him, a long, flat rock hung over a precipice, and at the end two wild
goats stood gazing down into the abyss. As he had no arrows (for he had left his steed
behind), he thought he would climb down to where they stood; and with bare feet and bent
back he at last reached the first goat and thrust his dagger below its ribs. But the second
13

animal, in its terror, leaped into the precipice. Julian threw himself forward to strike it, but his
right foot slipped, and he fell, face downward and with outstretched arms, over the body of
the first goat.
After he returned to the plains, he followed a stream bordered by willows. From time to time,
some cranes, flying low, passed over his head. He killed them with his whip, never missing a
bird. He beheld in the distance the gleam of a lake which appeared to be of lead, and in the
middle of it was an animal he had never seen before, a beaver with a black muzzle.
Notwithstanding the distance that separated them, an arrow ended its life and Julian only
regretted that he was not able to carry the skin home with him.
Then he entered an avenue of tall trees, the tops of which formed a triumphal arch to the
entrance of a forest. A deer sprang out of the thicket and a badger crawled out of its hole, a
stag appeared in the road, and a peacock spread its fan-shaped tail on the grass—and after he
had slain them all, other deer, other stags, other badgers, other peacocks, and jays, blackbirds,
foxes, porcupines, polecats, and lynxes, appeared; in fact, a host of beasts that grew more and
more numerous with every step he took. Trembling, and with a look of appeal in their eyes,
they gathered around Julian, but he did not stop slaying them; and so intent was he on
stretching his bow, drawing his sword and whipping out his knife, that he had little thought
for aught else. He knew that he was hunting in some country since an indefinite time, through
the very fact of his existence, as everything seemed to occur with the ease one experiences in
dreams. But presently an extraordinary sight made him pause.
He beheld a valley shaped like a circus and filled with stags which, huddled together, were
warming one another with the vapour of their breaths that mingled with the early mist.
For a few minutes, he almost choked with pleasure at the prospect of so great a carnage. Then
he sprang from his horse, rolled up his sleeves, and began to aim.
When the first arrow whizzed through the air, the stags turned their heads simultaneously.
They huddled closer, uttered plaintive cries, and a great agitation seized the whole herd. The
edge of the valley was too high to admit of flight; and the animals ran around the enclosure in
their efforts to escape. Julian aimed, stretched his bow and his arrows fell as fast and thick as
raindrops in a shower.
Maddened with terror, the stags fought and reared and climbed on top of one another; their
antlers and bodies formed a moving mountain which tumbled to pieces whenever it displaced
itself. Finally the last one expired. Their bodies lay stretched out on the sand with foam
gushing from the nostrils and the bowels protruding. The heaving of their bellies grew less
and less noticeable, and presently all was still.
Night came, and behind the trees, through the branches, the sky appeared like a sheet of
blood.
Julian leaned against a tree and gazed with dilated eyes at the enormous slaughter. He was
now unable to comprehend how he had accomplished it.
On the opposite side of the valley, he suddenly beheld a large stag, with a doe and their fawn.
The buck was black and of enormous size; he had a white beard and carried sixteen antlers.
14

His mate was the color of dead leaves, and she browsed upon the grass, while the fawn,
clinging to her udder, followed her step by step.
Again the bow was stretched, and instantly the fawn dropped dead, and seeing this, its mother
raised her head and uttered a poignant, almost human wail of agony. Exasperated, Julian
thrust his knife into her chest, and felled her to the ground.
The great stag had watched everything and suddenly he sprang forward. Julian aimed his last
arrow at the beast. It struck him between his antlers and stuck there.
The stag did not appear to notice it; leaping over the bodies, he was coming nearer and nearer
with the intention, Julian thought, of charging at him and ripping him open, and he recoiled
with inexpressible horror. But presently the huge animal halted, and, with eyes aflame and
the solemn air of a patriarch and a judge, repeated thrice, while a bell tolled in the distance:
"Accursed! Accursed! Accursed! some day, ferocious soul, thou wilt murder thy father and
thy mother!"
Then he sank on his knees, gently closed his lids and expired.
At first Julian was stunned, and then a sudden lassitude and an immense sadness came over
him. Holding his head between his hands, he wept for a long time.
His steed had wandered away; his dogs had forsaken him; the solitude seemed to threaten
him with unknown perils. Impelled by a sense of sickening terror, he ran across the fields,
and choosing a path at random, found himself almost immediately at the gates of the castle.
That night he could not rest, for, by the flickering light of the hanging lamp, he beheld again
the huge black stag. He fought against the obsession of the prediction and kept repeating:
"No! No! No! I cannot slay them!" and then he thought: "Still, supposing I desired to—" and
he feared that the devil might inspire him with this desire.
During three months, his distracted mother prayed at his bedside, and his father paced the
halls of the castle in anguish. He consulted the most celebrated physicians, who prescribed
quantities of medicine. Julian's illness, they declared, was due to some injurious wind or to
amorous desire. But in reply to their questions, the young man only shook his head. After a
time, his strength returned, and he was able to take a walk in the courtyard, supported by his
father and the old monk.
But after he had completely recovered, he refused to hunt.
His father, hoping to please him, presented him with a large Saracen sabre. It was placed on a
panoply that hung on a pillar, and a ladder was required to reach it. Julian climbed up to it
one day, but the heavy weapon slipped from his grasp, and in falling grazed his father and
tore his cloak. Julian, believing he had killed him, fell in a swoon.
After that, he carefully avoided weapons. The sight of a naked sword made him grow pale,
and this weakness caused great distress to his family.
In the end, the old monk ordered him in the name of God, and of his forefathers, once more to
indulge in the sport's of a nobleman.
15

The equerries diverted themselves every day with javelins and
Julian soon excelled in the practice.
He was able to send a javelin into bottles, to break the teeth of the weather-cocks on the
castle and to strike door-nails at a distance of one hundred feet.
One summer evening, at the hour when dusk renders objects indistinct, he was in the arbour
in the garden, and thought he saw two white wings in the background hovering around the
espalier. Not for a moment did he doubt that it was a stork, and so he threw his javelin at it.
A heart-rending scream pierced the air.
He had struck his mother, whose cap and long streams remained nailed to the wall.
Julian fled from home and never returned.
CHAPTER II
THE CRIME
He joined a horde of adventurers who were passing through the place.
He learned what it was to suffer hunger, thirst, sickness and filth. He grew accustomed to the
din of battles and to the sight of dying men. The wind tanned his skin. His limbs became
hardened through contact with armour, and as he was very strong and brave, temperate and of
good counsel, he easily obtained command of a company.
At the outset of a battle, he would electrify his soldiers by a motion of his sword. He would
climb the walls of a citadel with a knotted rope, at night, rocked by the storm, while sparks of
fire clung to his cuirass, and molten lead and boiling tar poured from the battlements.
Often a stone would break his shield. Bridges crowded with men gave way under him. Once,
by turning his mace, he rid himself of fourteen horsemen. He defeated all those who came
forward to fight him on the field of honour, and more than a score of times it was believed
that he had been killed.
However, thanks to Divine protection, he always escaped, for he shielded orphans, widows,
and aged men. When he caught sight of one of the latter walking ahead of him, he would call
to him to show his face, as if he feared that he might kill him by mistake.
All sorts of intrepid men gathered under his leadership, fugitive slaves, peasant rebels, and
penniless bastards; he then organized an army which increased so much that he became
famous and was in great demand.
He succoured in turn the Dauphin of France, the King of England, the Templars of Jerusalem,
the General of the Parths, the Negus of Abyssinia and the Emperor of Calicut. He fought
against Scandinavians covered with fish-scales, against negroes mounted on red asses and
16

armed with shields made of hippopotamus hide, against gold-coloured Indians who wielded
great, shining swords above their heads. He conquered the Troglodytes and the cannibals. He
travelled through regions so torrid that the heat of the sun would set fire to the hair on one's
head; he journeyed through countries so glacial that one's arms would fall from the body; and
he passed through places where the fogs were so dense that it seemed like being surrounded
by phantoms.
Republics in trouble consulted him; when he conferred with ambassadors, he always obtained
unexpected concessions. Also, if a monarch behaved badly, he would arrive on the scene and
rebuke him. He freed nations. He rescued queens sequestered in towers. It was he and no
other that killed the serpent of Milan and the dragon of Oberbirbach.
Now, the Emperor of Occitania, having triumphed over the Spanish Mussulmans, had taken
the sister of the Caliph of Cordova as a concubine, and had had one daughter by her, whom
he brought up in the teachings of Christ. But the Caliph, feigning that he wished to become
converted, made him a visit, and brought with him a numerous escort. He slaughtered the
entire garrison and threw the Emperor into a dungeon, and treated him with great cruelty in
order to obtain possession of his treasures.
Julian went to his assistance, destroyed the army of infidels, laid siege to the city, slew the
Caliph, chopped off his head and threw it over the fortifications like a cannon-ball.
As a reward for so great a service, the Emperor presented him with a large sum of money in
baskets; but Julian declined it. Then the Emperor, thinking that the amount was not
sufficiently large, offered him three quarters of his fortune, and on meeting a second refusal,
proposed to share his kingdom with his benefactor. But Julian only thanked him for it, and
the Emperor felt like weeping with vexation at not being able to show his gratitude, when he
suddenly tapped his forehead and whispered a few words in the ear of one of his courtiers;
the tapestry curtains parted and a young girl appeared.
Her large black eyes shone like two soft lights. A charming smile parted her lips. Her curls
were caught in the jewels of her half-opened bodice, and the grace of her youthful body could
be divined under the transparency of her tunic.
She was small and quite plump, but her waist was slender.
Julian was absolutely dazzled, all the more since he had always led a chaste life.
So he married the Emperor's daughter, and received at the same time a castle she had
inherited from her mother; and when the rejoicings were over, he departed with his bride,
after many courtesies had been exchanged on both sides.
The castle was of Moorish design, in white marble, erected on a promontory and surrounded
by orange-trees.
Terraces of flowers extended to the shell-strewn shores of a beautiful bay. Behind the castle
spread a fan-shaped forest. The sky was always blue, and the trees were swayed in turn by the
ocean-breeze and by the winds that blew from the mountains that closed the horizon.
17

Light entered the apartments through the incrustations of the walls. High, reed-like columns
supported the ceiling of the cupolas, decorated in imitation of stalactites.
Fountains played in the spacious halls; the courts were inlaid with mosaic; there were
festooned partitions and a great profusion of architectural fancies; and everywhere reigned a
silence so deep that the swish of a sash or the echo of a sigh could be distinctly heard.
Julian now had renounced war. Surrounded by a peaceful people, he remained idle, receiving
every day a throng of subjects who came and knelt before him and kissed his hand in Oriental
fashion.
Clad in sumptuous garments, he would gaze out of the window and think of his past exploits;
and wish that he might again run in the desert in pursuit of ostriches and gazelles, hide among
the bamboos to watch for leopards, ride through forests filled with rhinoceroses, climb the
most inaccessible peaks in order to have a better aim at the eagles, and fight the polar bears
on the icebergs of the northern sea.
Sometimes, in his dreams, he fancied himself like Adam in the midst of Paradise, surrounded
by all the beasts; by merely extending his arm, he was able to kill them; or else they filed past
him, in pairs, by order of size, from the lions and the elephants to the ermines and the ducks,
as on the day they entered Noah's Ark.
Hidden in the shadow of a cave, he aimed unerring arrows at them; then came others and still
others, until he awoke, wild-eyed.
Princes, friends of his, invited him to their meets, but he always refused their invitations,
because he thought that by this kind of penance he might possibly avert the threatened
misfortune; it seemed to him that the fate of his parents depended on his refusal to slaughter
animals. He suffered because he could not see them, and his other desire was growing wellnigh
unbearable.
In order to divert his mind, his wife had dancers and jugglers come to the castle.
She went abroad with him in an open litter; at other times, stretched out on the edge of a boat,
they watched for hours the fish disport themselves in the water, which was as clear as the sky.
Often she playfully threw flowers at him or nestling at his feet, she played melodies on an old
mandolin; then, clasping her hands on his shoulder, she would inquire tremulously: "What
troubles thee, my dear lord"
He would not reply, or else he would burst into tears; but at last, one day, he confessed his
fearful dread.
His wife scorned the idea and reasoned wisely with him: probably his father and mother were
dead; and even if he should ever see them again, through what chance, to what end, would he
arrive at this abomination Therefore, his fears were groundless, and he should hunt again.
Julian listened to her and smiled, but he could not bring himself to yield to his desire.
One August evening when they were in their bed-chamber, she having just retired and he
being about to kneel in prayer, he heard the yelping of a fox and light footsteps under the
18

window; and he thought he saw things in the dark that looked like animals. The temptation
was too strong. He seized his quiver.
His wife appeared astonished.
"I am obeying you," quoth he, "and I shall be back at sunrise."
However, she feared that some calamity would happen. But he reassured her and departed,
surprised at her illogical moods.
A short time afterwards, a page came to announce that two strangers desired, in the absence
of the lord of the castle, to see its mistress at once.
Soon a stooping old man and an aged woman entered the room; their coarse garments were
covered with dust and each leaned on a stick.
They grew bold enough to say that they brought Julian news of his parents. She leaned out of
the bed to listen to them. But after glancing at each other, the old people asked her whether he
ever referred to them and if he still loved them.
"Oh! yes!" she said.
Then they exclaimed:
"We are his parents!" and they sat themselves down, for they were very tired.
But there was nothing to show the young wife that her husband was their son.
They proved it by describing to her the birthmarks he had on his body. Then she jumped out
of bed, called a page, and ordered that a repast be served to them.
But although they were very hungry, they could scarcely eat, and she observed surreptitiously
how their lean fingers trembled whenever they lifted their cups.
They asked a hundred questions about their son, and she answered each one of them, but she
was careful not to refer to the terrible idea that concerned them.
When he failed to return, they had left their château; and had wandered for several years,
following vague indications but without losing hope.
So much money had been spent at the tolls of the rivers and in inns, to satisfy the rights of
princes and the demands of highwaymen, that now their purse was quite empty and they were
obliged to beg. But what did it matter, since they were about to clasp again their son in their
arms They lauded his happiness in having such a beautiful wife, and did not tire of looking
at her and kissing her.
The luxuriousness of the apartment astonished them; and the old man, after examining the
walls, inquired why they bore the coat-of-arms of the Emperor of Occitania.
"He is my father," she replied.
19

And he marvelled and remembered the prediction of the gipsy, while his wife meditated upon
the words the hermit had spoken to her. The glory of their son was undoubtedly only the
dawn of eternal splendours, and the old people remained awed while the light from the
candelabra on the table fell on them.
In the heyday of youth, both had been extremely handsome. The mother had not lost her hair,
and bands of snowy whiteness framed her cheeks; and the father, with his stalwart figure and
long beard, looked like a carved image.
Julian's wife prevailed upon them not to wait for him. She put them in her bed and closed the
curtains; and they both fell asleep. The day broke and outdoors the little birds began to chirp.
Meanwhile, Julian had left the castle grounds and walked nervously through the forest,
enjoying the velvety softness of the grass and the balminess of the air.
The shadow of the trees fell on the earth. Here and there, the moonlight flecked the glades
and Julian feared to advance, because he mistook the silvery light for water and the tranquil
surface of the pools for grass. A great stillness reigned everywhere, and he failed to see any
of the beasts that only a moment ago were prowling around the castle. As he walked on, the
woods grew thicker, and the darkness more impenetrable. Warm winds, filled with enervating
perfumes, caressed him; he sank into masses of dead leaves, and after a while he leaned
against an oak-tree to rest and catch his breath.
Suddenly a body blacker than the surrounding darkness sprang from behind the tree. It was a
wild boar. Julian did not have time to stretch his bow, and he bewailed the fact as if it were
some great misfortune. Presently, having left the woods, he beheld a wolf slinking along a
hedge.
He aimed an arrow at him. The wolf paused, turned his head and quietly continued on his
way. He trotted along, always keeping at the same distance, pausing now and then to look
around and resuming his flight as soon as an arrow was aimed in his direction.
In this way Julian traversed an apparently endless plain, then sand-hills, and at last found
himself on a plateau, that dominated a great stretch of land. Large flat stones were
interspersed among crumbling vaults; bones and skeletons covered the ground, and here and
there some mouldy crosses stood desolate. But presently, shapes moved in the darkness of the
tombs, and from them came panting, wild-eyed hyenas. They approached him and smelled
him, grinning hideously and disclosing their gums. He whipped out his sword, but they
scattered in every direction and continuing their swift, limping gallop, disappeared in a cloud
of dust.
Some time afterwards, in a ravine, he encountered a wild bull, with threatening horns, pawing
the sand with his hoofs. Julian thrust his lance between his dewlaps. But his weapon snapped
as if the beast were made of bronze; then he closed his eyes in anticipation of his death.
When he opened them again, the bull had vanished.
Then his soul collapsed with shame. Some supernatural power destroyed his strength, and he
set out for home through the forest. The woods were a tangle of creeping plants that he had to
cut with his sword, and while he was thus engaged, a weasel slid between his feet, a panther
jumped over his shoulder, and a serpent wound itself around the ash-tree.
20

Among its leaves was a monstrous jackdaw that watched Julian intently, and here and there,
between the branches, appeared great, fiery sparks as if the sky were raining all its stars upon
the forest. But the sparks were the eyes of wild-cats, owls, squirrels, monkeys and parrots.
Julian aimed his arrows at them, but the feathered weapons lighted on the leaves of the trees
and looked like white butterflies. He threw stones at them; but the missiles did not strike, and
fell to the ground. Then he cursed himself, and howled imprecations, and in his rage he could
have struck himself.
Then all the beasts he had pursued appeared, and formed a narrow circle around him. Some
sat on their hindquarters, while others stood at full height. And Julian remained among them,
transfixed with terror and absolutely unable to move. By a supreme effort of his will-power,
he took a step forward; those that perched in the trees opened their wings, those that trod the
earth moved their limbs, and all accompanied him.
The hyenas strode in front of him, the wolf and the wild boar brought up the rear. On his
right, the bull swung its head and on his left the serpent crawled through the grass; while the
panther, arching its back, advanced with velvety footfalls and long strides. Julian walked as
slowly as possible, so as not to irritate them, while in the depth of bushes he could distinguish
porcupines, foxes, vipers, jackals, and bears.
He began to run; the brutes followed him. The serpent hissed, the malodorous beasts frothed
at the mouth, the wild boar rubbed his tusks against his heels, and the wolf scratched the
palms of his hands with the hairs of his snout. The monkeys pinched him and made faces, the
weasel tolled over his feet. A bear knocked his cap off with its huge paw, and the panther
disdainfully dropped an arrow it was about to put in its mouth.
Irony seemed to incite their sly actions. As they watched him out of the corners of their eyes,
they seemed to meditate a plan of revenge, and Julian, who was deafened by the buzzing of
the insects, bruised by the wings and tails of the birds, choked by the stench of animal
breaths, walked with outstretched arms and closed lids, like a blind man, without even the
strength to beg for mercy.
The crowing of a cock vibrated in the air. Other cocks responded; it was day; and Julian
recognised the top of his palace rising above the orange-trees.
Then, on the edge of a field, he beheld some red partridges fluttering around a stubble-field.
He unfastened his cloak and threw it over them like a net. When he lifted it, he found only a
bird that had been dead a long time and was decaying.
This disappointment irritated him more than all the others. The thirst for carnage stirred
afresh within him; animals failing him, he desired to slaughter men.
He climbed the three terraces and opened the door with a blow of his fist; but at the foot of
the staircase, the memory of his beloved wife softened his heart. No doubt she was asleep,
and he would go up and surprise her. Having removed his sandals, he unlocked the door
softly and entered.
The stained windows dimmed the pale light of dawn. Julian stumbled over some garment's
lying on the floor and a little further on, he knocked against a table covered with dishes. "She
21

must have eaten," he thought; so he advanced cautiously towards the bed which was
concealed by the darkness in the back of the room. When he reached the edge, he leaned over
the pillow where the two heads were resting close together and stooped to kiss his wife. His
mouth encountered a man's beard.
He fell back, thinking he had become crazed; then he approached the bed again and his
searching fingers discovered some hair which seemed to be very long. In order to convince
himself that he was mistaken, he once more passed his hand slowly over the pillow. But this
time he was sure that it was a beard and that a man was there! a man lying beside his wife!
Flying into an ungovernable passion, he sprang upon them with his drawn dagger, foaming,
stamping and howling like a wild beast. After a while he stopped.
The corpses, pierced through the heart, had not even moved. He listened attentively to the
two death-rattles, they were almost alike, and as they grew fainter, another voice, coming
from far away, seemed to continue them. Uncertain at first, this plaintive voice came nearer
and nearer, grew louder and louder and presently he recognised, with a feeling of abject
terror, the bellowing of the great black stag.
And as he turned around, he thought he saw the spectre of his wife standing at the threshold
with a light in her hand.
The sound of the murder had aroused her. In one glance she understood what had happened
and fled in horror, letting the candle drop from her hand. Julian picked it up.
His father and mother lay before him, stretched on their backs, with gaping wounds in their
breasts; and their faces, the expression of which was full of tender dignity, seemed to hide
what might be an eternal secret.
Splashes and blotches of blood were on their white skin, on the bed-clothes, on the floor, and
on an ivory Christ which hung in the alcove. The scarlet reflection of the stained window,
which just then was struck by the sun, lighted up the bloody spots and appeared to scatter
them around the whole room. Julian walked toward the corpses, repeating to himself and
trying to believe that he was mistaken, that it was not possible, that there are often
inexplicable likenesses.
At last he bent over to look closely at the old man and he saw, between the half-closed lids, a
dead pupil that scorched him like fire. Then he went over to the other side of the bed, where
the other corpse lay, but the face was partly hidden by bands of white hair. Julian slipped his
finger beneath them and raised the head, holding it at arm's length to study its features, while,
with his other hand he lifted the torch. Drops of blood oozed from the mattress and fell one
by one upon the floor.
At the close of the day, he appeared before his wife, and in a changed voice commanded her
first not to answer him, not to approach him, not even to look at him, and to obey, under the
penalty of eternal damnation, every one of his orders, which were irrevocable.
The funeral was to be held in accordance with the written instructions he had left on a chair in
the death-chamber.
22

He left her his castle, his vassals, all his worldly goods, without keeping even his clothes or
his sandals, which would be found at the top of the stairs.
She had obeyed the will of God in bringing about his crime, and accordingly she must pray
for his soul, since henceforth he should cease to exist.
The dead were buried sumptuously in the chapel of a monastery which it took three days to
reach from the castle. A monk wearing a hood that covered his head followed the procession
alone, for nobody dared to speak to him. And during the mass, he lay flat on the floor with his
face downward and his arms stretched out at his sides.
After the burial, he was seen to take the road leading into the mountains. He looked back
several times, and finally passed out of sight.
CHAPTER III
THE REPARATION
He left the country and begged his daily bread on his way.
He stretched out his hand to the horsemen he met in the roads, and humbly approached the
harvesters in the fields; or else remained motionless in front of the gates of castles; and his
face was so sad that he was never turned away.
Obeying a spirit of humility, he related his history to all men, and they would flee from him
and cross themselves. In villages through which he had passed before, the good people bolted
the doors, threatened him, and threw stones at him as soon as they recognised him. The more
charitable ones placed a bowl on the window-sill and closed the shutters in order to avoid
seeing him.
Repelled and shunned by everyone, he avoided his fellow-men and nourished himself with
roots and plants, stray fruits and shells which he gathered along the shores.
Often, at the bend of a hill, he could perceive a mass of crowded roofs, stone spires, bridges,
towers and narrow streets, from which arose a continual murmur of activity.
The desire to mingle with men impelled him to enter the city. But the gross and beastly
expression of their faces, the noise of their industries and the indifference of their remarks,
chilled his very heart. On holidays, when the cathedral bells rang out at daybreak and filled
the people's hearts with gladness, he watched the inhabitants coming out of their dwellings,
the dancers in the public squares, the fountains of ale, the damask hangings spread before the
houses of princes; and then, when night came, he would peer through the windows at the long
tables where families gathered and where grandparents held little children on their knees;
then sobs would rise in his throat and he would turn away and go back to his haunts.
He gazed with yearning at the colts in the pastures, the birds in their nests, the insects on the
flowers; but they all fled from him at his approach and hid or flew away. So he sought
23

solitude. But the wind brought to his ears sounds resembling death-rattles; the tears of the
dew reminded him of heavier drops, and every evening, the sun would spread blood in the
sky, and every night, in his dreams, he lived over his parricide.
He made himself a hair-cloth lined with iron spikes. On his knees, he ascended every hill that
was crowned with a chapel. But the unrelenting thought spoiled the splendour of the
tabernacles and tortured him in the midst of his penances.
He did not rebel against God, who had inflicted his action, but he despaired at the thought
that he had committed it.
He had such a horror of himself that he took all sorts of risks. He rescued paralytics from fire
and children from waves. But the ocean scorned him and the flames spared him. Time did not
allay his torment, which became so intolerable that he resolved to die.
One day, while he was stooping over a fountain to judge of its depth, an old man appeared on
the other side. He wore a white beard and his appearance was so lamentable that Julian could
not keep back his tears. The old man also was weeping. Without recognising him, Julian
remembered confusedly a face that resembled his. He uttered a cry; for it was his father who
stood before him; and he gave up all thought of taking his own life.
Thus weighted down by his recollections, he travelled through many countries and arrived at
a river which was dangerous, because of its violence and the slime that covered its shores.
Since a long time nobody had ventured to cross it.
The bow of an old boat, whose stern was buried in the mud, showed among the reeds. Julian,
on examining it closely, found a pair of oars and hit upon the idea of devoting his life to the
service of his fellow-men.
He began by establishing on the bank of the river a sort of road which would enable people to
approach the edge of the stream; he broke his nails in his efforts to lift enormous stones
which he pressed against the pit of his stomach in order to transport them from one point to
another; he slipped in the mud, he sank into it, and several times was on the very brink of
death.
Then he took to repairing the boat with debris of vessels, and afterwards built himself a hut
with putty and trunks of trees.
When it became known that a ferry had been established, passengers flocked to it. They
hailed him from the opposite side by waving flags, and Julian would jump into the boat and
row over. The craft was very heavy, and the people loaded it with all sorts of baggage, and
beasts of burden, who reared with fright, thereby adding greatly to the confusion. He asked
nothing for his trouble; some gave him left-over victuals which they took from their sacks or
worn-out garments which they could no longer use.
The brutal ones hurled curses at him, and when he rebuked them gently they replied with
insults, and he was content to bless them.
A little table, a stool, a bed made of dead leaves and three earthen bowls were all he
possessed. Two holes in the wall served as windows. On one side, as far as the eye could see,
24

stretched barren wastes studded here and there with pools of water; and in front of him
flowed the greenish waters of the wide river. In the spring, a putrid odour arose from the
damp sod. Then fierce gales lifted clouds of dust that blew everywhere, even settling in the
water and in one's mouth. A little later swarms of mosquitoes appeared, whose buzzing and
stinging continued night and day. After that, came frightful frosts which communicated a
stone-like rigidity to everything and inspired one with an insane desire for meat. Months
passed when Julian never saw a human being. He often closed his lids and endeavored to
recall his youth;—he beheld the courtyard of a castle, with greyhounds stretched out on a
terrace, an armoury filled with valets, and under a bower of vines a youth with blond curls,
sitting between an old man wrapped in furs and a lady with a high cap; presently the corpses
rose before him, and then he would throw himself face downward on his cot and sob:
"Oh! poor father! poor mother! poor mother!" and would drop into a fitful slumber in which
the terrible visions recurred.
One night he thought that some one was calling to him in his sleep. He listened intently, but
could hear nothing save the roaring of the waters.
But the same voice repeated: "Julian!"
It proceeded from the opposite shore, fact which appeared extraordinary to him, considering
the breadth of the river.
The voice called a third time: "Julian!"
And the high-pitched tones sounded like the ringing of a church-bell.
Having lighted his lantern, he stepped out of his cabin. A frightful storm raged. The darkness
was complete and was illuminated here and there only by the white waves leaping and
tumbling.
After a moment's hesitation, he untied the rope. The water presently grew smooth and the
boat glided easily to the opposite shore, where a man was waiting.
He was wrapped in a torn piece of linen; his face was like a chalk mask, and his eyes were
redder than glowing coals. When Julian held up his lantern he noticed that the stranger was
covered with hideous sores; but notwithstanding this, there was in his attitude something like
the majesty of a king.
As soon as he stepped into the boat, it sank deep into the water, borne downward by his
weight; then it rose again and Julian began to row.
With each stroke of the oars, the force of the waves raised the bow of the boat. The water,
which was blacker than ink, ran furiously along the sides. It formed abysses and then
mountains, over which the boat glided, then it fell into yawning depths where, buffeted by the
wind, it whirled around and around.
Julian leaned far forward and, bracing himself with his feet, bent backwards so as to bring his
whole strength into play. Hail-stones cut his hands, the rain ran down his back, the velocity of
the wind suffocated him. He stopped rowing and let the boat drift with the tide. But realising
25

that an important matter was at stake, a command which could not be disregarded, he picked
up the oars again; and the rattling of the tholes mingled with the clamourings of the storm.
The little lantern burned in front of him. Sometimes birds fluttered past it and obscured the
light. But he could distinguish the eyes of the leper who stood at the stern, as motionless as a
column.
And the trip lasted a long, long time.
When they reached the hut, Julian closed the door and saw the man sit down on the stool. The
species of shroud that was wrapped around him had fallen below his loins, and his shoulders
and chest and lean arms were hidden under blotches of scaly pustules. Enormous wrinkles
crossed his forehead. Like a skeleton, he had a hole instead of a nose, and from his bluish lips
came breath which was fetid and as thick as mist.
"I am hungry," he said.
Julian set before him what he had, a piece of pork and some crusts of coarse bread.
After he had devoured them, the table, the bowl, and the handle of the knife bore the same
scales that covered his body.
Then he said: "I thirst!"
Julian fetched his jug of water and when he lifted it, he smelled an aroma that dilated his
nostrils and filled his heart with gladness. It was wine; what a boon! but the leper stretched
out his arm and emptied the jug at one draught.
Then he said: "I am cold!"
Julian ignited a bundle of ferns that lay in the middle of the hut. The leper approached the fire
and, resting on his heels, began to warm himself; his whole frame shook and he was failing
visibly; his eyes grew dull, his sores began to break, and in a faint voice he whispered:
"Thy bed!"
Julian helped him gently to it, and even laid the sail of his boat over him to keep him warm.
The leper tossed and moaned. The corners of his mouth were drawn up over his teeth; an
accelerated death-rattle shook his chest and with each one of his aspirations, his stomach
touched his spine. At last, he closed his eyes.
"I feel as if ice were in my bones! Lay thyself beside me!" he commanded. Julian took off his
garments; and then, as naked as on the day he was born, he got into the bed; against his thigh
he could feel the skin of the leper, and it was colder than a serpent and as rough as a file.
He tried to encourage the leper, but he only whispered:
"Oh! I am about to die! Come closer to me and warm me! Not with thy hands! No! with thy
whole body."
26

So Julian stretched himself out upon the leper, lay on him, lips to lips, chest to chest.
Then the leper clasped him close and presently his eyes shone like stars; his hair lengthened
into sunbeams; the breath of his nostrils had the scent of roses; a cloud of incense rose from
the hearth, and the waters began to murmur harmoniously; an abundance of bliss, a
superhuman joy, filled the soul of the swooning Julian, while he who clasped him to his
breast grew and grew until his head and his feet touched the opposite walls of the cabin. The
roof flew up in the air, disclosing the heavens, and Julian ascended into infinity face to face
with our Lord Jesus Christ, who bore him straight to heaven.
And this is the story of Saint Julian the Hospitaller, as it is given on the stained-glass window
of a church in my birthplace.
27

A SIMPLE SOUL – Gustave Flaubert
CHAPTER I
FÉLICITÉ
For half a century the housewives of Pont-l'Evêque had envied
Madame Aubain her servant Félicité.
For a hundred francs a year, she cooked and did the housework, washed, ironed, mended,
harnessed the horse, fattened the poultry, made the butter and remained faithful to her
mistress—although the latter was by no means an agreeable person.
Madame Aubain had married a comely youth without any money, who died in the beginning
of 1809, leaving her with two young children and a number of debts. She sold all her property
excepting the farm of Toucques and the farm of Geffosses, the income of which barely
amounted to 5,000 francs; then she left her house in Saint-Melaine, and moved into a less
pretentious one which had belonged to her ancestors and stood back of the market-place. This
house, with its slate-covered roof, was built between a passage-way and a narrow street that
led to the river. The interior was so unevenly graded that it caused people to stumble. A
narrow hall separated the kitchen from the parlour, where Madame Aubain sat all day in a
straw armchair near the window. Eight mahogany chairs stood in a row against the white
wainscoting. An old piano, standing beneath a barometer, was covered with a pyramid of old
books and boxes. On either side of the yellow marble mantelpiece, in Louis XV style, stood a
tapestry armchair. The clock represented a temple of Vesta; and the whole room smelled
musty, as it was on a lower level than the garden.
On the first floor was Madame's bedchamber, a large room papered in a flowered design and
containing the portrait of Monsieur dressed in the costume of a dandy. It communicated with
a smaller room, in which there were two little cribs, without any mattresses. Next, came the
parlour (always closed), filled with furniture covered with sheets. Then a hall, which led to
the study, where books and papers were piled on the shelves of a book-case that enclosed
three quarters of the big black desk. Two panels were entirely hidden under pen-and-ink
sketches, Gouache landscapes and Audran engravings, relics of better times and vanished
luxury. On the second floor, a garret-window lighted Félicité's room, which looked out upon
the meadows.
She arose at daybreak, in order to attend mass, and she worked without interruption until
night; then, when dinner was over, the dishes cleared away and the door securely locked, she
would bury the log under the ashes and fall asleep in front of the hearth with a rosary in her
hand. Nobody could bargain with greater obstinacy, and as for cleanliness, the lustre on her
brass saucepans was the envy and despair of other servants. She was most economical, and
when she ate she would gather up crumbs with the tip of her finger, so that nothing should be
wasted of the loaf of bread weighing twelve pounds which was baked especially for her and
lasted three weeks.
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Summer and winter she wore a dimity kerchief fastened in the back with a pin, a cap which
concealed her hair, a red skirt, grey stockings, and an apron with a bib like those worn by
hospital nurses.
Her face was thin and her voice shrill. When she was twenty-five, she looked forty. After she
had passed fifty, nobody could tell her age; erect and silent always, she resembled a wooden
figure working automatically.
CHAPTER II
THE HEROINE
Like every other woman, she had had an affair of the heart. Her father, who was a mason,
was killed by falling from a scaffolding. Then her mother died and her sisters went their
different ways; a farmer took her in, and while she was quite small, let her keep cows in the
fields. She was clad in miserable rags, beaten for the slightest offence and finally dismissed
for a theft of thirty sous which she did not commit. She took service on another farm where
she tended the poultry; and as she was well thought of by her master, her fellow-workers
soon grew jealous.
One evening in August (she was then eighteen years old), they persuaded her to accompany
them to the fair at Colleville. She was immediately dazzled by the noise, the lights in the
trees, the brightness of the dresses, the laces and gold crosses, and the crowd of people all
hopping at the same time. She was standing modestly at a distance, when presently a young
man of well-to-do appearance, who had been leaning on the pole of a wagon and smoking his
pipe, approached her, and asked her for a dance. He treated her to cider and cake, bought her
a silk shawl, and then, thinking she had guessed his purpose, offered to see her home. When
they came to the end of a field he threw her down brutally. But she grew frightened and
screamed, and he walked off.
One evening, on the road leading to Beaumont, she came upon a wagon loaded with hay, and
when she overtook it, she recognised Théodore. He greeted her calmly, and asked her to
forget what had happened between them, as it "was all the fault of the drink."
She did not know what to reply and wished to run away.
Presently he began to speak of the harvest and of the notables of the village; his father had
left Colleville and bought the farm of Les Écots, so that now they would be neighbors. "Ah!"
she exclaimed. He then added that his parents were looking around for a wife for him, but
that he, himself, was not so anxious and preferred to wait for a girl who suited him. She hung
her head. He then asked her whether she had ever thought of marrying. She replied,
smilingly, that it was wrong of him to make fun of her. "Oh! no, I am in earnest," he said, and
put his left arm around her waist while they sauntered along. The air was soft, the stars were
bright, and the huge load of hay oscillated in front of them, drawn by four horses whose
ponderous hoofs raised clouds of dust. Without a word from their driver they turned to the
right. He kissed her again and she went home. The following week, Théodore obtained
meetings.
29

They met in yards, behind walls or under isolated trees. She was not ignorant, as girls of wellto-do
families are—for the animals had instructed her;—but her reason and her instinct of
honour kept her from falling. Her resistance exasperated Théodore's love and so in order to
satisfy it (or perchance ingenuously), he offered to marry her. She would not believe him at
first, so he made solemn promises. But, in a short time he mentioned a difficulty; the previous
year, his parents had purchased a substitute for him; but any day he might be drafted and the
prospect of serving in the army alarmed him greatly. To Félicité his cowardice appeared a
proof of his love for her, and her devotion to him grew stronger. When she met him, he
would torture her with his fears and his entreaties. At last, he announced that he was going to
the prefect himself for information, and would let her know everything on the following
Sunday, between eleven o'clock and midnight.
When the time drew near, she ran to meet her lover.
But instead of Théodore, one of his friends was at the meeting-place.
He informed her that she would never see her sweetheart again; for, in order to escape the
conscription, he had married a rich old woman, Madame Lehoussais, of Toucques.
The poor girl's sorrow was frightful. She threw herself on the ground, she cried and called on
the Lord, and wandered around desolately until sunrise. Then she went back to the farm,
declared her intention of leaving, and at the end of the month, after she had received her
wages, she packed all her belongings in a handkerchief and started for Pont-l'Evêque.
In front of the inn, she met a woman wearing widow's weeds, and upon questioning her,
learned that she was looking for a cook. The girl did not know very much, but appeared so
willing and so modest in her requirements, that Madame Aubain finally said:
"Very well, I will give you a trial."
And half an hour later Félicité was installed in her house.
At first she lived in a constant anxiety that was caused by "the style of the household" and the
memory of "Monsieur," that hovered over everything. Paul and Virginia, the one aged seven,
and the other barely four, seemed made of some precious material; she carried them pig-aback,
and was greatly mortified when Madame Aubain forbade her to kiss them every other
minute.
But in spite of all this, she was happy. The comfort of her new surroundings had obliterated
her sadness.
Every Thursday, friends of Madame Aubain dropped in for a game of cards, and it was
Félicité's duty to prepare the table and heat the foot-warmers. They arrived at exactly eight
o'clock and departed before eleven.
Every Monday morning, the dealer in second-hand goods, who lived under the alley-way,
spread out his wares on the sidewalk. Then the city would be filled with a buzzing of voices
in which the neighing of horses, the bleating of lambs, the grunting of pigs, could be
distinguished, mingled with the sharp sound of wheels on the cobble-stones. About twelve
o'clock, when the market was in full swing, there appeared at the front door a tall, middle-
30

aged peasant, with a hooked nose and a cap on the back of his head; it was Robelin, the
farmer of Geffosses. Shortly afterwards came Liébard, the farmer of Toucques, short, rotund
and ruddy, wearing a grey jacket and spurred boots.
Both men brought their landlady either chickens or cheese. Félicité would invariably thwart
their ruses and they held her in great respect.
At various times, Madame Aubain received a visit from the Marquis de Grémanville, one of
her uncles, who was ruined and lived at Falaise on the remainder of his estates. He always
came at dinner-time and brought an ugly poodle with him, whose paws soiled the furniture.
In spite of his efforts to appear a man of breeding (he even went so far as to raise his hat
every time he said "My deceased father"), his habits got the better of him, and he would fill
his glass a little too often and relate broad stories. Félicité would show him out very politely
and say: "You have had enough for this time, Monsieur de Grémanville! Hoping to see you
again!" and would close the door.
She opened it gladly for Monsieur Bourais, a retired lawyer. His bald head and white cravat,
the ruffling of his shirt, his flowing brown coat, the manner in which he took his snuff, his
whole person, in fact, produced in her the kind of awe which we feel when we see
extraordinary persons. As he managed Madame's estates, he spent hours with her in
Monsieur's study; he was in constant fear of being compromised, had a great regard for the
magistracy and some pretensions to learning.
In order to facilitate the children's studies, he presented them with an engraved geography
which represented various scenes of the world: cannibals with feather head-dresses, a gorilla
kidnapping a young girl, Arabs in the desert, a whale being harpooned, etc.
Paul explained the pictures to Félicité. And, in fact, this was her only literary education.
The children's studies were under the direction of a poor devil employed at the town-hall,
who sharpened his pocketknife on his boots and was famous for his penmanship.
When the weather was fine, they went to Geffosses. The house was built in the centre of the
sloping yard; and the sea looked like a grey spot in the distance. Félicité would take slices of
cold meat from the lunch basket and they would sit down and eat in a room next to the dairy.
This room was all that remained of a cottage that had been torn down. The dilapidated wallpaper
trembled in the drafts. Madame Aubain, overwhelmed by recollections, would hang her
head, while the children were afraid to open their mouths. Then, "Why don't you go and
play" their mother would say; and they would scamper off.
Paul would go to the old barn, catch birds, throw stones into the pond, or pound the trunks of
the trees with a stick till they resounded like drums. Virginia would feed the rabbits and run
to pick the wild flowers in the fields, and her flying legs would disclose her little embroidered
pantalettes. One autumn evening, they struck out for home through the meadows. The new
moon illumined part of the sky and a mist hovered like a veil over the sinuosities of the river.
Oxen, lying in the pastures, gazed mildly at the passing persons. In the third field, however,
several of them got up and surrounded them. "Don't be afraid," cried Félicité; and murmuring
a sort of lament she passed her hand over the back of the nearest ox; he turned away and the
others followed. But when they came to the next pasture, they heard frightful bellowing.
31

It was a bull which was hidden from them by the fog. He advanced towards the two women,
and Madame Aubain prepared to flee for her life. "No, no! not so fast," warned Félicité. Still
they hurried on, for they could hear the noisy breathing of the bull close behind them. His
hoofs pounded the grass like hammers, and presently he began to gallop! Félicité turned
around and threw patches of grass in his eyes. He hung his head, shook his horns and
bellowed with fury. Madame Aubain and the children, huddled at the end of the field, were
trying to jump over the ditch. Félicité continued to back before the bull, blinding him with
dirt, while she shouted to them to make haste.
Madame Aubain finally slid into the ditch, after shoving first Virginia and then Paul into it,
and though she stumbled several times she managed, by dint of courage, to climb the other
side of it.
The bull had driven Félicité up against a fence; the foam from his muzzle flew in her face and
in another minute he would have disembowelled her. She had just time to slip between two
bars and the huge animal, thwarted, paused.
For years, this occurrence was a topic of conversation in Pont-l'Evêque. But Félicité took no
credit to herself, and probably never knew that she had been heroic.
Virginia occupied her thoughts solely, for the shock she had sustained gave her a nervous
affection, and the physician, M. Poupart, prescribed the saltwater bathing at Trouville. In
those days, Trouville was not greatly patronised. Madame Aubain gathered information,
consulted Bourais, and made preparations as if they were going on an extended trip.
The baggage was sent the day before on Liébard's cart. On the following morning, he brought
around two horses, one of which had a woman's saddle with a velveteen back to it, while on
the crupper of the other was a rolled shawl that was to be used for a seat. Madame Aubain
mounted the second horse, behind Liébard. Félicité took charge of the little girl, and Paul
rode M. Lechaptois' donkey, which had been lent for the occasion on the condition that they
should be careful of it.
The road was so bad that it took two hours to cover the eight miles. The two horses sank
knee-deep into the mud and stumbled into ditches; sometimes they had to jump over them. In
certain places, Liébard's mare stopped abruptly. He waited patiently till she started again, and
talked of the people whose estates bordered the road, adding his own moral reflections to the
outline of their histories. Thus, when they were passing through Toucques, and came to some
windows draped with nasturtiums, he shrugged his shoulders and said: "There's a woman,
Madame Lehoussais, who, instead of taking a young man—" Félicité could not catch what
followed; the horses began to trot, the donkey to gallop, and they turned into a lane; then a
gate swung open, two farm-hands appeared and they all dismounted at the very threshold of
the farm-house.
Mother Liébard, when she caught sight of her mistress, was lavish with joyful
demonstrations. She got up a lunch which comprised a leg of mutton, tripe, sausages, a
chicken fricassée, sweet cider, a fruit tart and some preserved prunes; then to all this the good
woman added polite remarks about Madame, who appeared to be in better health,
Mademoiselle, who had grown to be "superb," and Paul, who had become singularly sturdy;
she spoke also of their deceased grandparents, whom the Liébards had known, for they had
been in the service of the family for several generations.
32

Like its owners, the farm had an ancient appearance. The beams of the ceiling were mouldy,
the walls black with smoke and the windows grey with dust. The oak sideboard was filled
with all sorts of utensils, plates, pitchers, tin bowls, wolf-traps. The children laughed when
they saw a huge syringe. There was not a tree in the yard that did not have mushrooms
growing around its foot, or a bunch of mistletoe hanging in its branches. Several of the trees
had been blown down, but they had started to grow in the middle and all were laden with
quantities of apples. The thatched roofs, which were of unequal thickness, looked like brown
velvet and could resist the fiercest gales. But the wagon-shed was fast crumbling to ruins.
Madame Aubain said that she would attend to it, and then gave orders to have the horses
saddled.
It took another thirty minutes to reach Trouville. The little caravan dismounted in order to
pass Les Écores, a cliff that overhangs the bay, and a few minutes later, at the end of the
dock, they entered the yard of the Golden Lamb, an inn kept by Mother David.
During the first few days, Virginia felt stronger, owing to the change of air and the action of
the sea-baths. She took them in her little chemise, as she had no bathing suit, and afterwards
her nurse dressed her in the cabin of a customs officer, which was used for that purpose by
other bathers.
In the afternoon, they would take the donkey and go to the Roches-Noires, near
Hennequeville. The path led at first through undulating grounds, and thence to a plateau,
where pastures and tilled fields alternated. At the edge of the road, mingling with the
brambles, grew holly bushes, and here and there stood large dead trees whose branches traced
zigzags upon the blue sky.
Ordinarily, they rested in a field facing the ocean, with Deauville on their left, and Havre on
their right. The sea glittered brightly in the sun and was as smooth as a mirror, and so calm
that they could scarcely distinguish its murmur; sparrows chirped joyfully and the immense
canopy of heaven spread over it all. Madame Aubain brought out her sewing, and Virginia
amused herself by braiding reeds; Félicité wove lavender blossoms, while Paul was bored and
wished to go home.
Sometimes they crossed the Toucques in a boat, and started to hunt for seashells. The
outgoing tide exposed starfish and sea-urchins, and the children tried to catch the flakes of
foam which the wind blew away. The sleepy waves lapping the sand unfurled themselves
along the shore that extended as far as the eye could see, but where land began, it was limited
by the downs which separated it from the "Swamp," a large meadow shaped like a
hippodrome. When they went home that way, Trouville, on the slope of a hill below, grew
larger and larger as they advanced, and, with all its houses of unequal height, seemed to
spread out before them in a sort of giddy confusion.
When the heat was too oppressive, they remained in their rooms. The dazzling sunlight cast
bars of light between the shutters. Not a sound in the village, not a soul on the sidewalk. This
silence intensified the tranquillity of everything. In the distance, the hammers of some calkers
pounded the hull of a ship, and the sultry breeze brought them an odour of tar.
The principal diversion consisted in watching the return of the fishing-smacks. As soon as
they passed the beacons, they began to ply to windward. The sails were lowered to one third
of the masts, and with their foresails swelled up like balloons they glided over the waves and
33

anchored in the middle of the harbour. Then they crept up alongside of the dock and the
sailors threw the quivering fish over the side of the boat; a line of carts was waiting for them,
and women with white caps sprang forward to receive the baskets and embrace their menfolk.
One day, one of them spoke to Félicité, who, after a little while, returned to the house
gleefully. She had found one of her sisters, and presently Nastasie Barette, wife of Léroux,
made her appearance, holding an infant in her arms, another child by the hand, while on her
left was a little cabin-boy with his hands in his pockets and his cap on his ear.
At the end of fifteen minutes, Madame Aubain bade her go.
They always hung around the kitchen, or approached Félicité when she and the children were
out walking. The husband, however, did not show himself.
Félicité developed a great fondness for them; she bought them a stove, some shirts and a
blanket; it was evident that they exploited her. Her foolishness annoyed Madame Aubain,
who, moreover did not like the nephew's familiarity, for he called her son "thou";—and, as
Virginia began to cough and the season was over, she decided to return to Pont-l'Evêque.
Monsieur Bourais assisted her in the choice of a college. The one at Caën was considered the
best. So Paul was sent away and bravely said good-bye to them all, for he was glad to go to
live in a house where he would have boy companions.
Madame Aubain resigned herself to the separation from her son because it was unavoidable.
Virginia brooded less and less over it. Félicité regretted the noise he made, but soon a new
occupation diverted her mind; beginning from Christmas, she accompanied the little girl to
her catechism lesson every day.
CHAPTER III
DEATH
After she had made a curtsey at the threshold, she would walk up the aisle between the
double lines of chairs, open Madame Aubain's pew, sit down and look around.
Girls and boys, the former on the right, the latter on the left-hand side of the church, filled the
stalls of the choir; the priest stood beside the reading-desk; on one stained window of the
side-aisle the Holy Ghost hovered over the Virgin; on another one, Mary knelt before the
Child Jesus, and behind the altar, a wooden group represented Saint Michael felling the
dragon.
The priest first read a condensed lesson of sacred history. Félicité evoked Paradise, the Flood,
the Tower of Babel, the blazing cities, the dying nations, the shattered idols; and out of this
she developed a great respect for the Almighty and a great fear of His wrath. Then, when she
listened to the Passion, she wept. Why had they crucified Him who loved little children,
nourished the people, made the blind see, and who, out of humility, had wished to be born
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among the poor, in a stable The sowings, the harvests, the wine-presses, all those familiar
things which the Scriptures mention, formed a part of her life; the word of God sanctified
them; and she loved the lambs with increased tenderness for the sake of the Lamb, and the
doves because of the Holy Ghost.
She found it hard, however, to think of the latter as a person, for was it not a bird, a flame,
and sometimes only a breath Perhaps it is its light that at night hovers over swamps, its
breath that propels the clouds, its voice that renders church-bells harmonious. And Félicité
worshipped devoutly, while enjoying the coolness and the stillness of the church.
As for the dogma, she could not understand it and did not even try. The priest discoursed, the
children recited, and she went to sleep, only to awaken with a start when they were leaving
the church and their wooden shoes clattered on the stone pavement.
In this way, she learned her catechism, her religious education having been neglected in her
youth; and thenceforth she imitated all Virginia's religious practises, fasted when she did, and
went to confession with her. At the Corpus-Christi Day they both decorated an altar.
She worried in advance over Virginia's first communion. She fussed about the shoes, the
rosary, the book and the gloves. With what nervousness she helped the mother dress the
child!
During the entire ceremony, she felt anguished. Monsieur Bourais hid part of the choir from
view, but directly in front of her, the flock of maidens, wearing white wreaths over their
lowered veils, formed a snow-white field, and she recognised her darling by the slenderness
of her neck and her devout attitude. The bell tinkled. All the heads bent and there was a
silence. Then, at the peals of the organ the singers and the worshippers struck up the Agnus
Dei; the boys' procession began; behind them came the girls. With clasped hands, they
advanced step by step to the lighted altar, knelt at the first step, received one by one the Host,
and returned to their seats in the same order. When Virginia's turn came, Félicité leaned
forward to watch her, and through that imagination which springs from true affection, she at
once became the child, whose face and dress became hers, whose heart beat in her bosom,
and when Virginia opened her mouth and closed her lids, she did likewise and came very
near fainting.
The following day, she presented herself early at the church so as to receive communion from
the curé. She took it with the proper feeling, but did not experience the same delight as on the
previous day.
Madame Aubain wished to make an accomplished girl of her daughter; and as Guyot could
not teach English nor music, she decided to send her to the Ursulines at Honfleur.
The child made no objection, but Félicité sighed and thought Madame was heartless. Then,
she thought that perhaps her mistress was right, as these things were beyond her sphere.
Finally, one day, an old fiacre stopped in front of the door and a nun stepped out. Félicité put
Virginia's luggage on top of the carriage, gave the coachman some instructions, and
smuggled six jars of jam, a dozen pears and a bunch of violets under the seat.
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At the last minute, Virginia had a fit of sobbing; she embraced her mother again and again,
while the latter kissed her on her forehead, and said: "Now, be brave, be brave!" The step was
pulled up and the fiacre rumbled off.
Then Madame Aubain had a fainting spell, and that evening all her friends, including the two
Lormeaus, Madame Lechaptois, the ladies Rochefeuille, Messieurs de Houppeville and
Bourais, called on her and tendered their sympathy.
At first the separation proved very painful to her. But her daughter wrote her three times a
week and the other days she, herself, wrote to Virginia. Then she walked in the garden, read a
little, and in this way managed to fill out the emptiness of the hours.
Each morning, out of habit, Félicité entered Virginia's room and gazed at the walls. She
missed combing her hair, lacing her shoes, tucking her in her bed, and the bright face and
little hand when they used to go out for a walk. In order to occupy herself she tried to make
lace. But her clumsy fingers broke the threads; she had no heart for anything, lost her sleep
and "wasted away," as she put it.
In order to have some distraction, she asked leave to receive the visits of her nephew Victor.
He would come on Sunday, after church, with ruddy cheeks and bared chest, bringing with
him the scent of the country. She would set the table and they would sit down opposite each
other, and eat their dinner; she ate as little as possible, herself, to avoid any extra expense, but
would stuff him so with food that he would finally go to sleep. At the first stroke of vespers,
she would wake him up, brush his trousers, tie his cravat and walk to church with him,
leaning on his arm with maternal pride.
His parents always told him to get something out of her, either a package of brown sugar, or
soap, or brandy, and sometimes even money. He brought her his clothes to mend, and she
accepted the task gladly, because it meant another visit from him.
In August, his father took him on a coasting-vessel.
It was vacation time and the arrival of the children consoled Félicité. But Paul was
capricious, and Virginia was growing too old to be thee-and-thou'd, a fact which seemed to
produce a sort of embarrassment in their relations.
Victor went successively to Morlaix, to Dunkirk, and to Brighton; whenever he returned from
a trip he would bring her a present. The first time it was a box of shells; the second, a coffeecup;
the third, a big doll of ginger-bread. He was growing handsome, had a good figure, a
tiny moustache, kind eyes, and a little leather cap that sat jauntily on the back of his head. He
amused his aunt by telling her stories mingled with nautical expressions.
One Monday, the 14th of July, 1819 (she never forgot the date), Victor announced that he had
been engaged on merchant-vessel and that in two days he would take the steamer at Honfleur
and join his sailer, which was going to start from Havre very soon. Perhaps he might be away
two years.
36

The prospect of his departure filled Félicité with despair, and in order to bid him farewell, on
Wednesday night, after Madame's dinner, she put on her pattens and trudged the four miles
that separated Pont-l'Evêque from Honfleur.
When she reached the Calvary, instead of turning to the right, she turned to the left and lost
herself in coal-yards; she had to retrace her steps; some people she spoke to advised her to
hasten. She walked helplessly around the harbour filled with vessels, and knocked against
hawsers. Presently the ground sloped abruptly, lights flittered to and fro, and she thought all
at once that she had gone mad when she saw some horses in the sky.
Others, on the edge of the dock, neighed at the sight of the ocean. A derrick pulled them up in
the air and dumped them into a boat, where passengers were bustling about among barrels of
cider, baskets of cheese and bags of meal; chickens cackled, the captain swore and a cabinboy
rested on the railing, apparently indifferent to his surroundings. Félicité, who did not
recognise him, kept shouting: "Victor!" He suddenly raised his eyes, but while she was
preparing to rush up to him, they withdrew the gangplank.
The packet, towed by singing women, glided out of the harbour. Her hull squeaked and the
heavy waves beat up against her sides. The sail had turned and nobody was visible;—and on
the ocean, silvered by the light of the moon, the vessel formed a black spot that grew dimmer
and dimmer, and finally disappeared.
When Félicité passed the Calvary again, she felt as if she must entrust that which was dearest
to her to the Lord; and for a long while she prayed, with uplifted eyes and a face wet with
tears. The city was sleeping; some customs officials were taking the air; and the water kept
pouring through the holes of the dam with a deafening roar. The town clock struck two.
The parlour of the convent would not open until morning, and surely a delay would annoy
Madame; so, in spite of her desire to see the other child, she went home. The maids of the inn
were just arising when she reached Pont-l'Evêque.
So the poor boy would be on the ocean for months! His previous trips had not alarmed her.
One can come back from England and Brittany; but America, the colonies, the islands, were
all lost in an uncertain region at the very end of the world.
From that time on, Félicité thought solely of her nephew. On warm days she feared he would
suffer from thirst, and when it stormed, she was afraid he would be struck by lightning. When
she harkened to the wind that rattled in the chimney and dislodged the tiles on the roof, she
imagined that he was being buffeted by the same storm, perched on top of a shattered mast,
with his whole body bent backward and covered with sea-foam; or,—these were recollections
of the engraved geography—he was being devoured by savages, or captured in a forest by
apes, or dying on some lonely coast. She never mentioned her anxieties, however.
Madame Aubain worried about her daughter.
The sisters thought that Virginia was affectionate but delicate. The slightest emotion
enervated her. She had to give up her piano lessons. Her mother insisted upon regular letters
from the convent. One morning, when the postman failed to come, she grew impatient and
began to pace to and fro, from her chair to the window. It was really extraordinary! No news
since four days!
37

In order to console her mistress by her own example, Félicité said:
"Why, Madame, I haven't had any news since six months!"—
"From whom"—
The servant replied gently:
"Why—from my nephew."
"Oh, yes, your nephew!" And shrugging her shoulders, Madame Aubain continued to pace
the floor as if to say: "I did not think of it.—Besides, I do not care, a cabin-boy, a pauper!—
but my daughter—what a difference! just think of it!—"
Félicité, although she had been reared roughly, was very indignant. Then she forgot about it.
It appeared quite natural to her that one should lose one's head about Virginia.
The two children were of equal importance; they were united in her heart and their fate was
to be the same.
The chemist informed her that Victor's vessel had reached Havana.
He had read the information in a newspaper.
Félicité imagined that Havana was a place where people did nothing but smoke, and that
Victor walked around among negroes in a cloud of tobacco. Could a person, in case of need,
return by land How far was it from Pont-l'Evêque In order to learn these things she
questioned Monsieur Bourais. He reached for his map and began some explanations
concerning longitudes, and smiled with superiority at Félicité's bewilderment. At last, he took
his pencil and pointed out an imperceptible black point in the scallops of an oval blotch,
adding: "There it is." She bent over the map; the maze of coloured lines hurt her eyes without
enlightening her; and when Bourais asked her what puzzled her, she requested him to show
her the house Victor lived in. Bourais threw up his hands, sneezed, and then laughed
uproariously; such ignorance delighted his soul; but Félicité failed to understand the cause of
his mirth, she whose intelligence was so limited that she perhaps expected to see even the
picture of her nephew!
It was two weeks later that Liébard came into the kitchen at market-time, and handed her a
letter from her brother-in-law. As neither of them could read, she called upon her mistress.
Madame Aubain, who was counting the stitches of her knitting, laid her work down beside
her, opened the letter, started, and in a low tone and with a searching look said: "They tell
you of a—misfortune. Your nephew—."
He had died. The letter told nothing more.
Félicité dropped on a chair, leaned her head against the back and closed her lids; presently
they grew pink. Then, with drooping head, inert hands and staring eyes she repeated at
intervals:
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"Poor little chap! poor little chap!"
Liébard watched her and sighed. Madame Aubain was trembling.
She proposed to the girl to go see her sister in Trouville.
With a single motion, Félicité replied that it was not necessary.
There was a silence. Old Liébard thought it about time for him to take leave.
Then Félicité uttered:
"They have no sympathy, they do not care!"
Her head fell forward again, and from time to time, mechanically, she toyed with the long
knitting-needles on the work-table.
Some women passed through the yard with a basket of wet clothes.
When she saw them through the window, she suddenly remembered her own wash; as she
had soaked it the day before, she must go and rinse it now. So she arose and left the room.
Her tub and her board were on the bank of the Toucques. She threw a heap of clothes on the
ground, rolled up her sleeves and grasped her bat; and her loud pounding could be heard in
the neighbouring gardens. The meadows were empty, the breeze wrinkled the stream, at the
bottom of which were long grasses that looked like the hair of corpses floating in the water.
She restrained her sorrow and was very brave until night; but, when she had gone to her own
room, she gave way to it, burying her face in the pillow and pressing her two fists against her
temples.
A long while afterward, she learned through Victor's captain, the circumstances which
surrounded his death. At the hospital they had bled him too much, treating him for yellow
fever. Four doctors held him at one time. He died almost instantly, and the chief surgeon had
said:
"Here goes another one!"
His parents had always treated him barbarously; she preferred not to see them again, and they
made no advances, either from forgetfulness or out of innate hardness.
Virginia was growing weaker.
A cough, continual fever, oppressive breathing and spots on her cheeks indicated some
serious trouble. Monsieur Poupart had advised a sojourn in Provence. Madame Aubain
decided that they would go, and she would have had her daughter come home at once, had it
not been for the climate of Pont-l'Evêque.
She made an arrangement with a livery-stable man who drove her over to the convent every
Tuesday. In the garden there was a terrace, from which the view extends to the Seine.
Virginia walked in it, leaning on her mother's arm and treading the dead vine leaves.
39

Sometimes the sun, shining through the clouds, made her blink her lids, when she gazed at
the sails in the distance, and let her eyes roam over the horizon from the chateau of
Tancarville to the lighthouses of Havre. Then they rested in the arbour. Her mother had
bought a little cask of fine Malaga wine, and Virginia, laughing at the idea of becoming
intoxicated, would drink a few drops of it, but never more.
Her strength returned. Autumn passed. Félicité began to reassure Madame Aubain. But, one
evening, when she returned home after an errand, she met M. Boupart's coach in front of the
door; M. Boupart himself was standing in the vestibule and Madame Aubain was tying the
strings of her bonnet. "Give me my foot-warmer, my purse and my gloves; and be quick
about it," she said.
Virginia had congestion of the lungs; perhaps it was desperate.
"Not yet," said the physician, and both got into the carriage, while the snow fell in thick
flakes. It was almost night and very cold.
Félicité rushed to the church to light a candle. Then she ran after the coach which she
overtook after an hour's chase, sprang up behind and held on to the straps. But suddenly a
thought crossed her mind: "The yard had been left open; supposing that burglars got in!" And
down she jumped.
The next morning, at daybreak, she called at the doctor's. He had been home, but had left
again. Then she waited at the inn, thinking that strangers might bring her a letter. At last, at
daylight she took the diligence for Lisieux.
The convent was at the end of a steep and narrow street. When she arrived about at the
middle of it, she heard strange noises, a funeral knell. "It must be for some one else," thought
she; and she pulled the knocker violently.
After several minutes had elapsed, she heard footsteps, the door was half opened and a nun
appeared. The good sister, with an air of compunction, told her that "she had just passed
away." And at the same time the tolling of Saint-Léonard's increased.
Félicité reached the second floor. Already at the threshold, she caught sight of Virginia lying
on her back, with clasped hands, her mouth open and her head thrown back, beneath a black
crucifix inclined toward her, and stiff curtains which were less white than her face. Madame
Aubain lay at the foot of the couch, clasping it with her arms and uttering groans of agony.
The Mother Superior was standing on the right side of the bed. The three candles on the
bureau made red blurs, and the windows were dimmed by the fog outside. The nuns carried
Madame Aubain from the room.
For two nights, Félicité never left the corpse. She would repeat the same prayers, sprinkle
holy water over the sheets, get up, come back to the bed and contemplate the body. At the
end of the first vigil, she noticed that the face had taken on a yellow tinge, the lips grew blue,
the nose grew pinched, the eyes were sunken. She kissed them several times and would not
have been greatly astonished had Virginia opened them; to souls like these the supernatural is
always quite simple. She washed her, wrapped her in a shroud, put her into the casket, laid a
wreath of flowers on her head and arranged her curls. They were blond and of an
40

extraordinary length for her age. Félicité cut off a big lock and put half of it into her bosom,
resolving never to part with it.
The body was taken to Pont-l'Evêque, according to Madame Aubain's wishes; she followed
the hearse in a closed carriage.
After the ceremony it took three quarters of an hour to reach the cemetery. Paul, sobbing,
headed the procession; Monsieur Bourais followed, and then came the principal inhabitants
of the town, the women covered with black capes, and Félicité. The memory of her nephew,
and the thought that she had not been able to render him these honours, made her doubly
unhappy, and she felt as if he were being buried with Virginia.
Madame Aubain's grief was uncontrollable. At first she rebelled against God, thinking that he
was unjust to have taken away her child—she who had never done anything wrong, and
whose conscience was so pure! But no! she ought to have taken her South. Other doctors
would have saved her. She accused herself, prayed to be able to join her child, and cried in
the midst of her dreams. Of the latter, one more especially haunted her. Her husband, dressed
like a sailor, had come back from a long voyage, and with tears in his eyes told her that he
had received the order to take Virginia away. Then they both consulted about a hiding-place.
Once she came in from the garden, all upset. A moment before (and she showed the place),
the father and daughter had appeared to her, one after the other; they did nothing but look at
her.
During several months she remained inert in her room. Félicité scolded her gently; she must
keep up for her son and also for the other one, for "her memory."
"Her memory!" replied Madame Aubain, as if she were just awakening, "Oh! yes, yes, you do
not forget her!" This was an allusion to the cemetery where she had been expressly forbidden
to go.
But Félicité went there every day. At four o'clock exactly, she would go through the town,
climb the hill, open the gate and arrive at Virginia's tomb. It was a small column of pink
marble with a flat stone at its base, and it was surrounded by a little plot enclosed by chains.
The flower-beds were bright with blossoms. Félicité watered their leaves, renewed the gravel,
and knelt on the ground in order to till the earth properly. When Madame Aubain was able to
visit the cemetery she felt very much relieved and consoled.
Years passed, all alike and marked by no other events than the return of the great church
holidays: Easter, Assumption, All Saints' Day. Household happenings constituted the only
data to which in later years they often referred. Thus, in 1825, workmen painted the vestibule;
in 1827, a portion of the roof almost killed a man by falling into the yard. In the summer of
1828, it was Madame's turn to offer the hallowed bread; at that time, Bourais disappeared
mysteriously; and the old acquaintances, Guyot, Liébard, Madame Lechaptois, Robelin, old
Grémanville, paralysed since a long time, passed away one by one. One night, the driver of
the mail in Pont-l'Evêque announced the Revolution of July. A few days afterward a new
sub-prefect was nominated, the Baron de Larsonnière, ex-consul in America, who, besides his
wife, had his sister-in-law and her three grown daughters with him. They were often seen on
their lawn, dressed in loose blouses, and they had a parrot and a negro servant. Madame
Aubain received a call, which she returned promptly. As soon as she caught sight of them,
41

Félicité would run and notify her mistress. But only one thing was capable of arousing her: a
letter from her son.
He could not follow any profession as he was absorbed in drinking. His mother paid his debts
and he made fresh ones; and the sighs that she heaved while she knitted at the window
reached the ears of Félicité who was spinning in the kitchen.
They walked in the garden together, always speaking of Virginia, and asking each other if
such and such a thing would have pleased her, and what she would probably have said on this
or that occasion.
All her little belongings were put away in a closet of the room which held the two little beds.
But Madame Aubain looked them over as little as possible. One summer day, however, she
resigned herself to the task and when she opened the closet the moths flew out.
Virginia's frocks were hung under a shelf where there were three dolls, some hoops, a dollhouse,
and a basin which she had used. Félicité and Madame Aubain also took out the skirts,
the handkerchiefs, and the stockings and spread them on the beds, before putting them away
again. The sun fell on the piteous things, disclosing their spots and the creases formed by the
motions of the body. The atmosphere was warm and blue, and a blackbird trilled in the
garden; everything seemed to live in happiness. They found a little hat of soft brown plush,
but it was entirely moth-eaten. Félicité asked for it. Their eyes met and filled with tears; at
last the mistress opened her arms and the servant threw herself against her breast and they
hugged each other and giving vent to their grief in a kiss which equalized them for a moment.
It was the first time that this had ever happened, for Madame Aubain was not of an expansive
nature. Félicité was as grateful for it as if it had been some favour, and thenceforth loved her
with animal-like devotion and a religious veneration.
Her kind-heartedness developed. When she heard the drums of a marching regiment passing
through the street, she would stand in the doorway with a jug of cider and give the soldiers a
drink. She nursed cholera victims. She protected Polish refugees, and one of them even
declared that he wished to marry her. But they quarrelled, for one morning when she returned
from the Angelus she found him in the kitchen coolly eating a dish which he had prepared for
himself during her absence.
After the Polish refugees, came Colmiche, an old man who was credited with having
committed frightful misdeeds in '93. He lived near the river in the ruins of a pig-sty. The
urchins peeped at him through the cracks in the walls and threw stones that fell on his
miserable bed, where he lay gasping with catarrh, with long hair, inflamed eyelids, and a
tumour as big as his head on one arm.
She got him some linen, tried to clean his hovel and dreamed of installing him in the bakehouse
without his being in Madame's way. When the cancer broke, she dressed it every day;
sometimes she brought him some cake and placed him in the sun on a bundle of hay; and the
poor old creature, trembling and drooling, would thank her in his broken voice, and put out
his hands whenever she left him. Finally he died; and she had a mass said for the repose of
his soul.
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That day a great joy came to her: at dinner-time, Madame de Larsonnière's servant called
with the parrot, the cage, and the perch and chain and lock. A note from the baroness told
Madame Aubain that as her husband had been promoted to a prefecture, they were leaving
that night, and she begged her to accept the bird as a remembrance and a token of her esteem.
Since a long time the parrot had been on Félicité's mind, because he came from America,
which reminded her of Victor, and she had approached the negro on the subject.
Once even, she had said:
"How glad Madame would be to have him!"
The man had repeated this remark to his mistress who, not being able to keep the bird, took
this means of getting rid of it.
CHAPTER IV
THE BIRD
He was called Loulou. His body was green, his head blue, the tips of his wings were pink and
his breast was golden.
But he had the tiresome tricks of biting his perch, pulling his feathers out, scattering refuse
and spilling the water of his bath. Madame Aubain grew tired of him and gave him to Félicité
for good.
She undertook his education, and soon he was able to repeat: "Pretty boy! Your servant, sir! I
salute you, Marie!" His perch was placed near the door and several persons were astonished
that he did not answer to the name of "Jacquot," for every parrot is called Jacquot. They
called him a goose and a log, and these taunts were like so many dagger thrusts to Félicité.
Strange stubbornness of the bird which would not talk when people watched him!
Nevertheless, he sought society; for on Sunday, when the ladies Rochefeuille, Monsieur de
Houppeville and the new habitués, Onfroy, the chemist, Monsieur Varin and Captain
Mathieu, dropped in for their game of cards, he struck the window-panes with his wings and
made such a racket that it was impossible to talk.
Bourais' face must have appeared very funny to Loulou. As soon as he saw him he would
begin to roar. His voice re-echoed in the yard, and the neighbours would come to the
windows and begin to laugh, too; and in order that the parrot might not see him, Monsieur
Bourais edged along the wall, pushed his hat over his eyes to hide his profile, and entered by
the garden door, and the looks he gave the bird lacked affection. Loulou, having thrust his
head into the butcher-boy's basket, received a slap, and from that time he always tried to nip
his enemy. Fabu threatened to wring his neck, although he was not cruelly inclined,
notwithstanding his big whiskers and tattooings. On the contrary, he rather liked the bird and,
out of deviltry, tried to teach him oaths. Félicité, whom his manner alarmed, put Loulou in
the kitchen, took off his chain and let him walk all over the house.
43

When he went downstairs, he rested his beak on the steps, lifted his right foot and then his
left one; but his mistress feared that such feats would give him vertigo. He became ill and
was unable to eat. There was a small growth under his tongue like those chickens are
sometimes afflicted with. Félicité pulled it off with her nails and cured him. One day, Paul
was imprudent enough to blow the smoke of his cigar in his face; another time, Madame
Lormeau was teasing him with the tip of her umbrella and he swallowed the tip. Finally he
got lost.
She had put him on the grass to cool him and went away only for a second; when she
returned, she found no parrot! She hunted among the bushes, on the bank of the river, and on
the roofs, without paying any attention to Madame Aubain who screamed at her: "Take care!
you must be insane!" Then she searched every garden in Pont-l'Evêque and stopped the
passers-by to inquire of them: "Haven't you perhaps seen my parrot" To those who had
never seen the parrot, she described him minutely. Suddenly she thought she saw something
green fluttering behind the mills at the foot of the hill. But when she was at the top of the hill
she could not see it. A hod-carrier told her that he had just seen the bird in Saint-Melaine, in
Mother Simon's store. She rushed to the place. The people did not know what she was talking
about. At last she came home, exhausted, with her slippers worn to shreds, and despair in her
heart. She sat down on the bench near Madame and was telling of her search when presently
a light weight dropped on her shoulder—Loulou! What the deuce had he been doing Perhaps
he had just taken a little walk around the town!
She did not easily forget her scare, in fact, she never got over it. In consequence of a cold, she
caught a sore throat; and some time afterward she had an earache. Three years later she was
stone deaf, and spoke in a very loud voice even in church. Although her sins might have been
proclaimed throughout the diocese without any shame to herself, or ill effects to the
community, the curé thought it advisable to receive her confession in the vestry-room.
Imaginary buzzings also added to her bewilderment. Her mistress often said to her: "My
goodness, how stupid you are!" and she would answer: "Yes, Madame," and look for
something.
The narrow circle of her ideas grew more restricted than it already was; the bellowing of the
oxen, the chime of the bells no longer reached her intelligence. All things moved silently, like
ghosts. Only one noise penetrated her ears: the parrot's voice.
As if to divert her mind, he reproduced for her the tick-tack of the spit in the kitchen, the
shrill cry of the fish-vendors, the saw of the carpenter who had a shop opposite, and when the
door-bell rang, he would imitate Madame Aubain: "Félicité! go to the front door."
They held conversations together, Loulou repeating the three phrases of his repertory over
and over, Félicité replying by words that had no greater meaning, but in which she poured out
her feelings. In her isolation, the parrot was almost a son, a lover. He climbed upon her
fingers, pecked at her lips, clung to her shawl, and when she rocked her head to and fro like a
nurse, the big wings of her cap and the wings of the bird flapped in unison. When clouds
gathered on the horizon and the thunder rumbled, Loulou would scream, perhaps because he
remembered the storms in his native forests. The dripping of the rain would excite him to
frenzy; he flapped around, struck the ceiling with his wings, upset everything, and would
finally fly into the garden to play. Then he would come back into the room, light on one of
the andirons, and hop around in order to get dry.
44

One morning during the terrible winter of 1837, when she had put him in front of the fireplace
on account of the cold, she found him dead in his cage, hanging to the wire bars with
his head down. He had probably died of congestion. But she believed that he had been
poisoned, and although she had no proofs whatever, her suspicion rested on Fabu.
She wept so sorely that her mistress said: "Why don't you have him stuffed"
She asked the advice of the chemist, who had always been kind to the bird.
He wrote to Havre for her. A certain man named Fellacher consented to do the work. But, as
the diligence driver often lost parcels entrusted to him, Félicité resolved to take her pet to
Honfleur herself.
Leafless apple-trees lined the edges of the road. The ditches were covered with ice. The dogs
on the neighbouring farms barked; and Félicité, with her hands beneath her cape, her little
black sabots and her basket, trotted along nimbly in the middle of the sidewalk. She crossed
the forest, passed by the Haut-Chêne and reached Saint-Gatien.
Behind her, in a cloud of dust and impelled by the steep incline, a mail-coach drawn by
galloping horses advanced like a whirlwind. When he saw a woman in the middle of the road,
who did not get out of the way, the driver stood up in his seat and shouted to her and so did
the postilion, while the four horses, which he could not hold back, accelerated their pace; the
two leaders were almost upon her; with a jerk of the reins he threw them to one side, but,
furious at the incident, he lifted his big whip and lashed her from her head to her feet with
such violence that she fell to the ground unconscious.
Her first thought, when she recovered her senses, was to open the basket. Loulou was
unharmed. She felt a sting on her right cheek; when she took her hand away it was red, for
the blood was flowing.
She sat down on a pile of stones, and sopped her cheek with her handkerchief; then she ate a
crust of bread she had put in her basket, and consoled herself by looking at the bird.
Arriving at the top of Ecquemanville, she saw the lights of Honfleur shining in the distance
like so many stars; further on, the ocean spread out in a confused mass. Then a weakness
came over her; the misery of her childhood, the disappointment of her first love, the departure
of her nephew, the death of Virginia; all these things came back to her at once, and, rising
like a swelling tide in her throat, almost choked her.
Then she wished to speak to the captain of the vessel, and without stating what she was
sending, she gave him some instructions.
Fellacher kept the parrot a long time. He always promised that it would be ready for the
following week; after six months he announced the shipment of a case, and that was the end
of it. Really, it seemed as if Loulou would never come back to his home. "They have stolen
him," thought Félicité.
Finally he arrived, sitting bolt upright on a branch which could be screwed into a mahogany
pedestal, with his foot in the air, his head on one side, and in his beak a nut which the
naturalist, from love of the sumptuous, had gilded. She put him in her room.
45

This place, to which only a chosen few were admitted, looked like a chapel and a secondhand
shop, so filled was it with devotional and heterogeneous things. The door could not be
opened easily on account of the presence of a large wardrobe. Opposite the window that
looked out into the garden, a bull's-eye opened on the yard; a table was placed by the cot and
held a washbasin, two combs, and a piece of blue soap in a broken saucer. On the walls were
rosaries, medals, a number of Holy Virgins, and a holy-water basin made out of a cocoanut;
on the bureau, which was covered with a napkin like an altar, stood the box of shells that
Victor had given her; also a watering-can and a balloon, writing-books, the engraved
geography and a pair of shoes; on the nail which held the mirror, hung Virginia's little plush
hat! Félicité carried this sort of respect so far that she even kept one of Monsieur's old coats.
All the things which Madame Aubain discarded, Félicité begged for her own room. Thus, she
had artificial flowers on the edge of the bureau, and the picture of the Comte d'Artois in the
recess of the window. By means of a board, Loulou was set on a portion of the chimney
which advanced into the room. Every morning when she awoke, she saw him in the dim light
of dawn and recalled bygone days and the smallest details of insignificant actions, without
any sense of bitterness or grief.
As she was unable to communicate with people, she lived in a sort of somnambulistic torpor.
The processions of Corpus-Christi Day seemed to wake her up. She visited the neighbours to
beg for candlesticks and mats so as to adorn the temporary altars in the street.
In church, she always gazed at the Holy Ghost, and noticed that there was something about it
that resembled a parrot. The likeness appeared even more striking on a coloured picture by
Espinal, representing the baptism of our Saviour. With his scarlet wings and emerald body, it
was really the image of Loulou. Having bought the picture, she hung it near the one of the
Comte d'Artois so that she could take them in at one glance.
They associated in her mind, the parrot becoming sanctified through the neighbourhood of
the Holy Ghost, and the latter becoming more lifelike in her eyes, and more comprehensible.
In all probability the Father had never chosen as messenger a dove, as the latter has no voice,
but rather one of Loulou's ancestors. And Félicité said her prayers in front of the coloured
picture, though from time to time she turned slightly toward the bird.
She desired very much to enter in the ranks of the "Daughters of the Virgin." But Madame
Aubain dissuaded her from it.
A most important event occurred: Paul's marriage.
After being first a notary's clerk, then in business, then in the customs, and a tax collector,
and having even applied for a position in the administration of woods and forests, he had at
last, when he was thirty-six years old, by a divine inspiration, found his vocation:
registrature! and he displayed such a high ability that an inspector had offered him his
daughter and his influence.
Paul, who had become quite settled, brought his bride to visit his mother.
But she looked down upon the customs of Pont-l'Evêque, put on airs, and hurt Félicité's
feelings. Madame Aubain felt relieved when she left.
46

The following week they learned of Monsieur Bourais' death in an inn. There were rumours
of suicide, which were confirmed; doubts concerning his integrity arose. Madame Aubain
looked over her accounts and soon discovered his numerous embezzlements; sales of wood
which had been concealed from her, false receipts, etc. Furthermore, he had an illegitimate
child, and entertained a friendship for "a person in Dozulé."
These base actions affected her very much. In March, 1853, she developed a pain in her
chest; her tongue looked as if it were coated with smoke, and the leeches they applied did not
relieve her oppression; and on the ninth evening she died, being just seventy-two years old.
People thought that she was younger, because her hair, which she wore in bands framing her
pale face, was brown. Few friends regretted her loss, for her manner was so haughty that she
did not attract them. Félicité mourned for her as servants seldom mourn for their masters. The
fact that Madame should die before herself perplexed her mind and seemed contrary to the
order of things, and absolutely monstrous and inadmissible. Ten days later (the time to
journey from Besançon), the heirs arrived. Her daughter-in-law ransacked the drawers, kept
some of the furniture, and sold the rest; then they went back to their own home.
Madame's armchair, foot-warmer, work-table, the eight chairs, everything was gone! The
places occupied by the pictures formed yellow squares on the walls. They had taken the two
little beds, and the wardrobe had been emptied of Virginia's belongings! Félicité went
upstairs, overcome with grief.
The following day a sign was posted on the door; the chemist screamed in her ear that the
house was for sale.
For a moment she tottered, and had to sit down.
What hurt her most was to give up her room,—so nice for poor Loulou! She looked at him in
despair and implored the Holy Ghost, and it was this way that she contracted the idolatrous
habit of saying her prayers kneeling in front of the bird. Sometimes the sun fell through the
window on his glass eye, and lighted a great spark in it which sent Félicité into ecstasy.
Her mistress had left her an income of three hundred and eighty francs. The garden supplied
her with vegetables. As for clothes, she had enough to last her till the end of her days, and she
economised on the light by going to bed at dusk.
She rarely went out, in order to avoid passing in front of the second-hand dealer's shop where
there was some of the old furniture. Since her fainting spell, she dragged her leg, and as her
strength was failing rapidly, old Mother Simon, who had lost her money in the grocery
business, came every morning to chop the wood and pump the water.
Her eyesight grew dim. She did not open the shutters after that. Many years passed. But the
house did not sell or rent. Fearing that she would be put out, Félicité did not ask for repairs.
The laths of the roof were rotting away, and during one whole winter her bolster was wet.
After Easter she spit blood.
Then Mother Simon went for a doctor. Félicité wished to know what her complaint was. But,
being too deaf to hear, she caught only one word: "Pneumonia." She was familiar with it and
47

gently answered:—"Ah! like Madame," thinking it quite natural that she should follow her
mistress.
The time for the altars in the street drew near.
The first one was always erected at the foot of the hill, the second in front of the post-office,
and the third in the middle of the street. This position occasioned some rivalry among the
women and they finally decided upon Madame Aubain's yard.
Félicité's fever grew worse. She was sorry that she could not do anything for the altar. If she
could, at least, have contributed something toward it! Then she thought of the parrot. Her
neighbours objected that it would not be proper. But the curé gave his consent and she was so
grateful for it that she begged him to accept after her death, her only treasure, Loulou. From
Tuesday until Saturday, the day before the event, she coughed more frequently. In the
evening her face was contracted, her lips stuck to her gums and she began to vomit; and on
the following day, she felt so low that she called for a priest.
Three neighbours surrounded her when the dominie administered the
Extreme Unction. Afterwards she said that she wished to speak to
Fabu.
He arrived in his Sunday clothes, very ill at ease among the funereal surroundings.
"Forgive me," she said, making an effort to extend her arm, "I believed it was you who killed
him!"
What did such accusations mean Suspect a man like him of murder!
And Fabu became excited and was about to make trouble.
"Don't you see she is not in her right mind"
From time to time Félicité spoke to shadows. The women left her and Mother Simon sat
down to breakfast.
A little later, she took Loulou and holding him up to Félicité:
"Say good-bye to him, now!" she commanded.
Although he was not a corpse, he was eaten up by worms; one of his wings was broken and
the wadding was coming out of his body. But Félicité was blind now, and she took him and
laid him against her cheek. Then Mother Simon removed him in order to set him on the altar.
CHAPTER V
THE VISION
48

The grass exhaled an odour of summer; flies buzzed in the air, the sun shone on the river and
warmed the slated roof. Old Mother Simon had returned to Félicité and was peacefully falling
asleep.
The ringing of bells woke her; the people were coming out of church. Félicité's delirium
subsided. By thinking of the procession, she was able to see it as if she had taken part in it.
All the school-children, the singers and the firemen walked on the sidewalks, while in the
middle of the street came first the custodian of the church with his halberd, then the beadle
with a large cross, the teacher in charge of the boys and a sister escorting the little girls; three
of the smallest ones, with curly heads, threw rose leaves into the air; the deacon with
outstretched arms conducted the music; and two incense-bearers turned with each step they
took toward the Holy Sacrament, which was carried by M. le Curé, attired in his handsome
chasuble and walking under a canopy of red velvet supported by four men. A crowd of
people followed, jammed between the walls of the houses hung with white sheets; at last the
procession arrived at the foot of the hill.
A cold sweat broke out on Félicité's forehead. Mother Simon wiped it away with a cloth,
saying inwardly that some day she would have to go through the same thing herself.
The murmur of the crowd grew louder, was very distinct for a moment and then died away. A
volley of musketry shook the window-panes. It was the postilions saluting the Sacrament.
Félicité rolled her eyes and said as loudly as she could:
"Is he all right" meaning the parrot.
Her death agony began. A rattle that grew more and more rapid shook her body. Froth
appeared at the corners of her mouth, and her whole frame trembled. In a little while could be
heard the music of the bass horns, the clear voices of the children and the men's deeper notes.
At intervals all was still, and their shoes sounded like a herd of cattle passing over the grass.
The clergy appeared in the yard. Mother Simon climbed on a chair to reach the bull's-eye,
and in this manner could see the altar. It was covered with a lace cloth and draped with green
wreaths. In the middle stood a little frame containing relics; at the corners were two little
orange-trees, and all along the edge were silver candlesticks, porcelain vases containing sunflowers,
lilies, peonies, and tufts of hydrangeas. This mound of bright colours descended
diagonally from the first floor to the carpet that covered the sidewalk. Rare objects arrested
one's eye. A golden sugar-bowl was crowned with violets, earrings set with Alençon stones
were displayed on green moss, and two Chinese screens with their bright landscapes were
near by. Loulou, hidden beneath roses, showed nothing but his blue head which looked like a
piece of lapis-lazuli.
The singers, the canopy-bearers and the children lined up against the sides of the yard.
Slowly the priest ascended the steps and placed his shining sun on the lace cloth. Everybody
knelt. There was deep silence; and the censers slipping on their chains were swung high in
the air. A blue vapour rose in Félicité's room. She opened her nostrils and inhaled it with a
mystic sensuousness; then she closed her lids. Her lips smiled. The beats of her heart grew
fainter and fainter, and vaguer, like a fountain giving out, like an echo dying away;—and
when she exhaled her last breath, she thought she saw in the half-opened heavens a gigantic
parrot hovering above her head.
49

THE THREE STRANGERS – Thomas Hardy
Among the few features of agricultural England which retain an appearance but little
modified by the lapse of centuries, may be reckoned the high, grassy and furzy downs,
coombs, or ewe-leases, as they are indifferently called, that fill a large area of certain counties
in the south and south-west. If any mark of human occupation is met with hereon, it usually
takes the form of the solitary cottage of some shepherd.
Fifty years ago such a lonely cottage stood on such a down, and may possibly be standing
there now. In spite of its loneliness, however, the spot, by actual measurement, was not more
than five miles from a county-town. Yet that affected it little. Five miles of irregular upland,
during the long inimical seasons, with their sleets, snows, rains, and mists, afford
withdrawing space enough to isolate a Timon or a Nebuchadnezzar; much less, in fair
weather, to please that less repellent tribe, the poets, philosophers, artists, and others who
‗conceive and meditate of pleasant things.‘
Some old earthen camp or barrow, some clump of trees, at least some starved fragment of
ancient hedge is usually taken advantage of in the erection of these forlorn dwellings. But, in
the present case, such a kind of shelter had been disregarded. Higher Crowstairs, as the
house was called, stood quite detached and undefended. The only reason for its precise
situation seemed to be the crossing of two footpaths at right angles hard by, which may have
crossed there and thus for a good five hundred years. Hence the house was exposed to the
elements on all sides. But, though the wind up here blew unmistakably when it did blow, and
the rain hit hard whenever it fell, the various weathers of the winter season were not quite so
formidable on the coomb as they were imagined to be by dwellers on low ground. The raw
rimes were not so pernicious as in the hollows, and the frosts were scarcely so severe. When
the shepherd and his family who tenanted the house were pitied for their sufferings from the
exposure, they said that upon the whole they were less inconvenienced by ‗wuzzes and
flames‘ (hoarses and phlegms) than when they had lived by the stream of a snug
neighbouring valley.
The night of March 28, 182-, was precisely one of the nights that were wont to call forth
these expressions of commiseration. The level rainstorm smote walls, slopes, and hedges like
the clothyard shafts of Senlac and Crecy. Such sheep and outdoor animals as had no shelter
stood with their buttocks to the winds; while the tails of little birds trying to roost on some
scraggy thorn were blown inside-out like umbrellas. The gable-end of the cottage was
stained with wet, and the eavesdroppings flapped against the wall. Yet never was
commiseration for the shepherd more misplaced. For that cheerful rustic was entertaining a
large party in glorification of the christening of his second girl.
The guests had arrived before the rain began to fall, and they were all now assembled in the
chief or living room of the dwelling. A glance into the apartment at eight o‘clock on this
eventful evening would have resulted in the opinion that it was as cosy and comfortable a
nook as could be wished for in boisterous weather. The calling of its inhabitant was
proclaimed by a number of highly-polished sheep-crooks without stems that were hung
ornamentally over the fireplace, the curl of each shining crook varying from the antiquated
type engraved in the patriarchal pictures of old family Bibles to the most approved fashion of
the last local sheep-fair. The room was lighted by half-a-dozen candles, having wicks only a
trifle smaller than the grease which enveloped them, in candlesticks that were never used but
at high-days, holy-days, and family feasts. The lights were scattered about the room, two of
50

them standing on the chimney-piece. This position of candles was in itself
significant. Candles on the chimney-piece always meant a party.
On the hearth, in front of a back-brand to give substance, blazed a fire of thorns, that crackled
‗like the laughter of the fool.‘
Nineteen persons were gathered here. Of these, five women, wearing gowns of various
bright hues, sat in chairs along the wall; girls shy and not shy filled the window-bench; four
men, including Charley Jake the hedge-carpenter, Elijah New the parish-clerk, and John
Pitcher, a neighbouring dairyman, the shepherd‘s father-in-law, lolled in the settle; a young
man and maid, who were blushing over tentative pourparlers on a life-companionship, sat
beneath the corner-cupboard; and an elderly engaged man of fifty or upward moved restlessly
about from spots where his betrothed was not to the spot where she was. Enjoyment was
pretty general, and so much the more prevailed in being unhampered by conventional
restrictions. Absolute confidence in each other‘s good opinion begat perfect ease, while the
finishing stroke of manner, amounting to a truly princely serenity, was lent to the majority by
the absence of any expression or trait denoting that they wished to get on in the world,
enlarge their minds, or do any eclipsing thing whatever—which nowadays so generally nips
the bloom and bonhomie of all except the two extremes of the social scale.
Shepherd Fennel had married well, his wife being a dairyman‘s daughter from a vale at a
distance, who brought fifty guineas in her pocket—and kept them there, till they should be
required for ministering to the needs of a coming family. This frugal woman had been
somewhat exercised as to the character that should be given to the gathering. A sit-still party
had its advantages; but an undisturbed position of ease in chairs and settles was apt to lead on
the men to such an unconscionable deal of toping that they would sometimes fairly drink the
house dry. A dancing-party was the alternative; but this, while avoiding the foregoing
objection on the score of good drink, had a counterbalancing disadvantage in the matter of
good victuals, the ravenous appetites engendered by the exercise causing immense havoc in
the buttery. Shepherdess Fennel fell back upon the intermediate plan of mingling short
dances with short periods of talk and singing, so as to hinder any ungovernable rage in
either. But this scheme was entirely confined to her own gentle mind: the shepherd himself
was in the mood to exhibit the most reckless phases of hospitality.
The fiddler was a boy of those parts, about twelve years of age, who had a wonderful
dexterity in jigs and reels, though his fingers were so small and short as to necessitate a
constant shifting for the high notes, from which he scrambled back to the first position with
sounds not of unmixed purity of tone. At seven the shrill tweedle-dee of this youngster had
begun, accompanied by a booming ground-bass from Elijah New, the parish-clerk, who had
thoughtfully brought with him his favourite musical instrument, the serpent. Dancing was
instantaneous, Mrs. Fennel privately enjoining the players on no account to let the dance
exceed the length of a quarter of an hour.
But Elijah and the boy, in the excitement of their position, quite forgot the
injunction. Moreover, Oliver Giles, a man of seventeen, one of the dancers, who was
enamoured of his partner, a fair girl of thirty-three rolling years, had recklessly handed a new
crown-piece to the musicians, as a bribe to keep going as long as they had muscle and
wind. Mrs. Fennel, seeing the steam begin to generate on the countenances of her guests,
crossed over and touched the fiddler‘s elbow and put her hand on the serpent‘s mouth. But
they took no notice, and fearing she might lose her character of genial hostess if she were to
51

interfere too markedly, she retired and sat down helpless. And so the dance whizzed on with
cumulative fury, the performers moving in their planet-like courses, direct and retrograde,
from apogee to perigee, till the hand of the well-kicked clock at the bottom of the room had
travelled over the circumference of an hour.
While these cheerful events were in course of enactment within Fennel‘s pastoral dwelling,
an incident having considerable bearing on the party had occurred in the gloomy night
without. Mrs. Fennel‘s concern about the growing fierceness of the dance corresponded in
point of time with the ascent of a human figure to the solitary hill of Higher Crowstairs from
the direction of the distant town. This personage strode on through the rain without a pause,
following the little-worn path which, further on in its course, skirted the shepherd‘s cottage.
It was nearly the time of full moon, and on this account, though the sky was lined with a
uniform sheet of dripping cloud, ordinary objects out of doors were readily visible. The sad
wan light revealed the lonely pedestrian to be a man of supple frame; his gait suggested that
he had somewhat passed the period of perfect and instinctive agility, though not so far as to
be otherwise than rapid of motion when occasion required. At a rough guess, he might have
been about forty years of age. He appeared tall, but a recruiting sergeant, or other person
accustomed to the judging of men‘s heights by the eye, would have discerned that this was
chiefly owing to his gauntness, and that he was not more than five-feet-eight or nine.
Notwithstanding the regularity of his tread, there was caution in it, as in that of one who
mentally feels his way; and despite the fact that it was not a black coat nor a dark garment of
any sort that he wore, there was something about him which suggested that he naturally
belonged to the black-coated tribes of men. His clothes were of fustian, and his boots
hobnailed, yet in his progress he showed not the mud-accustomed bearing of hobnailed and
fustianed peasantry.
By the time that he had arrived abreast of the shepherd‘s premises the rain came down, or
rather came along, with yet more determined violence. The outskirts of the little settlement
partially broke the force of wind and rain, and this induced him to stand still. The most
salient of the shepherd‘s domestic erections was an empty sty at the forward corner of his
hedgeless garden, for in these latitudes the principle of masking the homelier features of your
establishment by a conventional frontage was unknown. The traveller‘s eye was attracted to
this small building by the pallid shine of the wet slates that covered it. He turned aside, and,
finding it empty, stood under the pent-roof for shelter.
While he stood, the boom of the serpent within the adjacent house, and the lesser strains of
the fiddler, reached the spot as an accompaniment to the surging hiss of the flying rain on the
sod, its louder beating on the cabbage-leaves of the garden, on the eight or ten beehives just
discernible by the path, and its dripping from the eaves into a row of buckets and pans that
had been placed under the walls of the cottage. For at Higher Crowstairs, as at all such
elevated domiciles, the grand difficulty of housekeeping was an insufficiency of water; and a
casual rainfall was utilized by turning out, as catchers, every utensil that the house
contained. Some queer stories might be told of the contrivances for economy in suds and
dish-waters that are absolutely necessitated in upland habitations during the droughts of
summer. But at this season there were no such exigencies; a mere acceptance of what the
skies bestowed was sufficient for an abundant store.
52

At last the notes of the serpent ceased and the house was silent. This cessation of activity
aroused the solitary pedestrian from the reverie into which he had lapsed, and, emerging from
the shed, with an apparently new intention, he walked up the path to the house-door. Arrived
here, his first act was to kneel down on a large stone beside the row of vessels, and to drink a
copious draught from one of them. Having quenched his thirst he rose and lifted his hand to
knock, but paused with his eye upon the panel. Since the dark surface of the wood revealed
absolutely nothing, it was evident that he must be mentally looking through the door, as if he
wished to measure thereby all the possibilities that a house of this sort might include, and
how they might bear upon the question of his entry.
In his indecision he turned and surveyed the scene around. Not a soul was anywhere
visible. The garden-path stretched downward from his feet, gleaming like the track of a snail;
the roof of the little well (mostly dry), the well-cover, the top rail of the garden-gate, were
varnished with the same dull liquid glaze; while, far away in the vale, a faint whiteness of
more than usual extent showed that the rivers were high in the meads. Beyond all this
winked a few bleared lamplights through the beating drops—lights that denoted the situation
of the county-town from which he had appeared to come. The absence of all notes of life in
that direction seemed to clinch his intentions, and he knocked at the door.
Within, a desultory chat had taken the place of movement and musical sound. The hedgecarpenter
was suggesting a song to the company, which nobody just then was inclined to
undertake, so that the knock afforded a not unwelcome diversion.
‗Walk in!‘ said the shepherd promptly.
The latch clicked upward, and out of the night our pedestrian appeared upon the doormat.
The shepherd arose, snuffed two of the nearest candles, and turned to look at him.
Their light disclosed that the stranger was dark in complexion and not unprepossessing as to
feature. His hat, which for a moment he did not remove, hung low over his eyes, without
concealing that they were large, open, and determined, moving with a flash rather than a
glance round the room. He seemed pleased with his survey, and, baring his shaggy head,
said, in a rich deep voice, ‗The rain is so heavy, friends, that I ask leave to come in and rest
awhile.‘
‗To be sure, stranger,‘ said the shepherd. ‗And faith, you‘ve been lucky in choosing your
time, for we are having a bit of a fling for a glad cause—though, to be sure, a man could
hardly wish that glad cause to happen more than once a year.‘
‗Nor less,‘ spoke up a woman. ‗For ‘tis best to get your family over and done with, as soon
as you can, so as to be all the earlier out of the fag o‘t.‘
‗And what may be this glad cause‘ asked the stranger.
‗A birth and christening,‘ said the shepherd.
The stranger hoped his host might not be made unhappy either by too many or too few of
such episodes, and being invited by a gesture to a pull at the mug, he readily acquiesced. His
manner, which, before entering, had been so dubious, was now altogether that of a careless
and candid man.
53

‗Late to be traipsing athwart this coomb—hey‘ said the engaged man of fifty.
‗Late it is, master, as you say.—I‘ll take a seat in the chimney-corner, if you have nothing to
urge against it, ma‘am; for I am a little moist on the side that was next the rain.‘
Mrs. Shepherd Fennel assented, and made room for the self-invited comer, who, having got
completely inside the chimney-corner, stretched out his legs and his arms with the
expansiveness of a person quite at home.
‗Yes, I am rather cracked in the vamp,‘ he said freely, seeing that the eyes of the shepherd‘s
wife fell upon his boots, ‗and I am not well fitted either. I have had some rough times lately,
and have been forced to pick up what I can get in the way of wearing, but I must find a suit
better fit for working-days when I reach home.‘
‗One of hereabouts‘ she inquired.
‗Not quite that—further up the country.‘
‗I thought so. And so be I; and by your tongue you come from my neighbourhood.‘
‗But you would hardly have heard of me,‘ he said quickly. ‗My time would be long before
yours, ma‘am, you see.‘
This testimony to the youthfulness of his hostess had the effect of stopping her crossexamination.
‗There is only one thing more wanted to make me happy,‘ continued the new-comer. ‗And
that is a little baccy, which I am sorry to say I am out of.‘
‗I‘ll fill your pipe,‘ said the shepherd.
‗I must ask you to lend me a pipe likewise.‘
‗A smoker, and no pipe about ‗ee‘
‗I have dropped it somewhere on the road.‘
The shepherd filled and handed him a new clay pipe, saying, as he did so, ‗Hand me your
baccy-box—I‘ll fill that too, now I am about it.‘
The man went through the movement of searching his pockets.
‗Lost that too‘ said his entertainer, with some surprise.
‗I am afraid so,‘ said the man with some confusion. ‗Give it to me in a screw of
paper.‘ Lighting his pipe at the candle with a suction that drew the whole flame into the
bowl, he resettled himself in the corner and bent his looks upon the faint steam from his damp
legs, as if he wished to say no more.
54

Meanwhile the general body of guests had been taking little notice of this visitor by reason of
an absorbing discussion in which they were engaged with the band about a tune for the next
dance. The matter being settled, they were about to stand up when an interruption came in
the shape of another knock at the door.
At sound of the same the man in the chimney-corner took up the poker and began stirring the
brands as if doing it thoroughly were the one aim of his existence; and a second time the
shepherd said, ‗Walk in!‘ In a moment another man stood upon the straw-woven doormat.
He too was a stranger.
This individual was one of a type radically different from the first. There was more of the
commonplace in his manner, and a certain jovial cosmopolitanism sat upon his features. He
was several years older than the first arrival, his hair being slightly frosted, his eyebrows
bristly, and his whiskers cut back from his cheeks. His face was rather full and flabby, and
yet it was not altogether a face without power. A few grog-blossoms marked the
neighbourhood of his nose. He flung back his long drab greatcoat, revealing that beneath it
he wore a suit of cinder-gray shade throughout, large heavy seals, of some metal or other that
would take a polish, dangling from his fob as his only personal ornament. Shaking the waterdrops
from his low-crowned glazed hat, he said, ‗I must ask for a few minutes‘ shelter,
comrades, or I shall be wetted to my skin before I get to Casterbridge.‘
‗Make yourself at home, master,‘ said the shepherd, perhaps a trifle less heartily than on the
first occasion. Not that Fennel had the least tinge of niggardliness in his composition; but the
room was far from large, spare chairs were not numerous, and damp companions were not
altogether desirable at close quarters for the women and girls in their bright-coloured gowns.
However, the second comer, after taking off his greatcoat, and hanging his hat on a nail in
one of the ceiling-beams as if he had been specially invited to put it there, advanced and sat
down at the table. This had been pushed so closely into the chimney-corner, to give all
available room to the dancers, that its inner edge grazed the elbow of the man who had
ensconced himself by the fire; and thus the two strangers were brought into close
companionship. They nodded to each other by way of breaking the ice of unacquaintance,
and the first stranger handed his neighbour the family mug—a huge vessel of brown ware,
having its upper edge worn away like a threshold by the rub of whole generations of thirsty
lips that had gone the way of all flesh, and bearing the following inscription burnt upon its
rotund side in yellow letters
THERE IS NO FUN
UNTiLL i CUM.
The other man, nothing loth, raised the mug to his lips, and drank on, and on, and on—till a
curious blueness overspread the countenance of the shepherd‘s wife, who had regarded with
no little surprise the first stranger‘s free offer to the second of what did not belong to him to
dispense.
‗I knew it!‘ said the toper to the shepherd with much satisfaction. ‗When I walked up your
garden before coming in, and saw the hives all of a row, I said to myself; ―Where there‘s bees
there‘s honey, and where there‘s honey there‘s mead.‖ But mead of such a truly comfortable
sort as this I really didn‘t expect to meet in my older days.‘ He took yet another pull at the
mug, till it assumed an ominous elevation.
55

‗Glad you enjoy it!‘ said the shepherd warmly.
‗It is goodish mead,‘ assented Mrs. Fennel, with an absence of enthusiasm which seemed to
say that it was possible to buy praise for one‘s cellar at too heavy a price. ‗It is trouble
enough to make—and really I hardly think we shall make any more. For honey sells well,
and we ourselves can make shift with a drop o‘ small mead and metheglin for common use
from the comb-washings.‘
‗O, but you‘ll never have the heart!‘ reproachfully cried the stranger in cinder-gray, after
taking up the mug a third time and setting it down empty. ‗I love mead, when ‘tis old like
this, as I love to go to church o‘ Sundays, or to relieve the needy any day of the week.‘
‗Ha, ha, ha!‘ said the man in the chimney-corner, who, in spite of the taciturnity induced by
the pipe of tobacco, could not or would not refrain from this slight testimony to his comrade‘s
humour.
Now the old mead of those days, brewed of the purest first-year or maiden honey, four
pounds to the gallon—with its due complement of white of eggs, cinnamon, ginger, cloves,
mace, rosemary, yeast, and processes of working, bottling, and cellaring—tasted remarkably
strong; but it did not taste so strong as it actually was. Hence, presently, the stranger in
cinder-gray at the table, moved by its creeping influence, unbuttoned his waistcoat, threw
himself back in his chair, spread his legs, and made his presence felt in various ways.
‗Well, well, as I say,‘ he resumed, ‗I am going to Casterbridge, and to Casterbridge I must
go. I should have been almost there by this time; but the rain drove me into your dwelling,
and I‘m not sorry for it.‘
‗You don‘t live in Casterbridge‘ said the shepherd.
‗Not as yet; though I shortly mean to move there.‘
‗Going to set up in trade, perhaps‘
‗No, no,‘ said the shepherd‘s wife. ‗It is easy to see that the gentleman is rich, and don‘t
want to work at anything.‘
The cinder-gray stranger paused, as if to consider whether he would accept that definition of
himself. He presently rejected it by answering, ‗Rich is not quite the word for me, dame. I
do work, and I must work. And even if I only get to Casterbridge by midnight I must begin
work there at eight to-morrow morning. Yes, het or wet, blow or snow, famine or sword, my
day‘s work to-morrow must be done.‘
‗Poor man! Then, in spite o‘ seeming, you be worse off than we‘ replied the shepherd‘s
wife.
‗‘Tis the nature of my trade, men and maidens. ‘Tis the nature of my trade more than my
poverty . . . But really and truly I must up and off, or I shan‘t get a lodging in the
town.‘ However, the speaker did not move, and directly added, ‗There‘s time for one more
draught of friendship before I go; and I‘d perform it at once if the mug were not dry.‘
56

‗Here‘s a mug o‘ small,‘ said Mrs. Fennel. ‗Small, we call it, though to be sure ‘tis only the
first wash o‘ the combs.‘
‗No,‘ said the stranger disdainfully. ‗I won‘t spoil your first kindness by partaking o‘ your
second.‘
‗Certainly not,‘ broke in Fennel. ‗We don‘t increase and multiply every day, and I‘ll fill the
mug again.‘ He went away to the dark place under the stairs where the barrel stood. The
shepherdess followed him.
‗Why should you do this‘ she said reproachfully, as soon as they were alone. ‗He‘s emptied
it once, though it held enough for ten people; and now he‘s not contented wi‘ the small, but
must needs call for more o‘ the strong! And a stranger unbeknown to any of us. For my part,
I don‘t like the look o‘ the man at all.‘
‗But he‘s in the house, my honey; and ‘tis a wet night, and a christening. Daze it, what‘s a
cup of mead more or less There‘ll be plenty more next bee-burning.‘
‗Very well—this time, then,‘ she answered, looking wistfully at the barrel. ‗But what is the
man‘s calling, and where is he one of; that he should come in and join us like this‘
‗I don‘t know. I‘ll ask him again.‘
The catastrophe of having the mug drained dry at one pull by the stranger in cinder-gray was
effectually guarded against this time by Mrs. Fennel. She poured out his allowance in a small
cup, keeping the large one at a discreet distance from him. When he had tossed off his
portion the shepherd renewed his inquiry about the stranger‘s occupation.
The latter did not immediately reply, and the man in the chimney-corner, with sudden
demonstrativeness, said, ‗Anybody may know my trade—I‘m a wheelwright.‘
‗A very good trade for these parts,‘ said the shepherd.
‗And anybody may know mine—if they‘ve the sense to find it out,‘ said the stranger in
cinder-gray.
‗You may generally tell what a man is by his claws,‘ observed the hedge-carpenter, looking
at his own hands. ‗My fingers be as full of thorns as an old pin-cushion is of pins.‘
The hands of the man in the chimney-corner instinctively sought the shade, and he gazed into
the fire as he resumed his pipe. The man at the table took up the hedge-carpenter‘s remark,
and added smartly, ‗True; but the oddity of my trade is that, instead of setting a mark upon
me, it sets a mark upon my customers.‘
No observation being offered by anybody in elucidation of this enigma, the shepherd‘s wife
once more called for a song. The same obstacles presented themselves as at the former
time—one had no voice, another had forgotten the first verse. The stranger at the table,
whose soul had now risen to a good working temperature, relieved the difficulty by
exclaiming that, to start the company, he would sing himself. Thrusting one thumb into the
57

arm-hole of his waistcoat, he waved the other hand in the air, and, with an extemporizing
gaze at the shining sheep-crooks above the mantelpiece, began:-
‗O my trade it is the rarest one,
Simple shepherds all -
My trade is a sight to see;
For my customers I tie, and take them up on high,
And waft ‘em to a far countree!‘
The room was silent when he had finished the verse—with one exception, that of the man in
the chimney-corner, who, at the singer‘s word, ‗Chorus! ‗joined him in a deep bass voice of
musical relish -
‗And waft ‘em to a far countree!‘
Oliver Giles, John Pitcher the dairyman, the parish-clerk, the engaged man of fifty, the row of
young women against the wall, seemed lost in thought not of the gayest kind. The shepherd
looked meditatively on the ground, the shepherdess gazed keenly at the singer, and with some
suspicion; she was doubting whether this stranger were merely singing an old song from
recollection, or was composing one there and then for the occasion. All were as perplexed at
the obscure revelation as the guests at Belshazzar‘s Feast, except the man in the chimneycorner,
who quietly said, ‗Second verse, stranger,‘ and smoked on.
The singer thoroughly moistened himself from his lips inwards, and went on with the next
stanza as requested:-
‗My tools are but common ones,
Simple shepherds all -
My tools are no sight to see:
A little hempen string, and a post whereon to swing,
Are implements enough for me!‘
Shepherd Fennel glanced round. There was no longer any doubt that the stranger was
answering his question rhythmically. The guests one and all started back with suppressed
exclamations. The young woman engaged to the man of fifty fainted half-way, and would
have proceeded, but finding him wanting in alacrity for catching her she sat down trembling.
‗O, he‘s the—!‘ whispered the people in the background, mentioning the name of an ominous
public officer. ‗He‘s come to do it! ‘Tis to be at Casterbridge jail to-morrow—the man for
sheep-stealing—the poor clock-maker we heard of; who used to live away at Shottsford and
had no work to do—Timothy Summers, whose family were a-starving, and so he went out of
Shottsford by the high-road, and took a sheep in open daylight, defying the farmer and the
farmer‘s wife and the farmer‘s lad, and every man jack among ‘em. He‘ (and they nodded
towards the stranger of the deadly trade) ‗is come from up the country to do it because there‘s
not enough to do in his own county-town, and he‘s got the place here now our own county
man‘s dead; he‘s going to live in the same cottage under the prison wall.‘
The stranger in cinder-gray took no notice of this whispered string of observations, but again
wetted his lips. Seeing that his friend in the chimney-corner was the only one who
reciprocated his joviality in any way, he held out his cup towards that appreciative comrade,
58

who also held out his own. They clinked together, the eyes of the rest of the room hanging
upon the singer‘s actions. He parted his lips for the third verse; but at that moment another
knock was audible upon the door. This time the knock was faint and hesitating.
The company seemed scared; the shepherd looked with consternation towards the entrance,
and it was with some effort that he resisted his alarmed wife‘s deprecatory glance, and uttered
for the third time the welcoming words, ‗Walk in!‘
The door was gently opened, and another man stood upon the mat. He, like those who had
preceded him, was a stranger. This time it was a short, small personage, of fair complexion,
and dressed in a decent suit of dark clothes.
‗Can you tell me the way to—‘ he began: when, gazing round the room to observe the nature
of the company amongst whom he had fallen, his eyes lighted on the stranger in cindergray.
It was just at the instant when the latter, who had thrown his mind into his song with
such a will that he scarcely heeded the interruption, silenced all whispers and inquiries by
bursting into his third verse:-
‗To-morrow is my working day,
Simple shepherds all -
To-morrow is a working day for me:
For the farmer‘s sheep is slain, and the lad who did it ta‘en,
And on his soul may God ha‘ merc-y!‘
The stranger in the chimney-corner, waving cups with the singer so heartily that his mead
splashed over on the hearth, repeated in his bass voice as before:-
‗And on his soul may God ha‘ merc-y!‘
All this time the third stranger had been standing in the doorway. Finding now that he did
not come forward or go on speaking, the guests particularly regarded him. They noticed to
their surprise that he stood before them the picture of abject terror—his knees trembling, his
hand shaking so violently that the door-latch by which he supported himself rattled audibly:
his white lips were parted, and his eyes fixed on the merry officer of justice in the middle of
the room. A moment more and he had turned, closed the door, and fled.
‗What a man can it be‘ said the shepherd.
The rest, between the awfulness of their late discovery and the odd conduct of this third
visitor, looked as if they knew not what to think, and said nothing. Instinctively they
withdrew further and further from the grim gentleman in their midst, whom some of them
seemed to take for the Prince of Darkness himself; till they formed a remote circle, an empty
space of floor being left between them and him -
‗ . . . circulus, cujus centrum diabolus.‘
The room was so silent—though there were more than twenty people in it—that nothing
could be heard but the patter of the rain against the window-shutters, accompanied by the
occasional hiss of a stray drop that fell down the chimney into the fire, and the steady puffing
of the man in the corner, who had now resumed his pipe of long clay.
59

The stillness was unexpectedly broken. The distant sound of a gun reverberated through the
air—apparently from the direction of the county-town.
‗Be jiggered!‘ cried the stranger who had sung the song, jumping up.
‗What does that mean‘ asked several.
‗A prisoner escaped from the jail—that‘s what it means.‘
All listened. The sound was repeated, and none of them spoke but the man in the chimneycorner,
who said quietly, ‗I‘ve often been told that in this county they fire a gun at such times;
but I never heard it till now.‘
‗I wonder if it is my man‘ murmured the personage in cinder-gray.
‗Surely it is!‘ said the shepherd involuntarily. ‗And surely we‘ve zeed him! That little man
who looked in at the door by now, and quivered like a leaf when he zeed ye and heard your
song!‘
‗His teeth chattered, and the breath went out of his body,‘ said the dairyman.
‗And his heart seemed to sink within him like a stone,‘ said Oliver Giles.
‗And he bolted as if he‘d been shot at,‘ said the hedge-carpenter.
‗True—his teeth chattered, and his heart seemed to sink; and he bolted as if he‘d been shot
at,‘ slowly summed up the man in the chimney-corner.
‗I didn‘t notice it,‘ remarked the hangman.
‗We were all a-wondering what made him run off in such a fright,‘ faltered one of the women
against the wall, ‗and now ‘tis explained!‘
The firing of the alarm-gun went on at intervals, low and sullenly, and their suspicions
became a certainty. The sinister gentleman in cinder-gray roused himself. ‗Is there a
constable here‘ he asked, in thick tones. ‗If so, let him step forward.‘
The engaged man of fifty stepped quavering out from the wall, his betrothed beginning to sob
on the back of the chair.
‗You are a sworn constable‘
‗I be, sir.‘
‗Then pursue the criminal at once, with assistance, and bring him back here. He can‘t have
gone far.‘
‗I will, sir, I will—when I‘ve got my staff. I‘ll go home and get it, and come sharp here, and
start in a body.‘
60

‗Staff!—never mind your staff; the man‘ll be gone!‘
‗But I can‘t do nothing without my staff—can I, William, and John, and Charles Jake No;
for there‘s the king‘s royal crown a painted on en in yaller and gold, and the lion and the
unicorn, so as when I raise en up and hit my prisoner, ‘tis made a lawful blow thereby. I
wouldn‘t ‗tempt to take up a man without my staff—no, not I. If I hadn‘t the law to gie me
courage, why, instead o‘ my taking up him he might take up me!‘
‗Now, I‘m a king‘s man myself; and can give you authority enough for this,‘ said the
formidable officer in gray. ‗Now then, all of ye, be ready. Have ye any lanterns‘
‗Yes—have ye any lanterns—I demand it!‘ said the constable.
‗And the rest of you able-bodied—‘
‗Able-bodied men—yes—the rest of ye!‘ said the constable.
‗Have you some good stout staves and pitch-forks—‘
‗Staves and pitchforks—in the name o‘ the law! And take ‘em in yer hands and go in quest,
and do as we in authority tell ye!‘
Thus aroused, the men prepared to give chase. The evidence was, indeed, though
circumstantial, so convincing, that but little argument was needed to show the shepherd‘s
guests that after what they had seen it would look very much like connivance if they did not
instantly pursue the unhappy third stranger, who could not as yet have gone more than a few
hundred yards over such uneven country.
A shepherd is always well provided with lanterns; and, lighting these hastily, and with
hurdle-staves in their hands, they poured out of the door, taking a direction along the crest of
the hill, away from the town, the rain having fortunately a little abated.
Disturbed by the noise, or possibly by unpleasant dreams of her baptism, the child who had
been christened began to cry heart-brokenly in the room overhead. These notes of grief came
down through the chinks of the floor to the ears of the women below, who jumped up one by
one, and seemed glad of the excuse to ascend and comfort the baby, for the incidents of the
last half-hour greatly oppressed them. Thus in the space of two or three minutes the room on
the ground-floor was deserted quite.
But it was not for long. Hardly had the sound of footsteps died away when a man returned
round the corner of the house from the direction the pursuers had taken. Peeping in at the
door, and seeing nobody there, he entered leisurely. It was the stranger of the chimneycorner,
who had gone out with the rest. The motive of his return was shown by his helping
himself to a cut piece of skimmer-cake that lay on a ledge beside where he had sat, and which
he had apparently forgotten to take with him. He also poured out half a cup more mead from
the quantity that remained, ravenously eating and drinking these as he stood. He had not
finished when another figure came in just as quietly—his friend in cinder-gray.
61

‗O—you here‘ said the latter, smiling. ‗I thought you had gone to help in the capture.‘ And
this speaker also revealed the object of his return by looking solicitously round for the
fascinating mug of old mead.
‗And I thought you had gone,‘ said the other, continuing his skimmer-cake with some effort.
‗Well, on second thoughts, I felt there were enough without me,‘ said the first confidentially,
‗and such a night as it is, too. Besides, ‘tis the business o‘ the Government to take care of its
criminals—not mine.‘
‗True; so it is. And I felt as you did, that there were enough without me.‘
‗I don‘t want to break my limbs running over the humps and hollows of this wild country.‘
‗Nor I neither, between you and me.‘
‗These shepherd-people are used to it—simple-minded souls, you know, stirred up to
anything in a moment. They‘ll have him ready for me before the morning, and no trouble to
me at all.‘
‗They‘ll have him, and we shall have saved ourselves all labour in the matter.‘
‗True, true. Well, my way is to Casterbridge; and ‘tis as much as my legs will do to take me
that far. Going the same way‘
‗No, I am sorry to say! I have to get home over there‘ (he nodded indefinitely to the right),
‗and I feel as you do, that it is quite enough for my legs to do before bedtime.‘
The other had by this time finished the mead in the mug, after which, shaking hands heartily
at the door, and wishing each other well, they went their several ways.
In the meantime the company of pursuers had reached the end of the hog‘s-back elevation
which dominated this part of the down. They had decided on no particular plan of action;
and, finding that the man of the baleful trade was no longer in their company, they seemed
quite unable to form any such plan now. They descended in all directions down the hill, and
straightway several of the party fell into the snare set by Nature for all misguided midnight
ramblers over this part of the cretaceous formation. The ‗lanchets,‘ or flint slopes, which
belted the escarpment at intervals of a dozen yards, took the less cautious ones unawares, and
losing their footing on the rubbly steep they slid sharply downwards, the lanterns rolling from
their hands to the bottom, and there lying on their sides till the horn was scorched through.
When they had again gathered themselves together, the shepherd, as the man who knew the
country best, took the lead, and guided them round these treacherous inclines. The lanterns,
which seemed rather to dazzle their eyes and warn the fugitive than to assist them in the
exploration, were extinguished, due silence was observed; and in this more rational order
they plunged into the vale. It was a grassy, briery, moist defile, affording some shelter to any
person who had sought it; but the party perambulated it in vain, and ascended on the other
side. Here they wandered apart, and after an interval closed together again to report progress.
62

At the second time of closing in they found themselves near a lonely ash, the single tree on
this part of the coomb, probably sown there by a passing bird some fifty years before. And
here, standing a little to one side of the trunk, as motionless as the trunk itself; appeared the
man they were in quest of; his outline being well defined against the sky beyond. The band
noiselessly drew up and faced him.
‗Your money or your life!‘ said the constable sternly to the still figure.
‗No, no,‘ whispered John Pitcher. ‗‘Tisn‘t our side ought to say that. That‘s the doctrine of
vagabonds like him, and we be on the side of the law.‘
‗Well, well,‘ replied the constable impatiently; ‗I must say something, mustn‘t I and if you
had all the weight o‘ this undertaking upon your mind, perhaps you‘d say the wrong thing
too!—Prisoner at the bar, surrender, in the name of the Father—the Crown, I mane!‘
The man under the tree seemed now to notice them for the first time, and, giving them no
opportunity whatever for exhibiting their courage, he strolled slowly towards them. He was,
indeed, the little man, the third stranger; but his trepidation had in a great measure gone.
‗Well, travellers,‘ he said, ‗did I hear ye speak to me‘
‗You did: you‘ve got to come and be our prisoner at once!‘ said the constable. ‗We arrest ‗ee
on the charge of not biding in Casterbridge jail in a decent proper manner to be hung tomorrow
morning. Neighbours, do your duty, and seize the culpet!‘
On hearing the charge, the man seemed enlightened, and, saying not another word, resigned
himself with preternatural civility to the search-party, who, with their staves in their hands,
surrounded him on all sides, and marched him back towards the shepherd‘s cottage.
It was eleven o‘clock by the time they arrived. The light shining from the open door, a sound
of men‘s voices within, proclaimed to them as they approached the house that some new
events had arisen in their absence. On entering they discovered the shepherd‘s living room to
be invaded by two officers from Casterbridge jail, and a well-known magistrate who lived at
the nearest country-seat, intelligence of the escape having become generally circulated.
‗Gentlemen,‘ said the constable, ‗I have brought back your man—not without risk and
danger; but every one must do his duty! He is inside this circle of able-bodied persons, who
have lent me useful aid, considering their ignorance of Crown work. Men, bring forward
your prisoner!‘ And the third stranger was led to the light.
‗Who is this‘ said one of the officials.
‗The man,‘ said the constable.
‗Certainly not,‘ said the turnkey; and the first corroborated his statement.
‗But how can it be otherwise‘ asked the constable. ‗Or why was he so terrified at sight o‘
the singing instrument of the law who sat there‘ Here he related the strange behaviour of the
third stranger on entering the house during the hangman‘s song.
63

‗Can‘t understand it,‘ said the officer coolly. ‗All I know is that it is not the condemned
man. He‘s quite a different character from this one; a gauntish fellow, with dark hair and
eyes, rather good-looking, and with a musical bass voice that if you heard it once you‘d never
mistake as long as you lived.‘
‗Why, souls—‘twas the man in the chimney-corner!‘
‗Hey—what‘ said the magistrate, coming forward after inquiring particulars from the
shepherd in the background. ‗Haven‘t you got the man after all‘
‗Well, sir,‘ said the constable, ‗he‘s the man we were in search of, that‘s true; and yet he‘s not
the man we were in search of. For the man we were in search of was not the man we wanted,
sir, if you understand my everyday way; for ‘twas the man in the chimney-corner!‘
‗A pretty kettle of fish altogether!‘ said the magistrate. ‗You had better start for the other
man at once.‘
The prisoner now spoke for the first time. The mention of the man in the chimney-corner
seemed to have moved him as nothing else could do. ‗Sir,‘ he said, stepping forward to the
magistrate, ‗take no more trouble about me. The time is come when I may as well speak. I
have done nothing; my crime is that the condemned man is my brother. Early this afternoon I
left home at Shottsford to tramp it all the way to Casterbridge jail to bid him farewell. I was
benighted, and called here to rest and ask the way. When I opened the door I saw before me
the very man, my brother, that I thought to see in the condemned cell at Casterbridge. He
was in this chimney-corner; and jammed close to him, so that he could not have got out if he
had tried, was the executioner who‘d come to take his life, singing a song about it and not
knowing that it was his victim who was close by, joining in to save appearances. My brother
looked a glance of agony at me, and I knew he meant, ―Don‘t reveal what you see; my life
depends on it.‖ I was so terror-struck that I could hardly stand, and, not knowing what I did,
I turned and hurried away.‘
The narrator‘s manner and tone had the stamp of truth, and his story made a great impression
on all around. ‗And do you know where your brother is at the present time‘ asked the
magistrate.
‗I do not. I have never seen him since I closed this door.‘
‗I can testify to that, for we‘ve been between ye ever since,‘ said the constable.
‗Where does he think to fly to—what is his occupation‘
‗He‘s a watch-and-clock-maker, sir.‘
‗‘A said ‘a was a wheelwright—a wicked rogue,‘ said the constable.
‗The wheels of clocks and watches he meant, no doubt,‘ said Shepherd Fennel. ‗I thought his
hands were palish for‘s trade.‘
‗Well, it appears to me that nothing can be gained by retaining this poor man in custody,‘ said
the magistrate; ‗your business lies with the other, unquestionably.‘
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And so the little man was released off-hand; but he looked nothing the less sad on that
account, it being beyond the power of magistrate or constable to raze out the written troubles
in his brain, for they concerned another whom he regarded with more solicitude than
himself. When this was done, and the man had gone his way, the night was found to be so far
advanced that it was deemed useless to renew the search before the next morning.
Next day, accordingly, the quest for the clever sheep-stealer became general and keen, to all
appearance at least. But the intended punishment was cruelly disproportioned to the
transgression, and the sympathy of a great many country-folk in that district was strongly on
the side of the fugitive. Moreover, his marvellous coolness and daring in hob-and-nobbing
with the hangman, under the unprecedented circumstances of the shepherd‘s party, won their
admiration. So that it may be questioned if all those who ostensibly made themselves so busy
in exploring woods and fields and lanes were quite so thorough when it came to the private
examination of their own lofts and outhouses. Stories were afloat of a mysterious figure
being occasionally seen in some old overgrown trackway or other, remote from turnpike
roads; but when a search was instituted in any of these suspected quarters nobody was
found. Thus the days and weeks passed without tidings.
In brief; the bass-voiced man of the chimney-corner was never recaptured. Some said that he
went across the sea, others that he did not, but buried himself in the depths of a populous
city. At any rate, the gentleman in cinder-gray never did his morning‘s work at Casterbridge,
nor met anywhere at all, for business purposes, the genial comrade with whom he had passed
an hour of relaxation in the lonely house on the coomb.
The grass has long been green on the graves of Shepherd Fennel and his frugal wife; the
guests who made up the christening party have mainly followed their entertainers to the
tomb; the baby in whose honour they all had met is a matron in the sere and yellow leaf. But
the arrival of the three strangers at the shepherd‘s that night, and the details connected
therewith, is a story as well known as ever in the country about Higher Crowstairs.
March 1883.
65

THE WITHERED ARM – Thomas Hardy
CHAPTER I—A LORN MILKMAID
It was an eighty-cow dairy, and the troop of milkers, regular and supernumerary, were all at
work; for, though the time of year was as yet but early April, the feed lay entirely in watermeadows,
and the cows were ‗in full pail.‘ The hour was about six in the evening, and threefourths
of the large, red, rectangular animals having been finished off, there was opportunity
for a little conversation.
‗He do bring home his bride to-morrow, I hear. They‘ve come as far as Anglebury to-day.‘
The voice seemed to proceed from the belly of the cow called Cherry, but the speaker was a
milking-woman, whose face was buried in the flank of that motionless beast.
‗Hav‘ anybody seen her‘ said another.
There was a negative response from the first. ‗Though they say she‘s a rosy-cheeked, tistytosty
little body enough,‘ she added; and as the milkmaid spoke she turned her face so that
she could glance past her cow‘s tail to the other side of the barton, where a thin, fading
woman of thirty milked somewhat apart from the rest.
‗Years younger than he, they say,‘ continued the second, with also a glance of reflectiveness
in the same direction.
‗How old do you call him, then‘
‗Thirty or so.‘
‗More like forty,‘ broke in an old milkman near, in a long white pinafore or ‗wropper,‘ and
with the brim of his hat tied down, so that he looked like a woman. ‗‘A was born before our
Great Weir was builded, and I hadn‘t man‘s wages when I laved water there.‘
The discussion waxed so warm that the purr of the milk-streams became jerky, till a voice
from another cow‘s belly cried with authority, ‗Now then, what the Turk do it matter to us
about Farmer Lodge‘s age, or Farmer Lodge‘s new mis‘ess I shall have to pay him nine
pound a year for the rent of every one of these milchers, whatever his age or hers. Get on
with your work, or ‘twill be dark afore we have done. The evening is pinking in
a‘ready.‘ This speaker was the dairyman himself; by whom the milkmaids and men were
employed.
Nothing more was said publicly about Farmer Lodge‘s wedding, but the first woman
murmured under her cow to her next neighbour, ‗‘Tis hard for she,‘ signifying the thin worn
milkmaid aforesaid.
‗O no,‘ said the second. ‗He ha‘n‘t spoke to Rhoda Brook for years.‘
When the milking was done they washed their pails and hung them on a many-forked stand
made of the peeled limb of an oak-tree, set upright in the earth, and resembling a colossal
antlered horn. The majority then dispersed in various directions homeward. The thin woman
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who had not spoken was joined by a boy of twelve or thereabout, and the twain went away up
the field also.
Their course lay apart from that of the others, to a lonely spot high above the water-meads,
and not far from the border of Egdon Heath, whose dark countenance was visible in the
distance as they drew nigh to their home.
‗They‘ve just been saying down in barton that your father brings his young wife home from
Anglebury to-morrow,‘ the woman observed. ‗I shall want to send you for a few things to
market, and you‘ll be pretty sure to meet ‘em.‘
‗Yes, mother,‘ said the boy. ‗Is father married then‘
‗Yes . . . You can give her a look, and tell me what‘s she‘s like, if you do see her.‘
‗Yes, mother.‘
‗If she‘s dark or fair, and if she‘s tall—as tall as I. And if she seems like a woman who has
ever worked for a living, or one that has been always well off, and has never done anything,
and shows marks of the lady on her, as I expect she do.‘
‗Yes.‘
They crept up the hill in the twilight, and entered the cottage. It was built of mud-walls, the
surface of which had been washed by many rains into channels and depressions that left none
of the original flat face visible; while here and there in the thatch above a rafter showed like a
bone protruding through the skin.
She was kneeling down in the chimney-corner, before two pieces of turf laid together with
the heather inwards, blowing at the red-hot ashes with her breath till the turves flamed. The
radiance lit her pale cheek, and made her dark eyes, that had once been handsome, seem
handsome anew. ‗Yes,‘ she resumed, ‗see if she is dark or fair, and if you can, notice if her
hands be white; if not, see if they look as though she had ever done housework, or are
milker‘s hands like mine.‘
The boy again promised, inattentively this time, his mother not observing that he was cutting
a notch with his pocket-knife in the beech-backed chair.
CHAPTER II—THE YOUNG WIFE
The road from Anglebury to Holmstoke is in general level; but there is one place where a
sharp ascent breaks its monotony. Farmers homeward-bound from the former market-town,
who trot all the rest of the way, walk their horses up this short incline.
The next evening, while the sun was yet bright, a handsome new gig, with a lemon-coloured
body and red wheels, was spinning westward along the level highway at the heels of a
powerful mare. The driver was a yeoman in the prime of life, cleanly shaven like an actor,
his face being toned to that bluish-vermilion hue which so often graces a thriving farmer‘s
features when returning home after successful dealings in the town. Beside him sat a woman,
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many years his junior—almost, indeed, a girl. Her face too was fresh in colour, but it was of
a totally different quality—soft and evanescent, like the light under a heap of rose-petals.
Few people travelled this way, for it was not a main road; and the long white riband of gravel
that stretched before them was empty, save of one small scarce-moving speck, which
presently resolved itself into the figure of boy, who was creeping on at a snail‘s pace, and
continually looking behind him—the heavy bundle he carried being some excuse for, if not
the reason of, his dilatoriness. When the bouncing gig-party slowed at the bottom of the
incline above mentioned, the pedestrian was only a few yards in front. Supporting the large
bundle by putting one hand on his hip, he turned and looked straight at the farmer‘s wife as
though he would read her through and through, pacing along abreast of the horse.
The low sun was full in her face, rendering every feature, shade, and contour distinct, from
the curve of her little nostril to the colour of her eyes. The farmer, though he seemed
annoyed at the boy‘s persistent presence, did not order him to get out of the way; and thus the
lad preceded them, his hard gaze never leaving her, till they reached the top of the ascent,
when the farmer trotted on with relief in his lineaments—having taken no outward notice of
the boy whatever.
‗How that poor lad stared at me!‘ said the young wife.
‗Yes, dear; I saw that he did.‘
‗He is one of the village, I suppose‘
‗One of the neighbourhood. I think he lives with his mother a mile or two off.‘
‗He knows who we are, no doubt‘
‗O yes. You must expect to be stared at just at first, my pretty Gertrude.‘
‗I do,—though I think the poor boy may have looked at us in the hope we might relieve him
of his heavy load, rather than from curiosity.‘
‗O no,‘ said her husband off-handedly. ‗These country lads will carry a hundredweight once
they get it on their backs; besides his pack had more size than weight in it. Now, then,
another mile and I shall be able to show you our house in the distance—if it is not too dark
before we get there.‘ The wheels spun round, and particles flew from their periphery as
before, till a white house of ample dimensions revealed itself, with farm-buildings and ricks
at the back.
Meanwhile the boy had quickened his pace, and turning up a by-lane some mile and half
short of the white farmstead, ascended towards the leaner pastures, and so on to the cottage of
his mother.
She had reached home after her day‘s milking at the outlying dairy, and was washing cabbage
at the doorway in the declining light. ‗Hold up the net a moment,‘ she said, without preface,
as the boy came up.
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He flung down his bundle, held the edge of the cabbage-net, and as she filled its meshes with
the dripping leaves she went on, ‗Well, did you see her‘
‗Yes; quite plain.‘
‗Is she ladylike‘
‗Yes; and more. A lady complete.‘
‗Is she young‘
‗Well, she‘s growed up, and her ways be quite a woman‘s.‘
‗Of course. What colour is her hair and face‘
‗Her hair is lightish, and her face as comely as a live doll‘s.‘
‗Her eyes, then, are not dark like mine‘
‗No—of a bluish turn, and her mouth is very nice and red; and when she smiles, her teeth
show white.‘
‗Is she tall‘ said the woman sharply.
‗I couldn‘t see. She was sitting down.‘
‗Then do you go to Holmstoke church to-morrow morning: she‘s sure to be there. Go early
and notice her walking in, and come home and tell me if she‘s taller than I.‘
‗Very well, mother. But why don‘t you go and see for yourself‘
‘I go to see her! I wouldn‘t look up at her if she were to pass my window this instant. She
was with Mr. Lodge, of course. What did he say or do‘
‗Just the same as usual.‘
‗Took no notice of you‘
‗None.‘
Next day the mother put a clean shirt on the boy, and started him off for Holmstoke
church. He reached the ancient little pile when the door was just being opened, and he was
the first to enter. Taking his seat by the font, he watched all the parishioners file in. The
well-to-do Farmer Lodge came nearly last; and his young wife, who accompanied him,
walked up the aisle with the shyness natural to a modest woman who had appeared thus for
the first time. As all other eyes were fixed upon her, the youth‘s stare was not noticed now.
When he reached home his mother said, ‗Well‘ before he had entered the room.
‗She is not tall. She is rather short,‘ he replied.
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‗Ah!‘ said his mother, with satisfaction.
‗But she‘s very pretty—very. In fact, she‘s lovely.‘
The youthful freshness of the yeoman‘s wife had evidently made an impression even on the
somewhat hard nature of the boy.
‗That‘s all I want to hear,‘ said his mother quickly. ‗Now, spread the table-cloth. The hare
you caught is very tender; but mind that nobody catches you.—You‘ve never told me what
sort of hands she had.‘
‗I have never seen ‘em. She never took off her gloves.‘
‗What did she wear this morning‘
‗A white bonnet and a silver-coloured gownd. It whewed and whistled so loud when it
rubbed against the pews that the lady coloured up more than ever for very shame at the noise,
and pulled it in to keep it from touching; but when she pushed into her seat, it whewed more
than ever. Mr. Lodge, he seemed pleased, and his waistcoat stuck out, and his great golden
seals hung like a lord‘s; but she seemed to wish her noisy gownd anywhere but on her.‘
‗Not she! However, that will do now.‘
These descriptions of the newly-married couple were continued from time to time by the boy
at his mother‘s request, after any chance encounter he had had with them. But Rhoda Brook,
though she might easily have seen young Mrs. Lodge for herself by walking a couple of
miles, would never attempt an excursion towards the quarter where the farmhouse
lay. Neither did she, at the daily milking in the dairyman‘s yard on Lodge‘s outlying second
farm, ever speak on the subject of the recent marriage. The dairyman, who rented the cows
of Lodge, and knew perfectly the tall milkmaid‘s history, with manly kindliness always kept
the gossip in the cow-barton from annoying Rhoda. But the atmosphere thereabout was full
of the subject during the first days of Mrs. Lodge‘s arrival; and from her boy‘s description
and the casual words of the other milkers, Rhoda Brook could raise a mental image of the
unconscious Mrs Lodge that was realistic as a photograph.
CHAPTER III—A VISION
One night, two or three weeks after the bridal return, when the boy was gone to bed, Rhoda
sat a long time over the turf ashes that she had raked out in front of her to extinguish
them. She contemplated so intently the new wife, as presented to her in her mind‘s eye over
the embers, that she forgot the lapse of time. At last, wearied with her day‘s work, she too
retired.
But the figure which had occupied her so much during this and the previous days was not to
be banished at night. For the first time Gertrude Lodge visited the supplanted woman in her
dreams. Rhoda Brook dreamed—since her assertion that she really saw, before falling
asleep, was not to be believed—that the young wife, in the pale silk dress and white bonnet,
but with features shockingly distorted, and wrinkled as by age, was sitting upon her chest as
she lay. The pressure of Mrs. Lodge‘s person grew heavier; the blue eyes peered cruelly into
her face; and then the figure thrust forward its left hand mockingly, so as to make the
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wedding-ring it wore glitter in Rhoda‘s eyes. Maddened mentally, and nearly suffocated by
pressure, the sleeper struggled; the incubus, still regarding her, withdrew to the foot of the
bed, only, however, to come forward by degrees, resume her seat, and flash her left hand as
before.
Gasping for breath, Rhoda, in a last desperate effort, swung out her right hand, seized the
confronting spectre by its obtrusive left arm, and whirled it backward to the floor, starting up
herself as she did so with a low cry.
‗O, merciful heaven!‘ she cried, sitting on the edge of the bed in a cold sweat; ‗that was not a
dream—she was here!‘
She could feel her antagonist‘s arm within her grasp even now—the very flesh and bone of it,
as it seemed. She looked on the floor whither she had whirled the spectre, but there was
nothing to be seen.
Rhoda Brook slept no more that night, and when she went milking at the next dawn they
noticed how pale and haggard she looked. The milk that she drew quivered into the pail; her
hand had not calmed even yet, and still retained the feel of the arm. She came home to
breakfast as wearily as if it had been suppertime.
‗What was that noise in your chimmer, mother, last night‘ said her son. ‗You fell off the
bed, surely‘
‗Did you hear anything fall At what time‘
‗Just when the clock struck two.‘
She could not explain, and when the meal was done went silently about her household work,
the boy assisting her, for he hated going afield on the farms, and she indulged his
reluctance. Between eleven and twelve the garden-gate clicked, and she lifted her eyes to the
window. At the bottom of the garden, within the gate, stood the woman of her vision. Rhoda
seemed transfixed.
‗Ah, she said she would come!‘ exclaimed the boy, also observing her.
‗Said so—when How does she know us‘
‗I have seen and spoken to her. I talked to her yesterday.‘
‗I told you,‘ said the mother, flushing indignantly, ‗never to speak to anybody in that house,
or go near the place.‘
‗I did not speak to her till she spoke to me. And I did not go near the place. I met her in the
road.‘
‗What did you tell her‘
‗Nothing. She said, ―Are you the poor boy who had to bring the heavy load from
market‖ And she looked at my boots, and said they would not keep my feet dry if it came
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on wet, because they were so cracked. I told her I lived with my mother, and we had enough
to do to keep ourselves, and that‘s how it was; and she said then, ―I‘ll come and bring you
some better boots, and see your mother.‖ She gives away things to other folks in the meads
besides us.‘
Mrs. Lodge was by this time close to the door—not in her silk, as Rhoda had seen her in the
bed-chamber, but in a morning hat, and gown of common light material, which became her
better than silk. On her arm she carried a basket.
The impression remaining from the night‘s experience was still strong. Brook had almost
expected to see the wrinkles, the scorn, and the cruelty on her visitor‘s face.
She would have escaped an interview, had escape been possible. There was, however, no
backdoor to the cottage, and in an instant the boy had lifted the latch to Mrs. Lodge‘s gentle
knock.
‗I see I have come to the right house,‘ said she, glancing at the lad, and smiling. ‗But I was
not sure till you opened the door.‘
The figure and action were those of the phantom; but her voice was so indescribably sweet,
her glance so winning, her smile so tender, so unlike that of Rhoda‘s midnight visitant, that
the latter could hardly believe the evidence of her senses. She was truly glad that she had not
hidden away in sheer aversion, as she had been inclined to do. In her basket Mrs. Lodge
brought the pair of boots that she had promised to the boy, and other useful articles.
At these proofs of a kindly feeling towards her and hers Rhoda‘s heart reproached her
bitterly. This innocent young thing should have her blessing and not her curse. When she
left them a light seemed gone from the dwelling. Two days later she came again to know if
the boots fitted; and less than a fortnight after that paid Rhoda another call. On this occasion
the boy was absent.
‗I walk a good deal,‘ said Mrs. Lodge, ‗and your house is the nearest outside our own
parish. I hope you are well. You don‘t look quite well.‘
Rhoda said she was well enough; and, indeed, though the paler of the two, there was more of
the strength that endures in her well-defined features and large frame, than in the softcheeked
young woman before her. The conversation became quite confidential as regarded
their powers and weaknesses; and when Mrs. Lodge was leaving, Rhoda said, ‗I hope you
will find this air agree with you, ma‘am, and not suffer from the damp of the water-meads.‘
The younger one replied that there was not much doubt of it, her general health being usually
good. ‗Though, now you remind me,‘ she added, ‗I have one little ailment which puzzles
me. It is nothing serious, but I cannot make it out.‘
She uncovered her left hand and arm; and their outline confronted Rhoda‘s gaze as the exact
original of the limb she had beheld and seized in her dream. Upon the pink round surface of
the arm were faint marks of an unhealthy colour, as if produced by a rough grasp. Rhoda‘s
eyes became riveted on the discolorations; she fancied that she discerned in them the shape of
her own four fingers.
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‗How did it happen‘ she said mechanically.
‗I cannot tell,‘ replied Mrs. Lodge, shaking her head. ‗One night when I was sound asleep,
dreaming I was away in some strange place, a pain suddenly shot into my arm there, and was
so keen as to awaken me. I must have struck it in the daytime, I suppose, though I don‘t
remember doing so.‘ She added, laughing, ‗I tell my dear husband that it looks just as if he
had flown into a rage and struck me there. O, I daresay it will soon disappear.‘
‗Ha, ha! Yes . . . On what night did it come‘
Mrs. Lodge considered, and said it would be a fortnight ago on the morrow. ‗When I awoke I
could not remember where I was,‘ she added, ‘till the clock striking two reminded me.‘
She had named the night and the hour of Rhoda‘s spectral encounter, and Brook felt like a
guilty thing. The artless disclosure startled her; she did not reason on the freaks of
coincidence; and all the scenery of that ghastly night returned with double vividness to her
mind.
‗O, can it be,‘ she said to herself, when her visitor had departed, ‗that I exercise a malignant
power over people against my own will‘ She knew that she had been slily called a witch
since her fall; but never having understood why that particular stigma had been attached to
her, it had passed disregarded. Could this be the explanation, and had such things as this ever
happened before
CHAPTER IV—A SUGGESTION
The summer drew on, and Rhoda Brook almost dreaded to meet Mrs. Lodge again,
notwithstanding that her feeling for the young wife amounted well-nigh to
affection. Something in her own individuality seemed to convict Rhoda of crime. Yet a
fatality sometimes would direct the steps of the latter to the outskirts of Holmstoke whenever
she left her house for any other purpose than her daily work; and hence it happened that their
next encounter was out of doors. Rhoda could not avoid the subject which had so mystified
her, and after the first few words she stammered, ‗I hope your—arm is well again,
ma‘am‘ She had perceived with consternation that Gertrude Lodge carried her left arm
stiffly.
‗No; it is not quite well. Indeed it is no better at all; it is rather worse. It pains me dreadfully
sometimes.‘
‗Perhaps you had better go to a doctor, ma‘am.‘
She replied that she had already seen a doctor. Her husband had insisted upon her going to
one. But the surgeon had not seemed to understand the afflicted limb at all; he had told her to
bathe it in hot water, and she had bathed it, but the treatment had done no good.
‗Will you let me see it‘ said the milkwoman.
Mrs. Lodge pushed up her sleeve and disclosed the place, which was a few inches above the
wrist. As soon as Rhoda Brook saw it, she could hardly preserve her composure. There was
nothing of the nature of a wound, but the arm at that point had a shrivelled look, and the
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outline of the four fingers appeared more distinct than at the former time. Moreover, she
fancied that they were imprinted in precisely the relative position of her clutch upon the arm
in the trance; the first finger towards Gertrude‘s wrist, and the fourth towards her elbow.
What the impress resembled seemed to have struck Gertrude herself since their last
meeting. ‗It looks almost like finger-marks,‘ she said; adding with a faint laugh, ‗my
husband says it is as if some witch, or the devil himself, had taken hold of me there, and
blasted the flesh.‘
Rhoda shivered. ‗That‘s fancy,‘ she said hurriedly. ‗I wouldn‘t mind it, if I were you.‘
‗I shouldn‘t so much mind it,‘ said the younger, with hesitation, ‗if—if I hadn‘t a notion that
it makes my husband—dislike me—no, love me less. Men think so much of personal
appearance.‘
‗Some do—he for one.‘
‗Yes; and he was very proud of mine, at first.‘
‗Keep your arm covered from his sight.‘
‗Ah—he knows the disfigurement is there!‘ She tried to hide the tears that filled her eyes.
‗Well, ma‘am, I earnestly hope it will go away soon.‘
And so the milkwoman‘s mind was chained anew to the subject by a horrid sort of spell as
she returned home. The sense of having been guilty of an act of malignity increased, affect
as she might to ridicule her superstition. In her secret heart Rhoda did not altogether object to
a slight diminution of her successor‘s beauty, by whatever means it had come about; but she
did not wish to inflict upon her physical pain. For though this pretty young woman had
rendered impossible any reparation which Lodge might have made Rhoda for his past
conduct, everything like resentment at the unconscious usurpation had quite passed away
from the elder‘s mind.
If the sweet and kindly Gertrude Lodge only knew of the scene in the bed-chamber, what
would she think Not to inform her of it seemed treachery in the presence of her friendliness;
but tell she could not of her own accord—neither could she devise a remedy.
She mused upon the matter the greater part of the night; and the next day, after the morning
milking, set out to obtain another glimpse of Gertrude Lodge if she could, being held to her
by a gruesome fascination. By watching the house from a distance the milkmaid was
presently able to discern the farmer‘s wife in a ride she was taking alone—probably to join
her husband in some distant field. Mrs. Lodge perceived her, and cantered in her direction.
‗Good morning, Rhoda!‘ Gertrude said, when she had come up. ‗I was going to call.‘
Rhoda noticed that Mrs. Lodge held the reins with some difficulty.
‗I hope—the bad arm,‘ said Rhoda.
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‗They tell me there is possibly one way by which I might be able to find out the cause, and so
perhaps the cure, of it,‘ replied the other anxiously. ‗It is by going to some clever man over
in Egdon Heath. They did not know if he was still alive—and I cannot remember his name at
this moment; but they said that you knew more of his movements than anybody else
hereabout, and could tell me if he were still to be consulted. Dear me—what was his
name But you know.‘
‗Not Conjuror Trendle‘ said her thin companion, turning pale.
‗Trendle—yes. Is he alive‘
‗I believe so,‘ said Rhoda, with reluctance.
‗Why do you call him conjuror‘
‗Well—they say—they used to say he was a—he had powers other folks have not.‘
‗O, how could my people be so superstitious as to recommend a man of that sort! I thought
they meant some medical man. I shall think no more of him.‘
Rhoda looked relieved, and Mrs. Lodge rode on. The milkwoman had inwardly seen, from
the moment she heard of her having been mentioned as a reference for this man, that there
must exist a sarcastic feeling among the work-folk that a sorceress would know the
whereabouts of the exorcist. They suspected her, then. A short time ago this would have
given no concern to a woman of her common-sense. But she had a haunting reason to be
superstitious now; and she had been seized with sudden dread that this Conjuror Trendle
might name her as the malignant influence which was blasting the fair person of Gertrude,
and so lead her friend to hate her for ever, and to treat her as some fiend in human shape.
But all was not over. Two days after, a shadow intruded into the window-pattern thrown on
Rhoda Brook‘s floor by the afternoon sun. The woman opened the door at once, almost
breathlessly.
‗Are you alone‘ said Gertrude. She seemed to be no less harassed and anxious than Brook
herself.
‗Yes,‘ said Rhoda.
‗The place on my arm seems worse, and troubles me!‘ the young farmer‘s wife went on. ‗It
is so mysterious! I do hope it will not be an incurable wound. I have again been thinking of
what they said about Conjuror Trendle. I don‘t really believe in such men, but I should not
mind just visiting him, from curiosity—though on no account must my husband know. Is it
far to where he lives‘
‗Yes—five miles,‘ said Rhoda backwardly. ‗In the heart of Egdon.‘
‗Well, I should have to walk. Could not you go with me to show me the way—say tomorrow
afternoon‘
75

‗O, not I—that is,‘ the milkwoman murmured, with a start of dismay. Again the dread seized
her that something to do with her fierce act in the dream might be revealed, and her character
in the eyes of the most useful friend she had ever had be ruined irretrievably.
Mrs. Lodge urged, and Rhoda finally assented, though with much misgiving. Sad as the
journey would be to her, she could not conscientiously stand in the way of a possible remedy
for her patron‘s strange affliction. It was agreed that, to escape suspicion of their mystic
intent, they should meet at the edge of the heath at the corner of a plantation which was
visible from the spot where they now stood.
CHAPTER V—CONJUROR TRENDLE
By the next afternoon Rhoda would have done anything to escape this inquiry. But she had
promised to go. Moreover, there was a horrid fascination at times in becoming instrumental
in throwing such possible light on her own character as would reveal her to be something
greater in the occult world than she had ever herself suspected.
She started just before the time of day mentioned between them, and half-an-hour‘s brisk
walking brought her to the south-eastern extension of the Egdon tract of country, where the
fir plantation was. A slight figure, cloaked and veiled, was already there. Rhoda recognized,
almost with a shudder, that Mrs. Lodge bore her left arm in a sling.
They hardly spoke to each other, and immediately set out on their climb into the interior of
this solemn country, which stood high above the rich alluvial soil they had left half-an-hour
before. It was a long walk; thick clouds made the atmosphere dark, though it was as yet only
early afternoon; and the wind howled dismally over the hills of the heath—not improbably
the same heath which had witnessed the agony of the Wessex King Ina, presented to afterages
as Lear. Gertrude Lodge talked most, Rhoda replying with monosyllabic
preoccupation. She had a strange dislike to walking on the side of her companion where
hung the afflicted arm, moving round to the other when inadvertently near it. Much heather
had been brushed by their feet when they descended upon a cart-track, beside which stood the
house of the man they sought.
He did not profess his remedial practices openly, or care anything about their continuance, his
direct interests being those of a dealer in furze, turf, ‗sharp sand,‘ and other local
products. Indeed, he affected not to believe largely in his own powers, and when warts that
had been shown him for cure miraculously disappeared—which it must be owned they
infallibly did—he would say lightly, ‗O, I only drink a glass of grog upon ‘em—perhaps it‘s
all chance,‘ and immediately turn the subject.
He was at home when they arrived, having in fact seen them descending into his valley. He
was a gray-bearded man, with a reddish face, and he looked singularly at Rhoda the first
moment he beheld her. Mrs. Lodge told him her errand; and then with words of selfdisparagement
he examined her arm.
‗Medicine can‘t cure it,‘ he said promptly. ‗‘Tis the work of an enemy.‘
Rhoda shrank into herself, and drew back.
‗An enemy What enemy‘ asked Mrs. Lodge.
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He shook his head. ‗That‘s best known to yourself,‘ he said. ‗If you like, I can show the
person to you, though I shall not myself know who it is. I can do no more; and don‘t wish to
do that.‘
She pressed him; on which he told Rhoda to wait outside where she stood, and took Mrs.
Lodge into the room. It opened immediately from the door; and, as the latter remained ajar,
Rhoda Brook could see the proceedings without taking part in them. He brought a tumbler
from the dresser, nearly filled it with water, and fetching an egg, prepared it in some private
way; after which he broke it on the edge of the glass, so that the white went in and the yolk
remained. As it was getting gloomy, he took the glass and its contents to the window, and
told Gertrude to watch them closely. They leant over the table together, and the milkwoman
could see the opaline hue of the egg-fluid changing form as it sank in the water, but she was
not near enough to define the shape that it assumed.
‗Do you catch the likeness of any face or figure as you look‘ demanded the conjuror of the
young woman.
She murmured a reply, in tones so low as to be inaudible to Rhoda, and continued to gaze
intently into the glass. Rhoda turned, and walked a few steps away.
When Mrs. Lodge came out, and her face was met by the light, it appeared exceedingly
pale—as pale as Rhoda‘s—against the sad dun shades of the upland‘s garniture. Trendle shut
the door behind her, and they at once started homeward together. But Rhoda perceived that
her companion had quite changed.
‗Did he charge much‘ she asked tentatively.
‗O no—nothing. He would not take a farthing,‘ said Gertrude.
‗And what did you see‘ inquired Rhoda.
‗Nothing I—care to speak of.‘ The constraint in her manner was remarkable; her face was so
rigid as to wear an oldened aspect, faintly suggestive of the face in Rhoda‘s bed-chamber.
‗Was it you who first proposed coming here‘ Mrs. Lodge suddenly inquired, after a long
pause. ‗How very odd, if you did!‘
‗No. But I am not sorry we have come, all things considered,‘ she replied. For the first time
a sense of triumph possessed her, and she did not altogether deplore that the young thing at
her side should learn that their lives had been antagonized by other influences than their own.
The subject was no more alluded to during the long and dreary walk home. But in some way
or other a story was whispered about the many-dairied lowland that winter that Mrs. Lodge‘s
gradual loss of the use of her left arm was owing to her being ‗overlooked‘ by Rhoda
Brook. The latter kept her own counsel about the incubus, but her face grew sadder and
thinner; and in the spring she and her boy disappeared from the neighbourhood of Holmstoke.
CHAPTER VI—A SECOND ATTEMPT
77

Half-a-dozen years passed away, and Mr. and Mrs. Lodge‘s married experience sank into
prosiness, and worse. The farmer was usually gloomy and silent: the woman whom he had
wooed for her grace and beauty was contorted and disfigured in the left limb; moreover, she
had brought him no child, which rendered it likely that he would be the last of a family who
had occupied that valley for some two hundred years. He thought of Rhoda Brook and her
son; and feared this might be a judgment from heaven upon him.
The once blithe-hearted and enlightened Gertrude was changing into an irritable, superstitious
woman, whose whole time was given to experimenting upon her ailment with every quack
remedy she came across. She was honestly attached to her husband, and was ever secretly
hoping against hope to win back his heart again by regaining some at least of her personal
beauty. Hence it arose that her closet was lined with bottles, packets, and ointment-pots of
every description—nay, bunches of mystic herbs, charms, and books of necromancy, which
in her schoolgirl time she would have ridiculed as folly.
‗Damned if you won‘t poison yourself with these apothecary messes and witch mixtures
some time or other,‘ said her husband, when his eye chanced to fall upon the multitudinous
array.
She did not reply, but turned her sad, soft glance upon him in such heart-swollen reproach
that he looked sorry for his words, and added, ‗I only meant it for your good, you know,
Gertrude.‘
‗I‘ll clear out the whole lot, and destroy them,‘ said she huskily, ‗and try such remedies no
more!‘
‗You want somebody to cheer you,‘ he observed. ‗I once thought of adopting a boy; but he is
too old now. And he is gone away I don‘t know where.‘
She guessed to whom he alluded; for Rhoda Brook‘s story had in the course of years become
known to her; though not a word had ever passed between her husband and herself on the
subject. Neither had she ever spoken to him of her visit to Conjuror Trendle, and of what was
revealed to her, or she thought was revealed to her, by that solitary heath-man.
She was now five-and-twenty; but she seemed older.
‗Six years of marriage, and only a few months of love,‘ she sometimes whispered to
herself. And then she thought of the apparent cause, and said, with a tragic glance at her
withering limb, ‗If I could only again be as I was when he first saw me!‘
She obediently destroyed her nostrums and charms; but there remained a hankering wish to
try something else—some other sort of cure altogether. She had never revisited Trendle since
she had been conducted to the house of the solitary by Rhoda against her will; but it now
suddenly occurred to Gertrude that she would, in a last desperate effort at deliverance from
this seeming curse, again seek out the man, if he yet lived. He was entitled to a certain
credence, for the indistinct form he had raised in the glass had undoubtedly resembled the
only woman in the world who—as she now knew, though not then—could have a reason for
bearing her ill-will. The visit should be paid.
78

This time she went alone, though she nearly got lost on the heath, and roamed a considerable
distance out of her way. Trendle‘s house was reached at last, however: he was not indoors,
and instead of waiting at the cottage, she went to where his bent figure was pointed out to her
at work a long way off. Trendle remembered her, and laying down the handful of furze-roots
which he was gathering and throwing into a heap, he offered to accompany her in her
homeward direction, as the distance was considerable and the days were short. So they
walked together, his head bowed nearly to the earth, and his form of a colour with it.
‗You can send away warts and other excrescences I know,‘ she said; ‗why can‘t you send
away this‘ And the arm was uncovered.
‗You think too much of my powers!‘ said Trendle; ‗and I am old and weak now, too. No, no;
it is too much for me to attempt in my own person. What have ye tried‘
She named to him some of the hundred medicaments and counterspells which she had
adopted from time to time. He shook his head.
‗Some were good enough,‘ he said approvingly; ‗but not many of them for such as this. This
is of the nature of a blight, not of the nature of a wound; and if you ever do throw it off; it
will be all at once.‘
‗If I only could!‘
‗There is only one chance of doing it known to me. It has never failed in kindred
afflictions,—that I can declare. But it is hard to carry out, and especially for a woman.‘
‗Tell me!‘ said she.
‗You must touch with the limb the neck of a man who‘s been hanged.‘
She started a little at the image he had raised.
‗Before he‘s cold—just after he‘s cut down,‘ continued the conjuror impassively.
‗How can that do good‘
‗It will turn the blood and change the constitution. But, as I say, to do it is hard. You must
get into jail, and wait for him when he‘s brought off the gallows. Lots have done it, though
perhaps not such pretty women as you. I used to send dozens for skin complaints. But that
was in former times. The last I sent was in ‗13—near twenty years ago.‘
He had no more to tell her; and, when he had put her into a straight track homeward, turned
and left her, refusing all money as at first.
CHAPTER VII—A RIDE
The communication sank deep into Gertrude‘s mind. Her nature was rather a timid one; and
probably of all remedies that the white wizard could have suggested there was not one which
would have filled her with so much aversion as this, not to speak of the immense obstacles in
the way of its adoption.
79

Casterbridge, the county-town, was a dozen or fifteen miles off; and though in those days,
when men were executed for horse-stealing, arson, and burglary, an assize seldom passed
without a hanging, it was not likely that she could get access to the body of the criminal
unaided. And the fear of her husband‘s anger made her reluctant to breathe a word of
Trendle‘s suggestion to him or to anybody about him.
She did nothing for months, and patiently bore her disfigurement as before. But her woman‘s
nature, craving for renewed love, through the medium of renewed beauty (she was but
twenty-five), was ever stimulating her to try what, at any rate, could hardly do her any
harm. ‗What came by a spell will go by a spell surely,‘ she would say. Whenever her
imagination pictured the act she shrank in terror from the possibility of it: then the words of
the conjuror, ‗It will turn your blood,‘ were seen to be capable of a scientific no less than a
ghastly interpretation; the mastering desire returned, and urged her on again.
There was at this time but one county paper, and that her husband only occasionally
borrowed. But old-fashioned days had old-fashioned means, and news was extensively
conveyed by word of mouth from market to market, or from fair to fair, so that, whenever
such an event as an execution was about to take place, few within a radius of twenty miles
were ignorant of the coming sight; and, so far as Holmstoke was concerned, some enthusiasts
had been known to walk all the way to Casterbridge and back in one day, solely to witness
the spectacle. The next assizes were in March; and when Gertrude Lodge heard that they had
been held, she inquired stealthily at the inn as to the result, as soon as she could find
opportunity.
She was, however, too late. The time at which the sentences were to be carried out had
arrived, and to make the journey and obtain admission at such short notice required at least
her husband‘s assistance. She dared not tell him, for she had found by delicate experiment
that these smouldering village beliefs made him furious if mentioned, partly because he half
entertained them himself. It was therefore necessary to wait for another opportunity.
Her determination received a fillip from learning that two epileptic children had attended
from this very village of Holmstoke many years before with beneficial results, though the
experiment had been strongly condemned by the neighbouring clergy. April, May, June,
passed; and it is no overstatement to say that by the end of the last-named month Gertrude
well-nigh longed for the death of a fellow-creature. Instead of her formal prayers each night,
her unconscious prayer was, ‗O Lord, hang some guilty or innocent person soon!‘
This time she made earlier inquiries, and was altogether more systematic in her
proceedings. Moreover, the season was summer, between the haymaking and the harvest,
and in the leisure thus afforded him her husband had been holiday-taking away from home.
The assizes were in July, and she went to the inn as before. There was to be one execution—
only one—for arson.
Her greatest problem was not how to get to Casterbridge, but what means she should adopt
for obtaining admission to the jail. Though access for such purposes had formerly never been
denied, the custom had fallen into desuetude; and in contemplating her possible difficulties,
she was again almost driven to fall back upon her husband. But, on sounding him about the
assizes, he was so uncommunicative, so more than usually cold, that she did not proceed, and
decided that whatever she did she would do alone.
80

Fortune, obdurate hitherto, showed her unexpected favour. On the Thursday before the
Saturday fixed for the execution, Lodge remarked to her that he was going away from home
for another day or two on business at a fair, and that he was sorry he could not take her with
him.
She exhibited on this occasion so much readiness to stay at home that he looked at her in
surprise. Time had been when she would have shown deep disappointment at the loss of such
a jaunt. However, he lapsed into his usual taciturnity, and on the day named left Holmstoke.
It was now her turn. She at first had thought of driving, but on reflection held that driving
would not do, since it would necessitate her keeping to the turnpike-road, and so increase by
tenfold the risk of her ghastly errand being found out. She decided to ride, and avoid the
beaten track, notwithstanding that in her husband‘s stables there was no animal just at present
which by any stretch of imagination could be considered a lady‘s mount, in spite of his
promise before marriage to always keep a mare for her. He had, however, many cart-horses,
fine ones of their kind; and among the rest was a serviceable creature, an equine Amazon,
with a back as broad as a sofa, on which Gertrude had occasionally taken an airing when
unwell. This horse she chose.
On Friday afternoon one of the men brought it round. She was dressed, and before going
down looked at her shrivelled arm. ‗Ah!‘ she said to it, ‗if it had not been for you this terrible
ordeal would have been saved me!‘
When strapping up the bundle in which she carried a few articles of clothing, she took
occasion to say to the servant, ‗I take these in case I should not get back to-night from the
person I am going to visit. Don‘t be alarmed if I am not in by ten, and close up the house as
usual. I shall be at home to-morrow for certain.‘ She meant then to privately tell her
husband: the deed accomplished was not like the deed projected. He would almost certainly
forgive her.
And then the pretty palpitating Gertrude Lodge went from her husband‘s homestead; but
though her goal was Casterbridge she did not take the direct route thither through
Stickleford. Her cunning course at first was in precisely the opposite direction. As soon as
she was out of sight, however, she turned to the left, by a road which led into Egdon, and on
entering the heath wheeled round, and set out in the true course, due westerly. A more
private way down the county could not be imagined; and as to direction, she had merely to
keep her horse‘s head to a point a little to the right of the sun. She knew that she would light
upon a furze-cutter or cottager of some sort from time to time, from whom she might correct
her bearing.
Though the date was comparatively recent, Egdon was much less fragmentary in character
than now. The attempts—successful and otherwise—at cultivation on the lower slopes,
which intrude and break up the original heath into small detached heaths, had not been
carried far; Enclosure Acts had not taken effect, and the banks and fences which now exclude
the cattle of those villagers who formerly enjoyed rights of commonage thereon, and the carts
of those who had turbary privileges which kept them in firing all the year round, were not
erected. Gertrude, therefore, rode along with no other obstacles than the prickly furze bushes,
the mats of heather, the white water-courses, and the natural steeps and declivities of the
ground.
81

Her horse was sure, if heavy-footed and slow, and though a draught animal, was easy-paced;
had it been otherwise, she was not a woman who could have ventured to ride over such a bit
of country with a half-dead arm. It was therefore nearly eight o‘clock when she drew rein to
breathe the mare on the last outlying high point of heath-land towards Casterbridge, previous
to leaving Egdon for the cultivated valleys.
She halted before a pool called Rushy-pond, flanked by the ends of two hedges; a railing ran
through the centre of the pond, dividing it in half. Over the railing she saw the low green
country; over the green trees the roofs of the town; over the roofs a white flat façade,
denoting the entrance to the county jail. On the roof of this front specks were moving about;
they seemed to be workmen erecting something. Her flesh crept. She descended slowly, and
was soon amid corn-fields and pastures. In another half-hour, when it was almost dusk,
Gertrude reached the White Hart, the first inn of the town on that side.
Little surprise was excited by her arrival; farmers‘ wives rode on horseback then more than
they do now; though, for that matter, Mrs. Lodge was not imagined to be a wife at all; the
innkeeper supposed her some harum-skarum young woman who had come to attend ‗hangfair‘
next day. Neither her husband nor herself ever dealt in Casterbridge market, so that she
was unknown. While dismounting she beheld a crowd of boys standing at the door of a
harness-maker‘s shop just above the inn, looking inside it with deep interest.
‗What is going on there‘ she asked of the ostler.
‗Making the rope for to-morrow.‘
She throbbed responsively, and contracted her arm.
‗‘Tis sold by the inch afterwards,‘ the man continued. ‗I could get you a bit, miss, for
nothing, if you‘d like‘
She hastily repudiated any such wish, all the more from a curious creeping feeling that the
condemned wretch‘s destiny was becoming interwoven with her own; and having engaged a
room for the night, sat down to think.
Up to this time she had formed but the vaguest notions about her means of obtaining access
to the prison. The words of the cunning-man returned to her mind. He had implied that she
should use her beauty, impaired though it was, as a pass-key. In her inexperience she knew
little about jail functionaries; she had heard of a high-sheriff and an under-sheriff; but dimly
only. She knew, however, that there must be a hangman, and to the hangman she determined
to apply.
CHAPTER VIII—A WATER-SIDE HERMIT
At this date, and for several years after, there was a hangman to almost every jail. Gertrude
found, on inquiry, that the Casterbridge official dwelt in a lonely cottage by a deep slow river
flowing under the cliff on which the prison buildings were situate—the stream being the selfsame
one, though she did not know it, which watered the Stickleford and Holmstoke meads
lower down in its course.
82

Having changed her dress, and before she had eaten or drunk—for she could not take her ease
till she had ascertained some particulars—Gertrude pursued her way by a path along the
water-side to the cottage indicated. Passing thus the outskirts of the jail, she discerned on the
level roof over the gateway three rectangular lines against the sky, where the specks had been
moving in her distant view; she recognized what the erection was, and passed quickly
on. Another hundred yards brought her to the executioner‘s house, which a boy pointed out It
stood close to the same stream, and was hard by a weir, the waters of which emitted a steady
roar.
While she stood hesitating the door opened, and an old man came forth shading a candle with
one hand. Locking the door on the outside, he turned to a flight of wooden steps fixed
against the end of the cottage, and began to ascend them, this being evidently the staircase to
his bedroom. Gertrude hastened forward, but by the time she reached the foot of the ladder
he was at the top. She called to him loudly enough to be heard above the roar of the weir; he
looked down and said, ‗What d‘ye want here‘
‗To speak to you a minute.‘
The candle-light, such as it was, fell upon her imploring, pale, upturned face, and Davies (as
the hangman was called) backed down the ladder. ‗I was just going to bed,‘ he said; ‗―Early
to bed and early to rise,‖ but I don‘t mind stopping a minute for such a one as you. Come
into house.‘ He reopened the door, and preceded her to the room within.
The implements of his daily work, which was that of a jobbing gardener, stood in a corner,
and seeing probably that she looked rural, he said, ‗If you want me to undertake country work
I can‘t come, for I never leave Casterbridge for gentle nor simple—not I. My real calling is
officer of justice,‘ he added formally.
‗Yes, yes! That‘s it. To-morrow!‘
‗Ah! I thought so. Well, what‘s the matter about that ‘Tis no use to come here about the
knot—folks do come continually, but I tell ‘em one knot is as merciful as another if ye keep it
under the ear. Is the unfortunate man a relation; or, I should say, perhaps‘ (looking at her
dress) ‗a person who‘s been in your employ‘
‗No. What time is the execution‘
‗The same as usual—twelve o‘clock, or as soon after as the London mail-coach gets in. We
always wait for that, in case of a reprieve.‘
‗O—a reprieve—I hope not!‘ she said involuntarily,
‗Well,—hee, hee!—as a matter of business, so do I! But still, if ever a young fellow deserved
to be let off, this one does; only just turned eighteen, and only present by chance when the
rick was fired. Howsomever, there‘s not much risk of it, as they are obliged to make an
example of him, there having been so much destruction of property that way lately.‘
‗I mean,‘ she explained, ‗that I want to touch him for a charm, a cure of an affliction, by the
advice of a man who has proved the virtue of the remedy.‘
83

‗O yes, miss! Now I understand. I‘ve had such people come in past years. But it didn‘t
strike me that you looked of a sort to require blood-turning. What‘s the complaint The
wrong kind for this, I‘ll be bound.‘
‗My arm.‘ She reluctantly showed the withered skin.
‗Ah—‘tis all a-scram!‘ said the hangman, examining it.
‗Yes,‘ said she.
‗Well,‘ he continued, with interest, ‗that is the class o‘ subject, I‘m bound to admit! I like the
look of the place; it is truly as suitable for the cure as any I ever saw. ‘Twas a knowing-man
that sent ‗ee, whoever he was.‘
‗You can contrive for me all that‘s necessary‘ she said breathlessly.
‗You should really have gone to the governor of the jail, and your doctor with ‗ee, and given
your name and address—that‘s how it used to be done, if I recollect. Still, perhaps, I can
manage it for a trifling fee.‘
‗O, thank you! I would rather do it this way, as I should like it kept private.‘
‗Lover not to know, eh‘
‗No—husband.‘
‗Aha! Very well. I‘ll get ee‘ a touch of the corpse.‘
‗Where is it now‘ she said, shuddering.
‗It—he, you mean; he‘s living yet. Just inside that little small winder up there in the
glum.‘ He signified the jail on the cliff above.
She thought of her husband and her friends. ‗Yes, of course,‘ she said; ‗and how am I to
proceed‘
He took her to the door. ‗Now, do you be waiting at the little wicket in the wall, that you‘ll
find up there in the lane, not later than one o‘clock. I will open it from the inside, as I shan‘t
come home to dinner till he‘s cut down. Good-night. Be punctual; and if you don‘t want
anybody to know ‗ee, wear a veil. Ah—once I had such a daughter as you!‘
She went away, and climbed the path above, to assure herself that she would be able to find
the wicket next day. Its outline was soon visible to her—a narrow opening in the outer wall
of the prison precincts. The steep was so great that, having reached the wicket, she stopped a
moment to breathe; and, looking back upon the water-side cot, saw the hangman again
ascending his outdoor staircase. He entered the loft or chamber to which it led, and in a few
minutes extinguished his light.
The town clock struck ten, and she returned to the White Hart as she had come.
84

CHAPTER IX—A RENCOUNTER
It was one o‘clock on Saturday. Gertrude Lodge, having been admitted to the jail as above
described, was sitting in a waiting-room within the second gate, which stood under a classic
archway of ashlar, then comparatively modern, and bearing the inscription, ‗COVNTY JAIL:
1793.‘ This had been the façade she saw from the heath the day before. Near at hand was a
passage to the roof on which the gallows stood.
The town was thronged, and the market suspended; but Gertrude had seen scarcely a
soul. Having kept her room till the hour of the appointment, she had proceeded to the spot by
a way which avoided the open space below the cliff where the spectators had gathered; but
she could, even now, hear the multitudinous babble of their voices, out of which rose at
intervals the hoarse croak of a single voice uttering the words, ‗Last dying speech and
confession!‘ There had been no reprieve, and the execution was over; but the crowd still
waited to see the body taken down.
Soon the persistent girl heard a trampling overhead, then a hand beckoned to her, and,
following directions, she went out and crossed the inner paved court beyond the gatehouse,
her knees trembling so that she could scarcely walk. One of her arms was out of its sleeve,
and only covered by her shawl.
On the spot at which she had now arrived were two trestles, and before she could think of
their purpose she heard heavy feet descending stairs somewhere at her back. Turn her head
she would not, or could not, and, rigid in this position, she was conscious of a rough coffin
passing her shoulder, borne by four men. It was open, and in it lay the body of a young man,
wearing the smockfrock of a rustic, and fustian breeches. The corpse had been thrown into
the coffin so hastily that the skirt of the smockfrock was hanging over. The burden was
temporarily deposited on the trestles.
By this time the young woman‘s state was such that a gray mist seemed to float before her
eyes, on account of which, and the veil she wore, she could scarcely discern anything: it was
as though she had nearly died, but was held up by a sort of galvanism.
‗Now!‘ said a voice close at hand, and she was just conscious that the word had been
addressed to her.
By a last strenuous effort she advanced, at the same time hearing persons approaching behind
her. She bared her poor curst arm; and Davies, uncovering the face of the corpse, took
Gertrude‘s hand, and held it so that her arm lay across the dead man‘s neck, upon a line the
colour of an unripe blackberry, which surrounded it.
Gertrude shrieked: ‗the turn o‘ the blood,‘ predicted by the conjuror, had taken place. But at
that moment a second shriek rent the air of the enclosure: it was not Gertrude‘s, and its effect
upon her was to make her start round.
Immediately behind her stood Rhoda Brook, her face drawn, and her eyes red with
weeping. Behind Rhoda stood Gertrude‘s own husband; his countenance lined, his eyes dim,
but without a tear.
‗D-n you! what are you doing here‘ he said hoarsely.
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‗Hussy—to come between us and our child now!‘ cried Rhoda. ‗This is the meaning of what
Satan showed me in the vision! You are like her at last!‘ And clutching the bare arm of the
younger woman, she pulled her unresistingly back against the wall. Immediately Brook had
loosened her hold the fragile young Gertrude slid down against the feet of her
husband. When he lifted her up she was unconscious.
The mere sight of the twain had been enough to suggest to her that the dead young man was
Rhoda‘s son. At that time the relatives of an executed convict had the privilege of claiming
the body for burial, if they chose to do so; and it was for this purpose that Lodge was
awaiting the inquest with Rhoda. He had been summoned by her as soon as the young man
was taken in the crime, and at different times since; and he had attended in court during the
trial. This was the ‗holiday‘ he had been indulging in of late. The two wretched parents had
wished to avoid exposure; and hence had come themselves for the body, a waggon and sheet
for its conveyance and covering being in waiting outside.
Gertrude‘s case was so serious that it was deemed advisable to call to her the surgeon who
was at hand. She was taken out of the jail into the town; but she never reached home
alive. Her delicate vitality, sapped perhaps by the paralyzed arm, collapsed under the double
shock that followed the severe strain, physical and mental, to which she had subjected herself
during the previous twenty-four hours. Her blood had been ‗turned‘ indeed—too far. Her
death took place in the town three days after.
Her husband was never seen in Casterbridge again; once only in the old market-place at
Anglebury, which he had so much frequented, and very seldom in public
anywhere. Burdened at first with moodiness and remorse, he eventually changed for the
better, and appeared as a chastened and thoughtful man. Soon after attending the funeral of
his poor young wife he took steps towards giving up the farms in Holmstoke and the
adjoining parish, and, having sold every head of his stock, he went away to Port-Bredy, at the
other end of the county, living there in solitary lodgings till his death two years later of a
painless decline. It was then found that he had bequeathed the whole of his not
inconsiderable property to a reformatory for boys, subject to the payment of a small annuity
to Rhoda Brook, if she could be found to claim it.
For some time she could not be found; but eventually she reappeared in her old parish,—
absolutely refusing, however, to have anything to do with the provision made for her. Her
monotonous milking at the dairy was resumed, and followed for many long years, till her
form became bent, and her once abundant dark hair white and worn away at the forehead—
perhaps by long pressure against the cows. Here, sometimes, those who knew her
experiences would stand and observe her, and wonder what sombre thoughts were beating
inside that impassive, wrinkled brow, to the rhythm of the alternating milk-streams.
(‗Blackwood’s Magazine,‘ January 1888.)
86

A VERY SHORT STORY - Ernest Hemingway
One hot evening in Padua they carried him up onto the roof and he could look out over the
top of the town. There were chimney swifts in the sky. After a while it got dark and the
searchlights came out. The others went down and took the bottles with them. He and Luz
could hear them below on the balcony. Luz sat on the bed. She was cool and fresh in the hot
night.
Luz stayed on night duty for three months. They were glad to let her. When they operated on
him she prepared him for the operating table; and they had a joke about friend or enema. He
went under the anaesthetic holding tight on to himself so he would not blab about anything
during the silly, talky time. After he got on crutches he used to take the temperatures so Luz
would not have to get up from the bed. There were only a few patients, and they all knew
about it. They all liked Luz. As he walked back along the halls he thought of Luz in his bed.
Before he went back to the front they went into the Duomo and prayed. It was dim and quiet,
and there were other people praying. They wanted to get married, but there was not enough
time for the banns, and neither of them had birth certificates. They felt as though they were
married, but they wanted everyone to know about it, and to make it so they could not lose it.
Luz wrote him many letters that he never got until after the armistice. Fifteen came in a
bunch to the front and he sorted them by the dates and read them all straight through. They
were all about the hospital, and how much she loved him and how it was impossible to get
along without him and how terrible it was missing him at night.
After the armistice they agreed he should go home to get a job so they might be married. Luz
would not come home until he had a good job and could come to New York to meet her. It
was understood he would not drink, and he did not want to see his friends or anyone in the
States. Only to get a job and be married. On the train from Padua to Milan they quarreled
about her not being willing to come home at once. When they had to say good-bye, in the
station at Milan, they kissed good-bye, but were not finished with the quarrel. He felt sick
about saying good-bye like that.
He went to America on a boat from Genoa. Luz went back to Pordonone to open a hospital. It
was lonely and rainy there, and there was a battalion of arditi quartered in the town. Living in
the muddy, rainy town in the winter, the major of the battalion made love to Luz, and she had
never known Italians before, and finally wrote to the States that theirs had only been a boy
and girl affair. She was sorry, and she knew he would probably not be able to understand, but
might some day forgive her, and be grateful to her, and she expected, absolutely
unexpectedly, to be married in the spring. She loved him as always, but she realized now it
was only a boy and girl love. She hoped he would have a great career, and believed in him
absolutely. She knew it was for the best.
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The major did not marry her in the spring, or any other time. Luz never got an answer to the
letter to Chicago about it. A short time after he contracted gonorrhea from a sales girl in a
loop department store while riding in a taxicab through Lincoln Park.
88

IN ANOTHER COUNTRY – Ernest Hemingway
IN the fall the war was always there, but we did not go to it
any more. It Was cold in the fall in Milan and the dark came
very early. Then the electric lights came on, and it was
pleasant along the streets looking in the windows. There was
much game hanging outside the shops, and the snow
powdered in the fur of the foxes and the wind blew their
tails. The deer hung stiff and heavy and empty, and small
birds blew in the wind and the wind turned their feathers. It
was a cold fall and the wind came down from the mountains.
We were all at the hospital every afternoon, and there were
different ways of walking across the town through the dusk to
the hospital. Two of the ways were alongside canals, but they
were long. Always, though, you crossed a bridge across a
canal to enter the hospital. There was a choice of three
bridges. On one of them a woman sold roasted chestnuts.
It was warm, standing in front of her charcoal fire, and the
chestnuts were warm afterward in your pocket. The hospital
was very old and very beautiful, and you entered through a
gate and walked across a courtyard and out a gate on the
tothdt* side. There were usually funerals starting from the
courtyard. Beyond the old hospital were the new brick
pavilions, and there we met every afternoon and were all
very polite and interested in what was the matter, and sat
in the machines that were to make so much difference.
The doctor came up to the machine where I was sitting
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and said: 'What did you like best to do before the war Did
you practise a sport'
I said: 'Yes, football.'
'Good,' he said. 'You will be able to play football again
better than ever.'
My knee did not bend and the leg dropped straight from
the knee to the ankle without a calf, and the machine was to
bend the knee and make it move as in riding a tricycle. But
it did not bend yet, and instead the machine lurched when
it came to the bending part. The doctor said: 'That will all
pass. You are a fortunate young man. You will play football
again like a champion.'
In the next machine was a major who had a little hand like
a baby's. He winked at me when the doctor examined his
hand, which was between two leather straps that bounced up
and down and flapped the stiff fingers, and said: 'And will I
too play football, captain-doctor' He had been a very great
fencer, and before the war the greatest fencer in Italy.
The doctor went to his office in a back room and brought a
photograph which showed a hand that had been withered
almost as small as the major's, before it had taken a machine
course, and after was a little larger. The major held the
photograph with his good hand and looked at it very carefully.
'A wound' he asked.
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'An industrial accident,' the doctor said.
'Very interesting, very interesting,' the major said, and
handed it back to the doctor.
'You have confidence'
'No,' said the major.
There were three boys who came each day who were about
the same age I was. They were all three from Milan, and one
of them was to be a lawyer, and one was to be a painter, and
one had intended to be a soldier, and after we were finished
with the machines, sometimes we walked back together to the
Cafe Cova, which was next door to the Scala. We walked the
short way through the communist quarter because we were
four together. The people hated us because we were officers,
and from a wine-shop someone called out, 'A basso gli
ufficiali!' as we passed. Another boy who walked with us
sometimes and made us five wore a black silk handkerchief
across his face because 1 he had no nose then and his face was
to be rebuilt. He had gone out to the front from the military
academy and been wounded within an hour after he had
gone into the front line for the first time. They rebuilt his
face, but he came from a very old family and they could
never get the nose exactly right. He went to South America
and worked in a bank. But this was a long time ago, and
then we did not any of us know how it was going to be after-
91

ward. We only knew then that there was always the war,
but that we were not going to it any more.
We all had the same medals, except the boy with the black
silk bandage across his face, and he had not been at the front
long enough to get any medals. The tall boy with a very pale
face who was to be a lawyer had been a lieutenant of Arditi
and had three medals of the sort we each had only one of.
He had lived a very long time with death and was a little
detached. We were all a little detached, and there was
nothing that held us together except that we met every
afternoon at the hospital. Although, as we walked to the
Cova through the tough part of town, walking in the dark,
with light and singing coming out of the wineshops, and
sometimes having to walk into the street when the men and
women would crowd together on the sidewalk so that we
would have had to jostle them to get by, we felt held together
by there being something that had happened that they, the
people who disliked us, did not understand.
We ourselves all understood the Cova, where it was rich
and warm and not too brightly lighted, and noisy and
smoky at certain hours, and there were always girls at the
tables and the illustrated papers on a rack on the wall. The
girls at the Cova were very patriotic, and I found that the
most patriotic people in Italy were the cafe girls and I
believe they are still patriotic.
The boys at first were very polite about my medals and
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asked me what I had done to get them. I showed them the
papers, which were written in very beautiful language and
full offratellanza and abnegazione, but which really said, with
the adjectives removed, that I had been given the medals
because I was an American. After that their manner
changed a little toward me, although I was their friend
against outsiders. I was a friend, but I was never really one
of them, after they had read the citations, because it had been
different with them and they had done very different things
to get their medals. I had been wounded, it was true; but
we all knew that being wounded, after all, was really an
accident. I was never ashamed of the ribbons, though, and
sometimes, after the cocktail hour, I would imagine myself
having done all the things they had done to get their medals;
but walking home at night through the empty streets with
the cold wind and all the shops closed, trying to keep near
the street lights, I knew that I would never have done such
things, and I was very much afraid to die, and often lay in
bed at night by myself, afraid to die and wondering how I
would be when I went back to the front again.
The three with the medals were like hunting-hawks; and I
was not a hawk, although I might seem a hawk to those who
had never hunted; they, the three, knew better and so we
drifted apart. But I stayed good friends with the boy who
had been wounded his first day at the front, because he
would never know now how he would have turned out; so he
could never be accepted either, and I liked him because I
thought perhaps he would not have turned out to be a hawk
93

either.
The major, who had been the great fencer, did not believe
in bravery, and spent much time while we sat in the machines
correcting my grammar. He had complimented me on how
I spoke Italian, and we talked together very easily. One day
I had said that Italian seemed such an easy language to me
that I could not take a great interest in it; everything was
so easy to say. 'Ah, yes,' the major said. 'Why, then, do you
not take up the use of grammar' So we took up the use of
grammar, and soon Italian was such a difficult language
that I was afraid to talk to him until I had the grammar
straight in my mind.
The major came very regularly to the hospital. I do not
think he ever missed a day, although I am sure he did not
believe in the machines. There was a time when none of us
believed in the machines, and one day the major said it was
all nonsense. The machines were new then and it was we
who were to prove them. It was an idiotic idea, he said, 'a
theory, like another'. I had not learned my grammar, and
he said I was a stupid impossible disgrace, and he was a fool
to have bothered with me. He was a small man and he sat
straight up in his chair with his right hand thrust into the
machine and looked straight ahead at the wall while the
straps thumped up and down with his fingers in them.
'What will you do when the war is over, if it is over' he
asked me. 'Speak grammatically!'
94

'I will go to the States.'
'Are you married'
'No, but I hope to be.'
'The more of a fool you are,' he said. He seemed very
angry. 'A man must not marry.'
'Why, Signor Maggiore'
'Don't call me "Signor Maggiore".'
'Why must not a man marry'
'He cannot marry. He cannot marry,' he said angrily.
'If he is to lose everything, he should not place himself in a
position to lose that. He should not place himself in a position
to lose. He should find things he cannot lose.'
He spoke very angrily and bitterly, and looked straight
ahead while he talked.
'But why should he necessarily lose it'
'He'll lose it,' the major said. He was looking at the wall.
Then he looked down at the machine and jerked his little
hand out from between the straps and slapped it hard against
95

his thigh. 'He'll lose it,' he almost shouted. 'Don't argue
with me!' Then he called to the attendant who ran the
machines. 'Come and turn this damned thing off.'
He went back into the other room for the light treatment
and the massage. Then I heard him ask the doctor if he
might use his telephone and he shut the door. When he
came back into the room, I was sitting in another machine.
He was wearing his cape and had his cap on, and he came
directly toward my machine and put his arm on my shoulder.
'I am so sorry,' he said, and patted me on the shoulder
with his good hand. 'I would not be rude. My wife has just
died. You must forgive me.'
‗Oh ' I said, feeling sick for him. 'I am so sorry.'
He stood there biting his lower lip. 'It is very difficult,'
he said. 'I cannot resign myself.'
He looked straight past me and out through the window.
Then he began to cry. 'I am utterly unable to resign myself,'
he said and choked. And then crying, his head up looking
at nothing, carrying himself straight and soldierly, with
tears on both his checks and biting his lips, he walked past
the machines and out the door.
The doctor told me that the major's wife, who was very
young and whom he had not married until he was definitely
96

invalided out of the war, had died of pneumonia. She had
been sick only a few days. No one expected her to die. The
major did not come to the hospital for three days. Then he
came at the usual hour, wearing a black band on the sleeve
of his uniform. When he came back, there were large
framed photographs around the wall, of all sorts of wounds
before and after they had been cured by the machines. In
front of the machine the major used were three photographs
of hands like his that were completely restored. I do not
know where the doctor got them. I always understood we
were the first to use the machines. The photographs did not
make much difference to the major because he only looked
out of the window.
97

The Snows of Kilimanjaro – Ernest Hemingway
THE MARVELLOUS THING IS THAT IT‘S painless," he said. "That's how you know
when it starts."
"Is it really"
"Absolutely. I'm awfully sorry about the odor though. That must bother you."
"Don't! Please don't."
"Look at them," he said. "Now is it sight or is it scent that brings them like that"
The cot the man lay on was in the wide shade of a mimosa tree and as he looked out past the
shade onto the glare of the plain there were three of the big birds squatted obscenely, while in
the sky a dozen more sailed, making quick-moving shadows as they passed.
"They've been there since the day the truck broke down," he said. "Today's the first time any
have lit on the ground. I watched the way they sailed very carefully at first in case I ever
wanted to use them in a story. That's funny now.""I wish you wouldn't," she said.
"I'm only talking," he said. "It's much easier if I talk. But I don't want to bother you."
"You know it doesn't bother me," she said. "It's that I've gotten so very nervous not being
able to do anything. I think we might make it as easy as we can until the plane comes."
"Or until the plane doesn't come."
"Please tell me what I can do. There must be something I can do.
"You can take the leg off and that might stop it, though I doubt it. Or you can shoot me.
You're a good shot now. I taught you to shoot, didn't I"
"Please don't talk that way. Couldn't I read to you"
"Read what"
"Anything in the book that we haven't read."
"I can't listen to it," he said." Talking is the easiest. We quarrel and that makes the time pass."
"I don't quarrel. I never want to quarrel. Let's not quarrel any more. No matter how nervous
we get. Maybe they will be back with another truck today. Maybe the plane will come."
"I don't want to move," the man said. "There is no sense in moving now except to make it
easier for you."
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"That's cowardly."
"Can't you let a man die as comfortably as he can without calling him names What's the use
of clanging me"
"You're not going to die."
"Don't be silly. I'm dying now. Ask those bastards." He looked over to where the huge, filthy
birds sat, their naked heads sunk in the hunched feathers. A fourth planed down, to run quicklegged
and then waddle slowly toward the others.
"They are around every camp. You never notice them. You can't die if you don't give up."
"Where did you read that You're such a bloody fool."
"You might think about some one else."
"For Christ's sake," he said, "that's been my trade."
He lay then and was quiet for a while and looked across the heat shimmer of the plain to the
edge of the bush. There were a few Tommies that showed minute and white against the
yellow and, far off, he saw a herd of zebra, white against the green of the bush. This was a
pleasant camp under big trees against a hill, with good water, and close by, a nearly dry water
hole where sand grouse flighted in the mornings.
"Wouldn't you like me to read" she asked. She was sitting on a canvas chair beside his cot.
"There's a breeze coming up.
"No thanks."
"Maybe the truck will come."
"I don't give a damn about the truck."
"I do."
"You give a damn about so many things that I don't."
"Not so many, Harry."
"What about a drink"
"It's supposed to be bad for you. It said in Black's to avoid all alcohol.
You shouldn't drink."
"Molo!" he shouted.
"Yes Bwana."
99

"Bring whiskey-soda."
"Yes Bwana."
"You shouldn't," she said. "That's what I mean by giving up. It says it's
bad for you. I know it's bad for you."
"No," he said. "It's good for me."
So now it was all over, he thought. So now he would never have a chance
to finish it. So this was the way it ended, in a bickering over a drink. Since
the gangrene started in his right leg he had no pain and with the pain the
horror had gone and all he felt now was a great tiredness and anger that this was the end of it.
For this, that now was coming, he had very little curiosity.
For years it had obsessed him; but now it meant nothing in itself. It was
strange how easy being tired enough made it.
Now he would never write the things that he had saved to write until he knew enough to write
them well. Well, he would not have to fail at trying to write them either. Maybe you could
never write them, and that was why you put them off and delayed the starting. Well he would
never know, now.
"I wish we'd never come," the woman said. She was looking at him holding the glass and
biting her lip. "You never would have gotten anything like this in Paris. You always said you
loved Paris. We could have stayed in Paris or gone anywhere. I'd have gone anywhere. I said
I'd go anywhere you wanted. If you wanted to shoot we could have gone shooting in Hungary
and been comfortable."
"Your bloody money," he said.
"That's not fair," she said. "It was always yours as much as mine. I left everything and I went
wherever you wanted to go and I've done what you wanted to do But I wish we'd never come
here."
"You said you loved it."
"I did when you were all right. But now I hate it. I don't see why that had to happen to your
leg. What have we done to have that happen to us"
"I suppose what I did was to forget to put iodine on it when I first scratched it. Then I didn't
pay any attention to it because I never infect. Then, later, when it got bad, it was probably
using that weak carbolic solution when the other antiseptics ran out that paralyzed the minute
blood vessels and started the gangrene." He looked at her, "What else'"
100

"I don't mean that."
"If we would have hired a good mechanic instead of a half-baked Kikuyu driver, he would
have checked the oil and never burned out that bearing in the truck."
"I don't mean that."
"If you hadn't left your own people, your goddamned Old Westbury Saratoga, Palm Beach
people to take me on " *'Why, I loved you. That's not fair. I love you now. I'll always love
you Don't you love me"
"No," said the man. "I don't think so. I never have."
"Harry, what are you saying You're out of your head."
"No. I haven't any head to go out of."
"Don't drink that," she said. "Darling, please don't drink that. We have to do everything we
can."
"You do it," he said. "I'm tired."
Now in his mind he saw a railway station at Karagatch and he was standing with his pack
and that was the headlight of the Simplon-Offent cutting the dark now and he was leaving
Thrace then after the retreat. That was one of the things he had saved to write, with, in the
morning at breakfast, looking out the window and seeing snow on the mountains in Bulgaffa
and Nansen's Secretary asking the old man if it were snow and the old man looking at it and
saying, No, that's not snow. It's too early for snow. And the Secretary repeating to the other
girls, No, you see. It's not snow and them all saying, It's not snow we were mistaken. But it
was the snow all right and he sent them on into it when he evolved exchange of populations.
And it was snow they tramped along in until they died that winter.
It was snow too that fell all Christmas week that year up in the Gauertal, that year they lived
in the woodcutter's house with the big square porcelain stove that filled half the room, and
they slept on mattresses filled with beech leaves, the time the deserter came with his feet
bloody in the snow. He said the police were right behind him and they gave him woolen socks
and held the gendarmes talking until the tracks had drifted over.
In Schrunz, on Christmas day, the snow was so bright it hurt your eyes when you looked out
from the Weinstube and saw every one coming home from church. That was where they
walked up the sleigh-smoothed urine-yellowed road along the river with the steep pine hills,
skis heavy on the shoulder, and where they ran down the glacier above the Madlenerhaus,
the snow as smooth to see as cake frosting and as light as powder and he remembered the
noiseless rush the speed made as you dropped down like a bird.
They were snow-bound a week in the Madlenerhaus that time in the blizzard playing cards in
the smoke by the lantern light and the stakes were higher all the time as Herr Lent lost more.
Finally he lost it all. Everything, the Skischule money and all the season's profit and then his
capital. He could see him with his long nose, picking up the cards and then opening, "Sans
101

Voir." There was always gambling then. When there was no snow you gambled and when
there was too much you gambled. He thought of all the time in his life he had spent gambling.
But he had never written a line of that, nor of that cold, bright Christmas day with the
mountains showing across the plain that Barker had flown across the lines to bomb the
Austrian officers' leave train, machine-gunning them as they scattered and ran. He
remembered Barker afterwards coming into the mess and starting to tell about it. And how
quiet it got and then somebody saying, ''You bloody murderous bastard.''
Those were the same Austrians they killed then that he skied with later. No not the same.
Hans, that he skied with all that year, had been in the Kaiser Jagers and when they went
hunting hares together up the little valley above the saw-mill they had talked of the fighting
on Pasubio and of the attack on Perticara and Asalone and he had never written a word of
that. Nor of Monte Corona, nor the Sette Communi, nor of Arsiero.
How many winters had he lived in the Vorarlberg and the Arlberg It was four and then he
remembered the man who had the fox to sell when they had walked into Bludenz, that time to
buy presents, and the cherry-pit taste of good kirsch, the fast-slipping rush of running
powder-snow on crust, singing ''Hi! Ho! said Rolly!' ' as you ran down the last stretch to the
steep drop, taking it straight, then running the orchard in three turns and out across the ditch
and onto the icy road behind the inn. Knocking your bindings loose, kicking the skis free and
leaning them up against the wooden wall of the inn, the lamplight coming from the window,
where inside, in the smoky, new-wine smelling warmth, they were playing the accordion.
"Where did we stay in Paris" he asked the woman who was sitting by him in a canvas chair,
now, in Africa.
"At the Crillon. You know that."
"Why do I know that"
"That's where we always stayed."
"No. Not always."
"There and at the Pavillion Henri-Quatre in St. Germain. You said you loved it there."
"Love is a dunghill," said Harry. "And I'm the cock that gets on it to crow."
"If you have to go away," she said, "is it absolutely necessary to kill off everything you leave
behind I mean do you have to take away everything Do you have to kill your horse, and
your wife and burn your saddle and your armour"
"Yes," he said. "Your damned money was my armour. My Sword and my Armour."
"Don't."
"All right. I'll stop that. I don't want to hurt you.'
"It's a little bit late now."
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"All right then. I'll go on hurting you. It's more amusing. The only thing I ever really liked to
do with you I can't do now."
"No, that's not true. You liked to do many things and everything you wanted to do I did."
"Oh, for Christ sake stop bragging, will you"
He looked at her and saw her crying.
"Listen," he said. "Do you think that it is fun to do this I don't know why I'm doing it. It's
trying to kill to keep yourself alive, I imagine. I was all right when we started talking. I didn't
mean to start this, and now I'm crazy as a coot and being as cruel to you as I can be. Don't
pay any attention, darling, to what I say. I love you, really. You know I love you. I've never
loved any one else the way I love you."
He slipped into the familiar lie he made his bread and butter by.
"You're sweet to me."
"You bitch," he said. "You rich bitch. That's poetry. I'm full of poetry now. Rot and poetry.
Rotten poetry."
"Stop it. Harry, why do you have to turn into a devil now"
"I don't like to leave anything," the man said. "I don‘t like to leave things behind."
* * *
It was evening now and he had been asleep. The sun was gone behind the hill and there was a
shadow all across the plain and the small animals were feeding close to camp; quick dropping
heads and switching tails, he watched them keeping well out away from the bush now. The
birds no longer waited on the ground. They were all perched heavily in a tree. There were
many more of them. His personal boy was sitting by the bed.
"Memsahib's gone to shoot," the boy said. "Does Bwana want"
"Nothing."
She had gone to kill a piece of meat and, knowing how he liked to watch the game, she had
gone well away so she would not disturb this little pocket of the plain that he could see. She
was always thoughtful, he thought. On anything she knew about, or had read, or that she had
ever heard.
It was not her fault that when he went to her he was already over. How could a woman know
that you meant nothing that you said; that you spoke only from habit and to be comfortable
After he no longer meant what he said, his lies were more successful with women than when
he had told them the truth.
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It was not so much that he lied as that there was no truth to tell. He had had his life and it was
over and then he went on living it again with different people and more money, with the best
of the same places, and some new ones.
You kept from thinking and it was all marvellous. You were equipped with good insides so
that you did not go to pieces that way, the way most of them had, and you made an attitude
that you cared nothing for the work you used to do, now that you could no longer do it. But,
in yourself, you said that you would write about these people; about the very rich; that you
were really not of them but a spy in their country; that you would leave it and write of it and
for once it would be written by some one who knew what he was writing of. But he would
never do it, because each day of not writing, of comfort, of being that which he despised,
dulled his ability and softened his will to work so that, finally, he did no work at all. The
people he knew now were all much more comfortable when he did not work. Africa was
where he had been happiest in the good time of his life, so he had come out here to start
again. They had made this safari with the minimum of comfort. There was no hardship; but
there was no luxury and he had thought that he could get back into training that way. That in
some way he could work the fat off his soul the way a fighter went into the mountains to
work and train in order to burn it out of his body.
She had liked it. She said she loved it. She loved anything that was exciting, that involved a
change of scene, where there were new people and where things were pleasant. And he had
felt the illusion of returning strength of will to work. Now if this was how it ended, and he
knew it was, he must not turn like some snake biting itself because its back was broken. It
wasn't this woman's fault. If it had not been she it would have been another. If he lived by a
lie he should try to die by it. He heard a shot beyond the hill.
She shot very well this good, this rich bitch, this kindly caretaker and destroyer of his talent.
Nonsense. He had destroyed his talent himself. Why should he blame this woman because
she kept him well He had destroyed his talent by not using it, by betrayals of himself and
what he believed in, by drinking so much that he blunted the edge of his perceptions, by
laziness, by sloth, and by snobbery, by pride and by prejudice, by hook and by crook. What
was this A catalogue of old books What was his talent anyway It was a talent all right but
instead of using it, he had traded on it. It was never what he had done, but always what he
could do. And he had chosen to make his living with something else instead of a pen or a
pencil. It was strange, too, wasn't it, that when he fell in love with another woman, that
woman should always have more money than the last one But when he no longer was in
love, when he was only lying, as to this woman, now, who had the most money of all, who
had all the money there was, who had had a husband and children, who had taken lovers and
been dissatisfied with them, and who loved him dearly as a writer, as a man, as a companion
and as a proud possession; it was strange that when he did not love her at all and was lying,
that he should be able to give her more for her money than when he had really loved.
We must all be cut out for what we do, he thought. However you make your living is where
your talent lies. He had sold vitality, in one form or another, all his life and when your
affections are not too involved you give much better value for the money. He had found that
out but he would never write that, now, either. No, he would not write that, although it was
well worth writing.
Now she came in sight, walking across the open toward the camp. She was wearing jodphurs
and carrying her rifle. The two boys had a Tommie slung and they were coming along behind
104

her. She was still a good-looking woman, he thought, and she had a pleasant body. She had a
great talent and appreciation for the bed, she was not pretty, but he liked her face, she read
enormously, liked to ride and shoot and, certainly, she drank too much. Her husband had died
when she was still a comparatively young woman and for a while she had devoted herself to
her two just-grown children, who did not need her and were embarrassed at having her about,
to her stable of horses, to books, and to bottles. She liked to read in the evening before dinner
and she drank Scotch and soda while she read. By dinner she was fairly drunk and after a
bottle of wine at dinner she was usually drunk enough to sleep.
That was before the lovers. After she had the lovers she did not drink so much because she
did not have to be drunk to sleep. But the lovers bored her. She had been married to a man
who had never bored her and these people bored her very much.
Then one of her two children was killed in a plane crash and after that was over she did not
want the lovers, and drink being no anaesthetic she had to make another life. Suddenly, she
had been acutely frightened of being alone. But she wanted some one that she respected with
her.
It had begun very simply. She liked what he wrote and she had always envied the life he led.
She thought he did exactly what he wanted to. The steps by which she had acquired him and
the way in which she had finally fallen in love with him were all part of a regular progression
in which she had built herself a new life and he had traded away what remained of his old
life.
He had traded it for security, for comfort too, there was no denying that, and for what else
He did not know. She would have bought him anything he wanted. He knew that. She was a
damned nice woman too. He would as soon be in bed with her as any one; rather with her,
because she was richer, because she was very pleasant and appreciative and because she
never made scenes. And now this life that she had built again was coming to a term because
he had not used iodine two weeks ago when a thorn had scratched his knee as they moved
forward trying to photograph a herd of waterbuck standing, their heads up, peering while
their nostrils searched the air, their ears spread wide to hear the first noise that would send
them rushing into the bush. They had bolted, too, before he got the picture.
Here she came now. He turned his head on the cot to look toward her. "Hello," he said.
"I shot a Tommy ram," she told him. "He'll make you good broth and I'll have them mash
some potatoes with the Klim. How do you feel"
"Much better."
"Isn't that lovely You know I thought perhaps you would. You were sleeping when I left."
"I had a good sleep. Did you walk far"
"No. Just around behind the hill. I made quite a good shot on the Tommy."
"You shoot marvellously, you know."
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"I love it. I've loved Africa. Really. If you're all right it's the most fun that I've ever had. You
don't know the fun it's been to shoot with you. I've loved the country."
"I love it too."
"Darling, you don't know how marvellous it is to see you feeling better. I couldn't stand it
when you felt that way. You won't talk to me like that again, will you Promise me"
"No," he said. "I don't remember what I said."
"You don't have to destroy me. Do you I'm only a middle-aged woman who loves you and
wants to do what you want to do. I've been destroyed two or three times already. You
wouldn't want to destroy me again, would you"
"I'd like to destroy you a few times in bed," he said.
"Yes. That's the good destruction. That's the way we're made to be destroyed. The plane will
be here tomorrow."
"How do you know"
"I'm sure. It's bound to come. The boys have the wood all ready and the grass to make the
smudge. I went down and looked at it again today. There's plenty of room to land and we
have the smudges ready at both ends."
"What makes you think it will come tomorrow"
"I'm sure it will. It's overdue now. Then, in town, they will fix up your leg and then we will
have some good destruction. Not that dreadful talking kind."
"Should we have a drink The sun is down."
"Do you think you should"
"I'm having one."
"We'll have one together. Molo, letti dui whiskey-soda!" she called.
"You'd better put on your mosquito boots," he told her.
"I'll wait till I bathe . . ."
While it grew dark they drank and just before it was dark and there was no longer enough
light to shoot, a hyena crossed the open on his way around the hill.
"That bastard crosses there every night," the man said. "Every night for two weeks."
"He's the one makes the noise at night. I don't mind it. They're a filthy animal though."
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Drinking together, with no pain now except the discomfort of lying in the one position, the
boys lighting a fire, its shadow jumping on the tents, he could feel the return of acquiescence
in this life of pleasant surrender. She was very good to him. He had been cruel and unjust in
the afternoon. She was a fine woman, marvellous really. And just then it occurred to him that
he was going to die.
It came with a rush; not as a rush of water nor of wind; but of a sudden, evil-smelling
emptiness and the odd thing was that the hyena slipped lightly along the edge of it.
"What is it, Harry" she asked him.
"Nothing," he said. "You had better move over to the other side. To windward."
"Did Molo change the dressing"
"Yes. I'm just using the boric now."
"How do you feel"
"A little wobbly."
"I'm going in to bathe," she said. "I'll be right out. I'll eat with you and then we'll put the cot
in."
So, he said to himself, we did well to stop the quarrelling. He had never quarrelled much with
this woman, while with the women that he loved he had quarrelled so much they had finally,
always, with the corrosion of the quarrelling, killed what they had together. He had loved too
much, demanded too much, and he wore it all out.
He thought about alone in Constantinople that time, having quarrelled in Paris before he had
gone out. He had whored the whole time and then, when that was over, and he had failed to
kill his loneliness, but only made it worse, he had written her, the first one, the one who left
him, a letter telling her how he had never been able to kill it ... How when he thought he saw
her outside the Regence one time it made him go all faint and sick inside, and that he would
follow a woman who looked like her in some way, along the Boulevard, afraid to see it was
not she, afraid to lose the feeling it gave him. How every one he had slept with had only made
him miss her more. How what she had done could never matter since he knew he could not
cure himself of loving her. He wrote this letter at the Club, cold sober, and mailed it to New
York asking her to write him at the of fice in Paris. That seemed safe. And that night missing
her so much it made him feel hollow sick inside, he wandered up past Maxim's, picked a girl
up and took her out to supper. He had gone to a place to dance with her afterward, she
danced badly, and left her for a hot Armenian slut, that swung her belly against him so it
almost scalded. He took her away from a British gunner subaltern after a row. The gunner
asked him outside and they fought in the street on the cobbles in the dark. He'd hit him twice,
hard, on the side of the jaw and when he didn't go down he knew he was in for a fight. The
gunner hit him in the body, then beside his eye. He swung with his left again and landed and
the gunner fell on him and grabbed his coat and tore the sleeve off and he clubbed him twice
behind the ear and then smashed him with his right as he pushed him away. When the gunner
went down his head hit first and he ran with the girl because they heard the M.P. 's coming.
They got into a taxi and drove out to Rimmily Hissa along the Bosphorus, and around, and
107

ack in the cool night and went to bed and she felt as over-ripe as she looked but smooth,
rose-petal, syrupy, smooth-bellied, big-breasted and needed no pillow under her buttocks,
and he left her before she was awake looking blousy enough in the first daylight and turned
up at the Pera Palace with a black eye, carrying his coat because one sleeve was missing.
That same night he left for Anatolia and he remembered, later on that trip, riding all day
through fields of the poppies that they raised for opium and how strange it made you feel,
finally, and all the distances seemed wrong, to where they had made the attack with the newly
arrived Constantine officers, that did not know a god-damned thing, and the artillery had
fired into the troops and the British observer had cried like a child.
That was the day he'd first seen dead men wearing white ballet skirts and upturned shoes
with pompons on them. The Turks had come steadily and lumpily and he had seen the skirted
men running and the of ficers shooting into them and running then themselves and he and the
British observer had run too until his lungs ached and his mouth was full of the taste of
pennies and they stopped behind some rocks and there were the Turks coming as lumpily as
ever. Later he had seen the things that he could never think of and later still he had seen
much worse. So when he got back to Paris that time he could not talk about it or stand to
have it mentioned. And there in the cafe as he passed was that American poet with a pile of
saucers in front of him and a stupid look on his potato face talking about the Dada movement
with a Roumanian who said his name was Tristan Tzara, who always wore a monocle and
had a headache, and, back at the apartment with his wife that now he loved again, the
quarrel all over, the madness all over, glad to be home, the office sent his mail up to the flat.
So then the letter in answer to the one he'd written came in on a platter one morning and
when he saw the hand writing he went cold all over and tried to slip the letter underneath
another. But his wife said, ''Who is that letter from, dear'' and that was the end of the
beginning of that.
He remembered the good times with them all, and the quarrels. They always picked the finest
places to have the quarrels. And why had they always quarrelled when he was feeling best
He had never written any of that because, at first, he never wanted to hurt any one and then it
seemed as though there was enough to write without it. But he had always thought that he
would write it finally. There was so much to write. He had seen the world change; not just the
events; although he had seen many of them and had watched the people, but he had seen the
subtler change and he could remember how the people were at different times. He had been
in it and he had watched it and it was his duty to write of it; but now he never would.
"How do you feel" she said. She had come out from the tent now after her bath.
"All right."
"Could you eat now" He saw Molo behind her with the folding table and the other boy with
the dishes.
"I want to write," he said.
"You ought to take some broth to keep your strength up."
"I'm going to die tonight," he said. "I don't need my strength up."
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"Don't be melodramatic, Harry, please," she said.
"Why don't you use your nose I'm rotted half way up my thigh now. What the hell should I
fool with broth for Molo bring whiskey-soda."
"Please take the broth," she said gently.
"All right."
The broth was too hot. He had to hold it in the cup until it cooled enough to take it and then
he just got it down without gagging.
"You're a fine woman," he said. "Don't pay any attention to me."
She looked at him with her well-known, well-loved face from Spur and Town &
Country, only a little the worse for drink, only a little the worse for bed, but Town &
Country never showed those good breasts and those useful thighs and those lightly small-ofback-caressing
hands, and as he looked and saw her well-known pleasant smile, he felt death
come again.
in.
This time there was no rush. It was a puff, as of a wind that makes a candle flicker and the
flame go tall.
"They can bring my net out later and hang it from the tree and build the fire up. I'm not going
in the tent tonight. It's not worth moving. It's a clear night. There won't be any rain."
So this was how you died, in whispers that you did not hear. Well, there would be no more
quarrelling. He could promise that. The one experience that he had never had he was not
going to spoil now. He probably would. You spoiled everything. But perhaps he wouldn't.
"You can't take dictation, can you"
"I never learned," she told him.
"That's all right."
There wasn't time, of course, although it seemed as though it telescoped so that you might put
it all into one paragraph if you could get it right.
There was a log house, chinked white with mortar, on a hill above the lake. There was a bell
on a pole by the door to call the people in to meals. Behind the house were fields and behind
the fields was the timber. A line of lombardy poplars ran from the house to the dock. Other
poplars ran along the point. A road went up to the hills along the edge of the timber and
along that road he picked blackberries. Then that log house was burned down and all the
guns that had been on deer foot racks above the open fire place were burned and afterwards
their barrels, with the lead melted in the magazines, and the stocks burned away, lay out on
the heap of ashes that were used to make lye for the big iron soap kettles, and you asked
Grandfather if you could have them to play with, and he said, no. You see they were his guns
109

still and he never bought any others. Nor did he hunt any more. The house was rebuilt in the
same place out of lumber now and painted white and from its porch you saw the poplars and
the lake beyond; but there were never any more guns. The barrels of the guns that had hung
on the deer feet on the wall of the log house lay out there on the heap of ashes and no one
ever touched them.
In the Black Forest, after the war, we rented a trout stream and there were two ways to walk
to it. One was down the valley from Triberg and around the valley road in the shade of the
trees that bordered the white road, and then up a side road that went up through the hills
past many small farms, with the big Schwarzwald houses, until that road crossed the stream.
That was where our fishing began.
The other way was to climb steeply up to the edge of the woods and then go across the top of
the hills through the pine woods, and then out to the edge of a meadow and down across this
meadow to the bridge. There were birches along the stream and it was not big, but narrow,
clear and fast, with pools where it had cut under the roots of the birches. At the Hotel in
Triberg the proprietor had a fine season. It was very pleasant and we were all great friends.
The next year came the inflation and the money he had made the year before was not enough
to buy supplies to open the hotel and he hanged himself. You could dictate that, but you could
not dictate the Place Contrescarpe where the flower sellers dyed their flowers in the street
and the dye ran over the paving where the autobus started and the old men and the women,
always drunk on wine and bad mare; and the children with their noses running in the cold;
the smell of dirty sweat and poverty and drunkenness at the Cafe' des Amateurs and the
whores at the Bal Musette they lived above. The concierge who entertained the trooper of the
Garde Republicaine in her loge, his horse-hair-plumed helmet on a chair. The locataire
across the hall whose husband was a bicycle racer and her joy that morning at
the cremerie when she had opened L'Auto and seen where he placed third in Paris-Tours, his
first big race. She had blushed and laughed and then gone upstairs crying with the yellow
sporting paper in her hand. The husband of the woman who ran the Bal Musette drove a taxi
and when he, Harry, had to take an early plane the husband knocked upon the door to wake
him and they each drank a glass of white wine at the zinc of the bar before they started. He
knew his neighbors in that quarter then because they all were poor.
Around that Place there were two kinds; the drunkards and the sportifs. The drunkards killed
their poverty that way; the sportifs took it out in exercise. They were the descendants of the
Communards and it was no struggle for them to know their politics. They knew who had shot
their fathers, their relatives, their brothers, and their friends when the Versailles troops came
in and took the town after the Commune and executed any one they could catch with
calloused hands, or who wore a cap, or carried any other sign he was a working man. And in
that poverty, and in that quarter across the street from a Boucherie Chevaline and a wine
cooperative he had written the start of all he was to do. There never was another part of
Paris that he loved like that, the sprawling trees, the old white plastered houses painted
brown below, the long green of the autobus in that round square, the purple flower dye upon
the paving, the sudden drop down the hill of the rue Cardinal Lemoine to the River, and the
other way the narrow crowded world of the rue Mouffetard. The street that ran up toward the
Pantheon and the other that he always took with the bicycle, the only asphalted street in all
that quarter, smooth under the tires, with the high narrow houses and the cheap tall hotel
where Paul Verlaine had died. There were only two rooms in the apartments where they lived
and he had a room on the top floor of that hotel that cost him sixty francs a month where he
did his writing, and from it he could see the roofs and chimney pots and all the hills of Paris.
110

From the apartment you could only see the wood and coal man's place. He sold wine too, bad
wine. The golden horse's head outside the Boucherie Chevaline where the carcasses hung
yellow gold and red in the open window, and the green painted co-operative where they
bought their wine; good wine and cheap. The rest was plaster walls and the windows of the
neighbors. The neighbors who, at night, when some one lay drunk in the street, moaning and
groaning in that typical French ivresse that you were propaganded to believe did not exist,
would open their windows and then the murmur of talk.
''Where is the policeman When you don't want him the bugger is always there. He's sleeping
with some concierge. Get the Agent. " Till some one threw a bucket of water from a window
and the moaning stopped. ''What's that Water. Ah, that's intelligent." And the windows
shutting. Marie, his femme de menage, protesting against the eight-hour day saying, ''If a
husband works until six he gets only a riffle drunk on the way home and does not waste too
much. If he works only until five he is drunk every night and one has no money. It is the wife
of the working man who suffers from this shortening of hours. '
"Wouldn't you like some more broth" the woman asked him now.
"No, thank you very much. It is awfully good."
"Try just a little."
"I would like a whiskey-soda."
"It's not good for you."
"No. It's bad for me. Cole Porter wrote the words and the music. This knowledge that you're
going mad for me."
"You know I like you to drink."
"Oh yes. Only it's bad for me."
When she goes, he thought, I'll have all I want. Not all I want but all there is. Ayee he was
tired. Too tired. He was going to sleep a little while. He lay still and death was not there. It
must have gone around another street. It went in pairs, on bicycles, and moved absolutely
silently on the pavements.
No, he had never written about Paris. Not the Paris that he cared about. But what about the
rest that he had never written
What about the ranch and the silvered gray of the sage brush, the quick, clear water in the
irrigation ditches, and the heavy green of the alfalfa. The trail went up into the hills and the
cattle in the summer were shy as deer. The bawling and the steady noise and slow moving
mass raising a dust as you brought them down in the fall. And behind the mountains, the
clear sharpness of the peak in the evening light and, riding down along the trail in the
moonlight, bright across the valley. Now he remembered coming down through the timber in
the dark holding the horse's tail when you could not see and all the stories that he meant to
write.
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About the half-wit chore boy who was left at the ranch that time and told not to let any one
get any hay, and that old bastard from the Forks who had beaten the boy when he had
worked for him stopping to get some feed. The boy refusing and the old man saying he would
beat him again. The boy got the rifle from the kitchen and shot him when he tried to come
into the barn and when they came back to the ranch he'd been dead a week, frozen in the
corral, and the dogs had eaten part of him. But what was left you packed on a sled wrapped
in a blanket and roped on and you got the boy to help you haul it, and the two of you took it
out over the road on skis, and sixty miles down to town to turn the boy over. He having no
idea that he would be arrested. Thinking he had done his duty and that you were his friend
and he would be rewarded. He'd helped to haul the old man in so everybody could know how
bad the old man had been and how he'd tried to steal some feed that didn't belong to him, and
when the sheriff put the handcuffs on the boy he couldn't believe it. Then he'd started to cry.
That was one story he had saved to write. He knew at least twenty good stories from out there
and he had never written one. Why
"You tell them why," he said.
"Why what, dear"
"Why nothing."
She didn't drink so much, now, since she had him. But if he lived he would never write about
her, he knew that now. Nor about any of them. The rich were dull and they drank too much,
or they played too much backgammon. They were dull and they were repetitious. He
remembered poor Julian and his romantic awe of them and how he had started a story once
that began, "The very rich are different from you and me." And how some one had said to
Julian, Yes, they have more money. But that was not humorous to Julian. He thought they
were a special glamourous race and when he found they weren't it wrecked him just as much
as any other thing that wrecked him.
He had been contemptuous of those who wrecked. You did not have to like it because you
understood it. He could beat anything, he thought, because no thing could hurt him if he did
not care.
All right. Now he would not care for death. One thing he had always dreaded was the pain.
He could stand pain as well as any man, until it went on too long, and wore him out, but here
he had something that had hurt frightfully and just when he had felt it breaking him, the pain
had stopped.
He remembered long ago when Williamson, the bombing officer, had been hit by a stick
bomb some one in a German patrol had thrown as he was coming in through the wire that
night and, screaming, had begged every one to kill him. He was a fat man, very brave, and a
good officer, although addicted to fantastic shows. But that night he was caught in the wire,
with a flare lighting him up and his bowels spilled out into the wire, so when they brought
him in, alive, they had to cut him loose. Shoot me, Harry. For Christ sake shoot me. They had
had an argument one time about our Lord never sending you anything you could not bear
and some one's theory had been that meant that at a certain time the pain passed you out
automatically. But he had always remembered Williamson, that night. Nothing passed out
Williamson until he gave him all his morphine tablets that he had always saved to use himself
and then they did not work right away.
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Still this now, that he had, was very easy; and if it was no worse as it went on there was
nothing to worry about. Except that he would rather be in better company.
He thought a little about the company that he would like to have.
No, he thought, when everything you do, you do too long, and do too late, you can't expect to
find the people still there. The people all are gone. The party's over and you are with your
hostess now.
I'm getting as bored with dying as with everything else, he thought.
"It's a bore," he said out loud.
"What is, my dear"
"Anything you do too bloody long."
He looked at her face between him and the fire. She was leaning back in the chair and the
firelight shone on her pleasantly lined face and he could see that she was sleepy. He heard the
hyena make a noise just outside the range of the fire.
"I've been writing," he said. "But I got tired."
"Do you think you will be able to sleep"
"Pretty sure. Why don't you turn in"
"I like to sit here with you."
"Do you feel anything strange" he asked her.
"No. Just a little sleepy."
"I do," he said.
He had just felt death come by again.
"You know the only thing I've never lost is curiosity," he said to her.
"You've never lost anything. You're the most complete man I've ever known."
"Christ," he said. "How little a woman knows. What is that Your intuition"
Because, just then, death had come and rested its head on the foot of the cot and he could
smell its breath.
"Never believe any of that about a scythe and a skull," he told her. "It can be two bicycle
policemen as easily, or be a bird. Or it can have a wide snout like a hyena."
It had moved up on him now, but it had no shape any more. It simply occupied space.
113

"Tell it to go away."
It did not go away but moved a little closer.
"You've got a hell of a breath," he told it. "You stinking bastard."
It moved up closer to him still and now he could not speak to it, and when it saw he could not
speak it came a little closer, and now he tried to send it away without speaking, but it moved
in on him so its weight was all upon his chest, and while it crouched there and he could not
move or speak, he heard the woman say, "Bwana is asleep now. Take the cot up very gently
and carry it into the tent."
He could not speak to tell her to make it go away and it crouched now, heavier, so he could
not breathe. And then, while they lifted the cot, suddenly it was all right and the weight went
from his chest.
It was morning and had been morning for some time and he heard the plane. It showed very
tiny and then made a wide circle and the boys ran out and lit the fires, using kerosene, and
piled on grass so there were two big smudges at each end of the level place and the morning
breeze blew them toward the camp and the plane circled twice more, low this time, and then
glided down and levelled off and landed smoothly and, coming walking toward him, was old
Compton in slacks, a tweed jacket and a brown felt hat.
"What's the matter, old cock" Compton said.
"Bad leg," he told him. "Will you have some breakfast"
"Thanks. I'll just have some tea. It's the Puss Moth you know. I won't be able to take the
Memsahib. There's only room for one. Your lorry is on the way."
Helen had taken Compton aside and was speaking to him. Compton came back more cheery
than ever.
"We'll get you right in," he said. "I'll be back for the Mem. Now I'm afraid I'll have to stop at
Arusha to refuel. We'd better get going."
"What about the tea"
"I don't really care about it, you know."
The boys had picked up the cot and carried it around the green tents and down along the rock
and out onto the plain and along past the smudges that were burning brightly now, the grass
all consumed, and the wind fanning the fire, to the little plane. It was difficult getting him in,
but once in he lay back in the leather seat, and the leg was stuck straight out to one side of the
seat where Compton sat. Compton started the motor and got in. He waved to Helen and to the
boys and, as the clatter moved into the old familiar roar, they swung around with Compie
watching for warthog holes and roared, bumping, along the stretch between the fires and with
the last bump rose and he saw them all standing below, waving, and the camp beside the hill,
flattening now, and the plain spreading, clumps of trees, and the bush flattening, while the
game trails ran now smoothly to the dry waterholes, and there was a new water that he had
114

never known of. The zebra, small rounded backs now, and the wildebeeste, big-headed dots
seeming to climb as they moved in long fingers across the plain, now scattering as the
shadow came toward them, they were tiny now, and the movement had no gallop, and the
plain as far as you could see, gray-yellow now and ahead old Compie's tweed back and the
brown felt hat. Then they were over the first hills and the wildebeeste were trailing up them,
and then they were over mountains with sudden depths of green-rising forest and the solid
bamboo slopes, and then the heavy forest again, sculptured into peaks and hollows until they
crossed, and hills sloped down and then another plain, hot now, and purple brown, bumpy
with heat and Compie looking back to see how he was riding. Then there were other
mountains dark ahead.
And then instead of going on to Arusha they turned left, he evidently figured that they had the
gas, and looking down he saw a pink sifting cloud, moving over the ground, and in the air,
like the first snow in at ii blizzard, that comes from nowhere, and he knew the locusts were
coming, up from the South. Then they began to climb and they were going to the East it
seemed, and then it darkened and they were in a storm, the rain so thick it seemed like flying
through a waterfall, and then they were out and Compie turned his head and grinned and
pointed and there, ahead, all he could see, as wide as all the world, great, high, and
unbelievably white in the sun, was the square top of Kilimanjaro. And then he knew that
there was where he was going.
Just then the hyena stopped whimpering in the night and started to make a strange, human,
almost crying sound. The woman heard it and, stirred uneasily. She did not wake. In her
dream she was at the house on Long Island and it was the night before her daughter's debut.
Somehow her father was there and he had been very rude. Then the noise the hyena made
was so loud she woke and for a moment she did not know where she was and she was very
afraid. Then she took the flashlight and shone it on the other cot that they had carried in after
Harry had gone to sleep. She could see his bulk under the mosquito bar but somehow he had
gotten his leg out and it hung down alongside the cot. The dressings had all come down and
she could not look at it.
"Molo," she called, "Molo! Molo!"
Then she said, "Harry, Harry!" Then her voice rising, "Harry! Please. Oh Harry!"
There was no answer and she could not hear him breathing.
Outside the tent the hyena made the same strange noise that had awakened her. But she did
not hear him for the beating of her heart.
115

A MOTHER - James Joyce
MR HOLOHAN, assistant secretary of the Eire Abu Society, had been walking up and down
Dublin for nearly a month, with his hands and pockets full of dirty pieces of paper, arranging
about the series of concerts. He had a game leg and for this his friends called him Hoppy
Holohan. He walked up and down constantly, stood by the hour at street corners arguing the
point and made notes; but in the end it was Mrs. Kearney who arranged everything.
Miss Devlin had become Mrs. Kearney out of spite. She had been educated in a high-class
convent, where she had learned French and music. As she was naturally pale and unbending
in manner she made few friends at school. When she came to the age of marriage she was
sent out to many houses where her playing and ivory manners were much admired. She sat
amid the chilly circle of her accomplishments, waiting for some suitor to brave it and offer
her a brilliant life. But the young men whom she met were ordinary and she gave them no
encouragement, trying to console her romantic desires by eating a great deal of Turkish
Delight in secret. However, when she drew near the limit and her friends began to loosen
their tongues about her, she silenced them by marrying Mr. Kearney, who was a bootmaker
on Ormond Quay.
He was much older than she. His conversation, which was serious, took place at intervals in
his great brown beard. After the first year of married life, Mrs. Kearney perceived that such a
man would wear better than a romantic person, but she never put her own romantic ideas
away. He was sober, thrifty and pious; he went to the altar every first Friday, sometimes with
her, oftener by himself. But she never weakened in her religion and was a good wife to him.
At some party in a strange house when she lifted her eyebrow ever so slightly he stood up to
take his leave and, when his cough troubled him, she put the eider-down quilt over his feet
and made a strong rum punch. For his part, he was a model father. By paying a small sum
every week into a society, he ensured for both his daughters a dowry of one hundred pounds
each when they came to the age of twenty-four. He sent the older daughter, Kathleen, to a
good convent, where she learned French and music, and afterward paid her fees at the
Academy. Every year in the month of July Mrs. Kearney found occasion to say to some
friend:
"My good man is packing us off to Skerries for a few weeks."
If it was not Skerries it was Howth or Greystones.
When the Irish Revival began to be appreciable Mrs. Kearney determined to take advantage
of her daughter's name and brought an Irish teacher to the house. Kathleen and her sister sent
Irish picture postcards to their friends and these friends sent back other Irish picture
postcards. On special Sundays, when Mr. Kearney went with his family to the pro-cathedral,
a little crowd of people would assemble after mass at the corner of Cathedral Street. They
were all friends of the Kearneys—musical friends or Nationalist friends; and, when they had
played every little counter of gossip, they shook hands with one another all together, laughing
at the crossing of so many hands, and said good-bye to one another in Irish. Soon the name of
Miss Kathleen Kearney began to be heard often on people's lips. People said that she was
very clever at music and a very nice girl and, moreover, that she was a believer in the
language movement. Mrs. Kearney was well content at this. Therefore she was not surprised
when one day Mr. Holohan came to her and proposed that her daughter should be the
accompanist at a series of four grand concerts which his Society was going to give in the
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Antient Concert Rooms. She brought him into the drawing-room, made him sit down and
brought out the decanter and the silver biscuit-barrel. She entered heart and soul into the
details of the enterprise, advised and dissuaded: and finally a contract was drawn up by which
Kathleen was to receive eight guineas for her services as accompanist at the four grand
concerts.
As Mr. Holohan was a novice in such delicate matters as the wording of bills and the
disposing of items for a programme, Mrs. Kearney helped him. She had tact. She knew what
artistes should go into capitals and what artistes should go into small type. She knew that the
first tenor would not like to come on after Mr. Meade's comic turn. To keep the audience
continually diverted she slipped the doubtful items in between the old favourites. Mr.
Holohan called to see her every day to have her advice on some point. She was invariably
friendly and advising—homely, in fact. She pushed the decanter towards him, saying:
"Now, help yourself, Mr. Holohan!"
And while he was helping himself she said:
"Don't be afraid! Don't be afraid of it!"
Everything went on smoothly. Mrs. Kearney bought some lovely blush-pink charmeuse in
Brown Thomas's to let into the front of Kathleen's dress. It cost a pretty penny; but there are
occasions when a little expense is justifiable. She took a dozen of two-shilling tickets for the
final concert and sent them to those friends who could not be trusted to come otherwise. She
forgot nothing, and, thanks to her, everything that was to be done was done.
The concerts were to be on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. When Mrs. Kearney
arrived with her daughter at the Antient Concert Rooms on Wednesday night she did not like
the look of things. A few young men, wearing bright blue badges in their coats, stood idle in
the vestibule; none of them wore evening dress. She passed by with her daughter and a quick
glance through the open door of the hall showed her the cause of the stewards' idleness. At
first she wondered had she mistaken the hour. No, it was twenty minutes to eight.
In the dressing-room behind the stage she was introduced to the secretary of the Society, Mr.
Fitzpatrick. She smiled and shook his hand. He was a little man, with a white, vacant face.
She noticed that he wore his soft brown hat carelessly on the side of his head and that his
accent was flat. He held a programme in his hand, and, while he was talking to her, he
chewed one end of it into a moist pulp. He seemed to bear disappointments lightly. Mr.
Holohan came into the dressingroom every few minutes with reports from the box-office. The
artistes talked among themselves nervously, glanced from time to time at the mirror and
rolled and unrolled their music. When it was nearly half-past eight, the few people in the hall
began to express their desire to be entertained. Mr. Fitzpatrick came in, smiled vacantly at the
room, and said:
"Well now, ladies and gentlemen. I suppose we'd better open the ball."
Mrs. Kearney rewarded his very flat final syllable with a quick stare of contempt, and then
said to her daughter encouragingly:
"Are you ready, dear"
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When she had an opportunity, she called Mr. Holohan aside and asked him to tell her what it
meant. Mr. Holohan did not know what it meant. He said that the Committee had made a
mistake in arranging for four concerts: four was too many.
"And the artistes!" said Mrs. Kearney. "Of course they are doing their best, but really they are
not good."
Mr. Holohan admitted that the artistes were no good but the Committee, he said, had decided
to let the first three concerts go as they pleased and reserve all the talent for Saturday night.
Mrs. Kearney said nothing, but, as the mediocre items followed one another on the platform
and the few people in the hall grew fewer and fewer, she began to regret that she had put
herself to any expense for such a concert. There was something she didn't like in the look of
things and Mr. Fitzpatrick's vacant smile irritated her very much. However, she said nothing
and waited to see how it would end. The concert expired shortly before ten, and everyone
went home quickly.
The concert on Thursday night was better attended, but Mrs. Kearney saw at once that the
house was filled with paper. The audience behaved indecorously, as if the concert were an
informal dress rehearsal. Mr. Fitzpatrick seemed to enjoy himself; he was quite unconscious
that Mrs. Kearney was taking angry note of his conduct. He stood at the edge of the screen,
from time to time jutting out his head and exchanging a laugh with two friends in the corner
of the balcony. In the course of the evening, Mrs. Kearney learned that the Friday concert
was to be abandoned and that the Committee was going to move heaven and earth to secure a
bumper house on Saturday night. When she heard this, she sought out Mr. Holohan. She
buttonholed him as he was limping out quickly with a glass of lemonade for a young lady and
asked him was it true. Yes, it was true.
"But, of course, that doesn't alter the contract," she said. "The contract was for four concerts."
Mr. Holohan seemed to be in a hurry; he advised her to speak to Mr. Fitzpatrick. Mrs.
Kearney was now beginning to be alarmed. She called Mr. Fitzpatrick away from his screen
and told him that her daughter had signed for four concerts and that, of course, according to
the terms of the contract, she should receive the sum originally stipulated for, whether the
society gave the four concerts or not. Mr. Fitzpatrick, who did not catch the point at issue
very quickly, seemed unable to resolve the difficulty and said that he would bring the matter
before the Committee. Mrs. Kearney's anger began to flutter in her cheek and she had all she
could do to keep from asking:
"And who is the Cometty pray"
But she knew that it would not be ladylike to do that: so she was silent.
Little boys were sent out into the principal streets of Dublin early on Friday morning with
bundles of handbills. Special puffs appeared in all the evening papers, reminding the musicloving
public of the treat which was in store for it on the following evening. Mrs. Kearney
was somewhat reassured, but she thought well to tell her husband part of her suspicions. He
listened carefully and said that perhaps it would be better if he went with her on Saturday
night. She agreed. She respected her husband in the same way as she respected the General
Post Office, as something large, secure and fixed; and though she knew the small number of
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his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male. She was glad that he had suggested
coming with her. She thought her plans over.
The night of the grand concert came. Mrs. Kearney, with her husband and daughter, arrived
at the Antient Concert Rooms three-quarters of an hour before the time at which the concert
was to begin. By ill luck it was a rainy evening. Mrs. Kearney placed her daughter's clothes
and music in charge of her husband and went all over the building looking for Mr. Holohan
or Mr. Fitzpatrick. She could find neither. She asked the stewards was any member of the
Committee in the hall and, after a great deal of trouble, a steward brought out a little woman
named Miss Beirne to whom Mrs. Kearney explained that she wanted to see one of the
secretaries. Miss Beirne expected them any minute and asked could she do anything. Mrs.
Kearney looked searchingly at the oldish face which was screwed into an expression of
trustfulness and enthusiasm and answered:
"No, thank you!"
The little woman hoped they would have a good house. She looked out at the rain until the
melancholy of the wet street effaced all the trustfulness and enthusiasm from her twisted
features. Then she gave a little sigh and said:
"Ah, well! We did our best, the dear knows."
Mrs. Kearney had to go back to the dressing-room.
The artistes were arriving. The bass and the second tenor had already come. The bass, Mr.
Duggan, was a slender young man with a scattered black moustache. He was the son of a hall
porter in an office in the city and, as a boy, he had sung prolonged bass notes in the
resounding hall. From this humble state he had raised himself until he had become a first-rate
artiste. He had appeared in grand opera. One night, when an operatic artiste had fallen ill, he
had undertaken the part of the king in the opera of Maritana at the Queen's Theatre. He sang
his music with great feeling and volume and was warmly welcomed by the gallery; but,
unfortunately, he marred the good impression by wiping his nose in his gloved hand once or
twice out of thoughtlessness. He was unassuming and spoke little. He said yous so softly that
it passed unnoticed and he never drank anything stronger than milk for his voice's sake. Mr.
Bell, the second tenor, was a fair-haired little man who competed every year for prizes at the
Feis Ceoil. On his fourth trial he had been awarded a bronze medal. He was extremely
nervous and extremely jealous of other tenors and he covered his nervous jealousy with an
ebullient friendliness. It was his humour to have people know what an ordeal a concert was to
him. Therefore when he saw Mr. Duggan he went over to him and asked:
"Are you in it too"
"Yes," said Mr. Duggan.
Mr. Bell laughed at his fellow-sufferer, held out his hand and said:
"Shake!"
Mrs. Kearney passed by these two young men and went to the edge of the screen to view the
house. The seats were being filled up rapidly and a pleasant noise circulated in the
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auditorium. She came back and spoke to her husband privately. Their conversation was
evidently about Kathleen for they both glanced at her often as she stood chatting to one of her
Nationalist friends, Miss Healy, the contralto. An unknown solitary woman with a pale face
walked through the room. The women followed with keen eyes the faded blue dress which
was stretched upon a meagre body. Someone said that she was Madam Glynn, the soprano.
"I wonder where did they dig her up," said Kathleen to Miss Healy. "I'm sure I never heard of
her."
Miss Healy had to smile. Mr. Holohan limped into the dressing-room at that moment and the
two young ladies asked him who was the unknown woman. Mr. Holohan said that she was
Madam Glynn from London. Madam Glynn took her stand in a corner of the room, holding a
roll of music stiffly before her and from time to time changing the direction of her startled
gaze. The shadow took her faded dress into shelter but fell revengefully into the little cup
behind her collar-bone. The noise of the hall became more audible. The first tenor and the
baritone arrived together. They were both well dressed, stout and complacent and they
brought a breath of opulence among the company.
Mrs. Kearney brought her daughter over to them, and talked to them amiably. She wanted to
be on good terms with them but, while she strove to be polite, her eyes followed Mr. Holohan
in his limping and devious courses. As soon as she could she excused herself and went out
after him.
"Mr. Holohan, I want to speak to you for a moment," she said.
They went down to a discreet part of the corridor. Mrs Kearney asked him when was her
daughter going to be paid. Mr. Holohan said that Mr. Fitzpatrick had charge of that. Mrs.
Kearney said that she didn't know anything about Mr. Fitzpatrick. Her daughter had signed a
contract for eight guineas and she would have to be paid. Mr. Holohan said that it wasn't his
business.
"Why isn't it your business" asked Mrs. Kearney. "Didn't you yourself bring her the
contract Anyway, if it's not your business it's my business and I mean to see to it."
"You'd better speak to Mr. Fitzpatrick," said Mr. Holohan distantly.
"I don't know anything about Mr. Fitzpatrick," repeated Mrs. Kearney. "I have my contract,
and I intend to see that it is carried out."
When she came back to the dressing-room her cheeks were slightly suffused. The room was
lively. Two men in outdoor dress had taken possession of the fireplace and were chatting
familiarly with Miss Healy and the baritone. They were the Freeman man and Mr. O'Madden
Burke. The Freeman man had come in to say that he could not wait for the concert as he had
to report the lecture which an American priest was giving in the Mansion House. He said they
were to leave the report for him at the Freeman office and he would see that it went in. He
was a grey-haired man, with a plausible voice and careful manners. He held an extinguished
cigar in his hand and the aroma of cigar smoke floated near him. He had not intended to stay
a moment because concerts and artistes bored him considerably but he remained leaning
against the mantelpiece. Miss Healy stood in front of him, talking and laughing. He was old
enough to suspect one reason for her politeness but young enough in spirit to turn the moment
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to account. The warmth, fragrance and colour of her body appealed to his senses. He was
pleasantly conscious that the bosom which he saw rise and fall slowly beneath him rose and
fell at that moment for him, that the laughter and fragrance and wilful glances were his
tribute. When he could stay no longer he took leave of her regretfully.
"O'Madden Burke will write the notice," he explained to Mr. Holohan, "and I'll see it in."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Hendrick," said Mr. Holohan, "you'll see it in, I know. Now,
won't you have a little something before you go"
"I don't mind," said Mr. Hendrick.
The two men went along some tortuous passages and up a dark staircase and came to a
secluded room where one of the stewards was uncorking bottles for a few gentlemen. One of
these gentlemen was Mr. O'Madden Burke, who had found out the room by instinct. He was a
suave, elderly man who balanced his imposing body, when at rest, upon a large silk umbrella.
His magniloquent western name was the moral umbrella upon which he balanced the fine
problem of his finances. He was widely respected.
While Mr. Holohan was entertaining the Freeman man Mrs. Kearney was speaking so
animatedly to her husband that he had to ask her to lower her voice. The conversation of the
others in the dressing-room had become strained. Mr. Bell, the first item, stood ready with his
music but the accompanist made no sign. Evidently something was wrong. Mr. Kearney
looked straight before him, stroking his beard, while Mrs. Kearney spoke into Kathleen's ear
with subdued emphasis. From the hall came sounds of encouragement, clapping and stamping
of feet. The first tenor and the baritone and Miss Healy stood together, waiting tranquilly, but
Mr. Bell's nerves were greatly agitated because he was afraid the audience would think that
he had come late.
Mr. Holohan and Mr. O'Madden Burke came into the room. In a moment Mr. Holohan
perceived the hush. He went over to Mrs. Kearney and spoke with her earnestly. While they
were speaking the noise in the hall grew louder. Mr. Holohan became very red and excited.
He spoke volubly, but Mrs. Kearney said curtly at intervals:
"She won't go on. She must get her eight guineas."
Mr. Holohan pointed desperately towards the hall where the audience was clapping and
stamping. He appealed to Mr Kearney and to Kathleen. But Mr. Kearney continued to stroke
his beard and Kathleen looked down, moving the point of her new shoe: it was not her fault.
Mrs. Kearney repeated:
"She won't go on without her money."
After a swift struggle of tongues Mr. Holohan hobbled out in haste. The room was silent.
When the strain of the silence had become somewhat painful Miss Healy said to the baritone:
"Have you seen Mrs. Pat Campbell this week"
The baritone had not seen her but he had been told that she was very fine. The conversation
went no further. The first tenor bent his head and began to count the links of the gold chain
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which was extended across his waist, smiling and humming random notes to observe the
effect on the frontal sinus. From time to time everyone glanced at Mrs. Kearney.
The noise in the auditorium had risen to a clamour when Mr. Fitzpatrick burst into the room,
followed by Mr. Holohan, who was panting. The clapping and stamping in the hall were
punctuated by whistling. Mr. Fitzpatrick held a few banknotes in his hand. He counted out
four into Mrs. Kearney's hand and said she would get the other half at the interval. Mrs.
Kearney said:
"This is four shillings short."
But Kathleen gathered in her skirt and said: "Now, Mr. Bell," to the first item, who was
shaking like an aspen. The singer and the accompanist went out together. The noise in hall
died away. There was a pause of a few seconds: and then the piano was heard.
The first part of the concert was very successful except for Madam Glynn's item. The poor
lady sang Killarney in a bodiless gasping voice, with all the old-fashioned mannerisms of
intonation and pronunciation which she believed lent elegance to her singing. She looked as
if she had been resurrected from an old stage-wardrobe and the cheaper parts of the hall made
fun of her high wailing notes. The first tenor and the contralto, however, brought down the
house. Kathleen played a selection of Irish airs which was generously applauded. The first
part closed with a stirring patriotic recitation delivered by a young lady who arranged
amateur theatricals. It was deservedly applauded; and, when it was ended, the men went out
for the interval, content.
All this time the dressing-room was a hive of excitement. In one corner were Mr. Holohan,
Mr. Fitzpatrick, Miss Beirne, two of the stewards, the baritone, the bass, and Mr. O'Madden
Burke. Mr. O'Madden Burke said it was the most scandalous exhibition he had ever
witnessed. Miss Kathleen Kearney's musical career was ended in Dublin after that, he said.
The baritone was asked what did he think of Mrs. Kearney's conduct. He did not like to say
anything. He had been paid his money and wished to be at peace with men. However, he said
that Mrs. Kearney might have taken the artistes into consideration. The stewards and the
secretaries debated hotly as to what should be done when the interval came.
"I agree with Miss Beirne," said Mr. O'Madden Burke. "Pay her nothing."
In another corner of the room were Mrs. Kearney and her husband, Mr. Bell, Miss Healy and
the young lady who had to recite the patriotic piece. Mrs. Kearney said that the Committee
had treated her scandalously. She had spared neither trouble nor expense and this was how
she was repaid.
They thought they had only a girl to deal with and that, therefore, they could ride roughshod
over her. But she would show them their mistake. They wouldn't have dared to have treated
her like that if she had been a man. But she would see that her daughter got her rights: she
wouldn't be fooled. If they didn't pay her to the last farthing she would make Dublin ring. Of
course she was sorry for the sake of the artistes. But what else could she do She appealed to
the second tenor who said he thought she had not been well treated. Then she appealed to
Miss Healy. Miss Healy wanted to join the other group but she did not like to do so because
she was a great friend of Kathleen's and the Kearneys had often invited her to their house.
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As soon as the first part was ended Mr. Fitzpatrick and Mr. Holohan went over to Mrs.
Kearney and told her that the other four guineas would be paid after the Committee meeting
on the following Tuesday and that, in case her daughter did not play for the second part, the
Committee would consider the contract broken and would pay nothing.
"I haven't seen any Committee," said Mrs. Kearney angrily. "My daughter has her contract.
She will get four pounds eight into her hand or a foot she won't put on that platform."
"I'm surprised at you, Mrs. Kearney," said Mr. Holohan. "I never thought you would treat us
this way."
"And what way did you treat me" asked Mrs. Kearney.
Her face was inundated with an angry colour and she looked as if she would attack someone
with her hands.
"I'm asking for my rights." she said.
"You might have some sense of decency," said Mr. Holohan.
"Might I, indeed... And when I ask when my daughter is going to be paid I can't get a civil
answer."
She tossed her head and assumed a haughty voice:
"You must speak to the secretary. It's not my business. I'm a great fellow fol-the-diddle-I-do."
"I thought you were a lady," said Mr. Holohan, walking away from her abruptly.
After that Mrs. Kearney's conduct was condemned on all hands: everyone approved of what
the Committee had done. She stood at the door, haggard with rage, arguing with her husband
and daughter, gesticulating with them. She waited until it was time for the second part to
begin in the hope that the secretaries would approach her. But Miss Healy had kindly
consented to play one or two accompaniments. Mrs. Kearney had to stand aside to allow the
baritone and his accompanist to pass up to the platform. She stood still for an instant like an
angry stone image and, when the first notes of the song struck her ear, she caught up her
daughter's cloak and said to her husband:
"Get a cab!"
He went out at once. Mrs. Kearney wrapped the cloak round her daughter and followed him.
As she passed through the doorway she stopped and glared into Mr. Holohan's face.
"I'm not done with you yet," she said.
"But I'm done with you," said Mr. Holohan.
Kathleen followed her mother meekly. Mr. Holohan began to pace up and down the room, in
order to cool himself for he his skin on fire.
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"That's a nice lady!" he said. "O, she's a nice lady!"
"You did the proper thing, Holohan," said Mr. O'Madden Burke, poised upon his umbrella in
approval.
124

A PAINFUL CASE - James Joyce
MR. JAMES DUFFY lived in Chapelizod because he wished to live as far as possible from
the city of which he was a citizen and because he found all the other suburbs of Dublin mean,
modern and pretentious. He lived in an old sombre house and from his windows he could
look into the disused distillery or upwards along the shallow river on which Dublin is built.
The lofty walls of his uncarpeted room were free from pictures. He had himself bought every
article of furniture in the room: a black iron bedstead, an iron washstand, four cane chairs, a
clothes-rack, a coal-scuttle, a fender and irons and a square table on which lay a double desk.
A bookcase had been made in an alcove by means of shelves of white wood. The bed was
clothed with white bedclothes and a black and scarlet rug covered the foot. A little handmirror
hung above the washstand and during the day a white-shaded lamp stood as the sole
ornament of the mantelpiece. The books on the white wooden shelves were arranged from
below upwards according to bulk. A complete Wordsworth stood at one end of the lowest
shelf and a copy of the Maynooth Catechism, sewn into the cloth cover of a notebook, stood
at one end of the top shelf. Writing materials were always on the desk. In the desk lay a
manuscript translation of Hauptmann's Michael Kramer, the stage directions of which were
written in purple ink, and a little sheaf of papers held together by a brass pin. In these sheets a
sentence was inscribed from time to time and, in an ironical moment, the headline of an
advertisement for Bile Beans had been pasted on to the first sheet. On lifting the lid of the
desk a faint fragrance escaped—the fragrance of new cedarwood pencils or of a bottle of gum
or of an overripe apple which might have been left there and forgotten.
Mr. Duffy abhorred anything which betokened physical or mental disorder. A mediaeval
doctor would have called him saturnine. His face, which carried the entire tale of his years,
was of the brown tint of Dublin streets. On his long and rather large head grew dry black hair
and a tawny moustache did not quite cover an unamiable mouth. His cheekbones also gave
his face a harsh character; but there was no harshness in the eyes which, looking at the world
from under their tawny eyebrows, gave the impression of a man ever alert to greet a
redeeming instinct in others but often disappointed. He lived at a little distance from his
body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances. He had an odd autobiographical
habit which led him to compose in his mind from time to time a short sentence about himself
containing a subject in the third person and a predicate in the past tense. He never gave alms
to beggars and walked firmly, carrying a stout hazel.
He had been for many years cashier of a private bank in Baggot Street. Every morning he
came in from Chapelizod by tram. At midday he went to Dan Burke's and took his lunch—a
bottle of lager beer and a small trayful of arrowroot biscuits. At four o'clock he was set free.
He dined in an eating-house in George's Street where he felt himself safe from the society of
Dublin's gilded youth and where there was a certain plain honesty in the bill of fare. His
evenings were spent either before his landlady's piano or roaming about the outskirts of the
city. His liking for Mozart's music brought him sometimes to an opera or a concert: these
were the only dissipations of his life.
He had neither companions nor friends, church nor creed. He lived his spiritual life without
any communion with others, visiting his relatives at Christmas and escorting them to the
cemetery when they died. He performed these two social duties for old dignity's sake but
conceded nothing further to the conventions which regulate the civic life. He allowed himself
to think that in certain circumstances he would rob his hank but, as these circumstances never
arose, his life rolled out evenly—an adventureless tale.
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One evening he found himself sitting beside two ladies in the Rotunda. The house, thinly
peopled and silent, gave distressing prophecy of failure. The lady who sat next him looked
round at the deserted house once or twice and then said:
"What a pity there is such a poor house tonight! It's so hard on people to have to sing to
empty benches."
He took the remark as an invitation to talk. He was surprised that she seemed so little
awkward. While they talked he tried to fix her permanently in his memory. When he learned
that the young girl beside her was her daughter he judged her to be a year or so younger than
himself. Her face, which must have been handsome, had remained intelligent. It was an oval
face with strongly marked features. The eyes were very dark blue and steady. Their gaze
began with a defiant note but was confused by what seemed a deliberate swoon of the pupil
into the iris, revealing for an instant a temperament of great sensibility. The pupil reasserted
itself quickly, this half-disclosed nature fell again under the reign of prudence, and her
astrakhan jacket, moulding a bosom of a certain fullness, struck the note of defiance more
definitely.
He met her again a few weeks afterwards at a concert in Earlsfort Terrace and seized the
moments when her daughter's attention was diverted to become intimate. She alluded once or
twice to her husband but her tone was not such as to make the allusion a warning. Her name
was Mrs. Sinico. Her husband's great-great-grandfather had come from Leghorn. Her
husband was captain of a mercantile boat plying between Dublin and Holland; and they had
one child.
Meeting her a third time by accident he found courage to make an appointment. She came.
This was the first of many meetings; they met always in the evening and chose the most quiet
quarters for their walks together. Mr. Duffy, however, had a distaste for underhand ways and,
finding that they were compelled to meet stealthily, he forced her to ask him to her house.
Captain Sinico encouraged his visits, thinking that his daughter's hand was in question. He
had dismissed his wife so sincerely from his gallery of pleasures that he did not suspect that
anyone else would take an interest in her. As the husband was often away and the daughter
out giving music lessons Mr. Duffy had many opportunities of enjoying the lady's society.
Neither he nor she had had any such adventure before and neither was conscious of any
incongruity. Little by little he entangled his thoughts with hers. He lent her books, provided
her with ideas, shared his intellectual life with her. She listened to all.
Sometimes in return for his theories she gave out some fact of her own life. With almost
maternal solicitude she urged him to let his nature open to the full: she became his confessor.
He told her that for some time he had assisted at the meetings of an Irish Socialist Party
where he had felt himself a unique figure amidst a score of sober workmen in a garret lit by
an inefficient oil-lamp. When the party had divided into three sections, each under its own
leader and in its own garret, he had discontinued his attendances. The workmen's discussions,
he said, were too timorous; the interest they took in the question of wages was inordinate. He
felt that they were hard-featured realists and that they resented an exactitude which was the
produce of a leisure not within their reach. No social revolution, he told her, would be likely
to strike Dublin for some centuries.
She asked him why did he not write out his thoughts. For what, he asked her, with careful
scorn. To compete with phrasemongers, incapable of thinking consecutively for sixty
126

seconds To submit himself to the criticisms of an obtuse middle class which entrusted its
morality to policemen and its fine arts to impresarios
He went often to her little cottage outside Dublin; often they spent their evenings alone. Little
by little, as their thoughts entangled, they spoke of subjects less remote. Her companionship
was like a warm soil about an exotic. Many times she allowed the dark to fall upon them,
refraining from lighting the lamp. The dark discreet room, their isolation, the music that still
vibrated in their ears united them. This union exalted him, wore away the rough edges of his
character, emotionalised his mental life. Sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound
of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would ascend to an angelical stature; and, as
he attached the fervent nature of his companion more and more closely to him, he heard the
strange impersonal voice which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's incurable
loneliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own. The end of these discourses
was that one night during which she had shown every sign of unusual excitement, Mrs.
Sinico caught up his hand passionately and pressed it to her cheek.
Mr. Duffy was very much surprised. Her interpretation of his words disillusioned him. He did
not visit her for a week, then he wrote to her asking her to meet him. As he did not wish their
last interview to be troubled by the influence of their ruined confessional they met in a little
cakeshop near the Parkgate. It was cold autumn weather but in spite of the cold they
wandered up and down the roads of the Park for nearly three hours. They agreed to break off
their intercourse: every bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow. When they came out of the Park
they walked in silence towards the tram; but here she began to tremble so violently that,
fearing another collapse on her part, he bade her good-bye quickly and left her. A few days
later he received a parcel containing his books and music.
Four years passed. Mr. Duffy returned to his even way of life. His room still bore witness of
the orderliness of his mind. Some new pieces of music encumbered the music-stand in the
lower room and on his shelves stood two volumes by Nietzsche: Thus Spake Zarathustra and
The Gay Science. He wrote seldom in the sheaf of papers which lay in his desk. One of his
sentences, written two months after his last interview with Mrs. Sinico, read: Love between
man and man is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse and friendship
between man and woman is impossible because there must be sexual intercourse. He kept
away from concerts lest he should meet her. His father died; the junior partner of the bank
retired. And still every morning he went into the city by tram and every evening walked
home from the city after having dined moderately in George's Street and read the evening
paper for dessert.
One evening as he was about to put a morsel of corned beef and cabbage into his mouth his
hand stopped. His eyes fixed themselves on a paragraph in the evening paper which he had
propped against the water-carafe. He replaced the morsel of food on his plate and read the
paragraph attentively. Then he drank a glass of water, pushed his plate to one side, doubled
the paper down before him between his elbows and read the paragraph over and over again.
The cabbage began to deposit a cold white grease on his plate. The girl came over to him to
ask was his dinner not properly cooked. He said it was very good and ate a few mouthfuls of
it with difficulty. Then he paid his bill and went out.
He walked along quickly through the November twilight, his stout hazel stick striking the
ground regularly, the fringe of the buff Mail peeping out of a side-pocket of his tight reefer
overcoat. On the lonely road which leads from the Parkgate to Chapelizod he slackened his
127

pace. His stick struck the ground less emphatically and his breath, issuing irregularly, almost
with a sighing sound, condensed in the wintry air. When he reached his house he went up at
once to his bedroom and, taking the paper from his pocket, read the paragraph again by the
failing light of the window. He read it not aloud, but moving his lips as a priest does when he
reads the prayers Secreto. This was the paragraph:
DEATH OF A LADY AT SYDNEY PARADE
A PAINFUL CASE
Today at the City of Dublin Hospital the Deputy Coroner (in the absence of Mr. Leverett)
held an inquest on the body of Mrs. Emily Sinico, aged forty-three years, who was killed at
Sydney Parade Station yesterday evening. The evidence showed that the deceased lady, while
attempting to cross the line, was knocked down by the engine of the ten o'clock slow train
from Kingstown, thereby sustaining injuries of the head and right side which led to her death.
James Lennon, driver of the engine, stated that he had been in the employment of the railway
company for fifteen years. On hearing the guard's whistle he set the train in motion and a
second or two afterwards brought it to rest in response to loud cries. The train was going
slowly.
P. Dunne, railway porter, stated that as the train was about to start he observed a woman
attempting to cross the lines. He ran towards her and shouted, but, before he could reach her,
she was caught by the buffer of the engine and fell to the ground.
A juror. "You saw the lady fall"
Witness. "Yes."
Police Sergeant Croly deposed that when he arrived he found the deceased lying on the
platform apparently dead. He had the body taken to the waiting-room pending the arrival of
the ambulance.
Constable 57E corroborated.
Dr. Halpin, assistant house surgeon of the City of Dublin Hospital, stated that the deceased
had two lower ribs fractured and had sustained severe contusions of the right shoulder. The
right side of the head had been injured in the fall. The injuries were not sufficient to have
caused death in a normal person. Death, in his opinion, had been probably due to shock and
sudden failure of the heart's action.
Mr. H. B. Patterson Finlay, on behalf of the railway company, expressed his deep regret at
the accident. The company had always taken every precaution to prevent people crossing the
lines except by the bridges, both by placing notices in every station and by the use of patent
spring gates at level crossings. The deceased had been in the habit of crossing the lines late at
night from platform to platform and, in view of certain other circumstances of the case, he did
not think the railway officials were to blame.
Captain Sinico, of Leoville, Sydney Parade, husband of the deceased, also gave evidence. He
stated that the deceased was his wife. He was not in Dublin at the time of the accident as he
had arrived only that morning from Rotterdam. They had been married for twenty-two years
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and had lived happily until about two years ago when his wife began to be rather intemperate
in her habits.
Miss Mary Sinico said that of late her mother had been in the habit of going out at night to
buy spirits. She, witness, had often tried to reason with her mother and had induced her to
join a league. She was not at home until an hour after the accident. The jury returned a verdict
in accordance with the medical evidence and exonerated Lennon from all blame.
The Deputy Coroner said it was a most painful case, and expressed great sympathy with
Captain Sinico and his daughter. He urged on the railway company to take strong measures to
prevent the possibility of similar accidents in the future. No blame attached to anyone.
Mr. Duffy raised his eyes from the paper and gazed out of his window on the cheerless
evening landscape. The river lay quiet beside the empty distillery and from time to time a
light appeared in some house on the Lucan road. What an end! The whole narrative of her
death revolted him and it revolted him to think that he had ever spoken to her of what he held
sacred. The threadbare phrases, the inane expressions of sympathy, the cautious words of a
reporter won over to conceal the details of a commonplace vulgar death attacked his stomach.
Not merely had she degraded herself; she had degraded him. He saw the squalid tract of her
vice, miserable and malodorous. His soul's companion! He thought of the hobbling wretches
whom he had seen carrying cans and bottles to be filled by the barman. Just God, what an
end! Evidently she had been unfit to live, without any strength of purpose, an easy prey to
habits, one of the wrecks on which civilisation has been reared. But that she could have sunk
so low! Was it possible he had deceived himself so utterly about her He remembered her
outburst of that night and interpreted it in a harsher sense than he had ever done. He had no
difficulty now in approving of the course he had taken.
As the light failed and his memory began to wander he thought her hand touched his. The
shock which had first attacked his stomach was now attacking his nerves. He put on his
overcoat and hat quickly and went out. The cold air met him on the threshold; it crept into the
sleeves of his coat. When he came to the public-house at Chapelizod Bridge he went in and
ordered a hot punch.
The proprietor served him obsequiously but did not venture to talk. There were five or six
workingmen in the shop discussing the value of a gentleman's estate in County Kildare They
drank at intervals from their huge pint tumblers and smoked, spitting often on the floor and
sometimes dragging the sawdust over their spits with their heavy boots. Mr. Duffy sat on his
stool and gazed at them, without seeing or hearing them. After a while they went out and he
called for another punch. He sat a long time over it. The shop was very quiet. The proprietor
sprawled on the counter reading the Herald and yawning. Now and again a tram was heard
swishing along the lonely road outside.
As he sat there, living over his life with her and evoking alternately the two images in which
he now conceived her, he realised that she was dead, that she had ceased to exist, that she had
become a memory. He began to feel ill at ease. He asked himself what else could he have
done. He could not have carried on a comedy of deception with her; he could not have lived
with her openly. He had done what seemed to him best. How was he to blame Now that she
was gone he understood how lonely her life must have been, sitting night after night alone in
that room. His life would be lonely too until he, too, died, ceased to exist, became a
memory—if anyone remembered him.
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It was after nine o'clock when he left the shop. The night was cold and gloomy. He entered
the Park by the first gate and walked along under the gaunt trees. He walked through the
bleak alleys where they had walked four years before. She seemed to be near him in the
darkness. At moments he seemed to feel her voice touch his ear, her hand touch his. He stood
still to listen. Why had he withheld life from her Why had he sentenced her to death He felt
his moral nature falling to pieces.
When he gained the crest of the Magazine Hill he halted and looked along the river towards
Dublin, the lights of which burned redly and hospitably in the cold night. He looked down the
slope and, at the base, in the shadow of the wall of the Park, he saw some human figures
lying. Those venal and furtive loves filled him with despair. He gnawed the rectitude of his
life; he felt that he had been outcast from life's feast. One human being had seemed to love
him and he had denied her life and happiness: he had sentenced her to ignominy, a death of
shame. He knew that the prostrate creatures down by the wall were watching him and wished
him gone. No one wanted him; he was outcast from life's feast. He turned his eyes to the grey
gleaming river, winding along towards Dublin. Beyond the river he saw a goods train
winding out of Kingsbridge Station, like a worm with a fiery head winding through the
darkness, obstinately and laboriously. It passed slowly out of sight; but still he heard in his
ears the laborious drone of the engine reiterating the syllables of her name.
He turned back the way he had come, the rhythm of the engine pounding in his ears. He
began to doubt the reality of what memory told him. He halted under a tree and allowed the
rhythm to die away. He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor her voice touch his
ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly
silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone.
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EVELINE - James Joyce
SHE sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her head was leaned against
the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne. She was tired.
Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his way home; she heard his
footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder path
before the new red houses. One time there used to be a field there in which they used to play
every evening with other people's children. Then a man from Belfast bought the field and
built houses in it—not like their little brown houses but bright brick houses with shining
roofs. The children of the avenue used to play together in that field—the Devines, the Waters,
the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters. Ernest, however, never
played: he was too grown up. Her father used often to hunt them in out of the field with his
blackthorn stick; but usually little Keogh used to keep nix and call out when he saw her father
coming. Still they seemed to have been rather happy then. Her father was not so bad then;
and besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time ago; she and her brothers and sisters
were all grown up; her mother was dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had
gone back to England. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like the others, to
leave her home.
Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar objects which she had dusted
once a week for so many years, wondering where on earth all the dust came from. Perhaps
she would never see again those familiar objects from which she had never dreamed of being
divided. And yet during all those years she had never found out the name of the priest whose
yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the broken harmonium beside the coloured
print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque. He had been a school friend
of her father. Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass it with a
casual word:
"He is in Melbourne now."
She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise She tried to weigh each
side of the question. In her home anyway she had shelter and food; she had those whom she
had known all her life about her. Of course she had to work hard, both in the house and at
business. What would they say of her in the Stores when they found out that she had run
away with a fellow Say she was a fool, perhaps; and her place would be filled up by
advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She had always had an edge on her, especially
whenever there were people listening.
"Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies are waiting"
"Look lively, Miss Hill, please."
She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores.
But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not be like that. Then she would
be married—she, Eveline. People would treat her with respect then. She would not be treated
as her mother had been. Even now, though she was over nineteen, she sometimes felt herself
in danger of her father's violence. She knew it was that that had given her the palpitations.
When they were growing up he had never gone for her like he used to go for Harry and
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Ernest, because she was a girl; but latterly he had begun to threaten her and say what he
would do to her only for her dead mother's sake. And now she had nobody to protect her.
Ernest was dead and Harry, who was in the church decorating business, was nearly always
down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable squabble for money on Saturday
nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She always gave her entire wages—seven
shillings—and Harry always sent up what he could but the trouble was to get any money
from her father. He said she used to squander the money, that she had no head, that he wasn't
going to give her his hard-earned money to throw about the streets, and much more, for he
was usually fairly bad of a Saturday night. In the end he would give her the money and ask
her had she any intention of buying Sunday's dinner. Then she had to rush out as quickly as
she could and do her marketing, holding her black leather purse tightly in her hand as she
elbowed her way through the crowds and returning home late under her load of provisions.
She had hard work to keep the house together and to see that the two young children who had
been left to her charge went to school regularly and got their meals regularly. It was hard
work—a hard life—but now that she was about to leave it she did not find it a wholly
undesirable life.
She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind, manly, open-hearted.
She was to go away with him by the night-boat to be his wife and to live with him in Buenos
Ayres where he had a home waiting for her. How well she remembered the first time she had
seen him; he was lodging in a house on the main road where she used to visit. It seemed a
few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his peaked cap pushed back on his head and his
hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then they had come to know each other. He used
to meet her outside the Stores every evening and see her home. He took her to see The
Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part of the theatre with him.
He was awfully fond of music and sang a little. People knew that they were courting and,
when he sang about the lass that loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. He used
to call her Poppens out of fun. First of all it had been an excitement for her to have a fellow
and then she had begun to like him. He had tales of distant countries. He had started as a deck
boy at a pound a month on a ship of the Allan Line going out to Canada. He told her the
names of the ships he had been on and the names of the different services. He had sailed
through the Straits of Magellan and he told her stories of the terrible Patagonians. He had
fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said, and had come over to the old country just for a
holiday. Of course, her father had found out the affair and had forbidden her to have anything
to say to him.
"I know these sailor chaps," he said.
One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to meet her lover secretly.
The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lap grew indistinct. One
was to Harry; the other was to her father. Ernest had been her favourite but she liked Harry
too. Her father was becoming old lately, she noticed; he would miss her. Sometimes he could
be very nice. Not long before, when she had been laid up for a day, he had read her out a
ghost story and made toast for her at the fire. Another day, when their mother was alive, they
had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. She remembered her father putting on her
mother's bonnet to make the children laugh.
Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the window, leaning her head against the
window curtain, inhaling the odour of dusty cretonne. Down far in the avenue she could hear
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a street organ playing. She knew the air. Strange that it should come that very night to remind
her of the promise to her mother, her promise to keep the home together as long as she could.
She remembered the last night of her mother's illness; she was again in the close dark room at
the other side of the hall and outside she heard a melancholy air of Italy. The organ-player
had been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She remembered her father strutting back
into the sickroom saying:
"Damned Italians! coming over here!"
As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell on the very quick of her
being—that life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness. She trembled as she
heard again her mother's voice saying constantly with foolish insistence:
"Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!"
She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape! Frank would save her.
He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she be
unhappy She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold her in his arms.
He would save her.
She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North Wall. He held her hand and
she knew that he was speaking to her, saying something about the passage over and over
again. The station was full of soldiers with brown baggages. Through the wide doors of the
sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying in beside the quay wall, with
illumined portholes. She answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of a
maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what was her duty. The boat
blew a long mournful whistle into the mist. If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea
with Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had been booked. Could she still
draw back after all he had done for her Her distress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept
moving her lips in silent fervent prayer.
A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:
"Come!"
All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them: he would
drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing.
"Come!"
No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas she sent
a cry of anguish!
"Eveline! Evvy!"
He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on but he
still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave
him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.
133

GRACE - James Joyce
TWO GENTLEMEN who were in the lavatory at the time tried to lift him up: but he was
quite helpless. He lay curled up at the foot of the stairs down which he had fallen. They
succeeded in turning him over. His hat had rolled a few yards away and his clothes were
smeared with the filth and ooze of the floor on which he had lain, face downwards. His eyes
were closed and he breathed with a grunting noise. A thin stream of blood trickled from the
corner of his mouth.
These two gentlemen and one of the curates carried him up the stairs and laid him down
again on the floor of the bar. In two minutes he was surrounded by a ring of men. The
manager of the bar asked everyone who he was and who was with him. No one knew who he
was but one of the curates said he had served the gentleman with a small rum.
"Was he by himself" asked the manager.
"No, sir. There was two gentlemen with him."
"And where are they"
No one knew; a voice said:
"Give him air. He's fainted."
The ring of onlookers distended and closed again elastically. A dark medal of blood had
formed itself near the man's head on the tessellated floor. The manager, alarmed by the grey
pallor of the man's face, sent for a policeman.
His collar was unfastened and his necktie undone. He opened eyes for an instant, sighed and
closed them again. One of gentlemen who had carried him upstairs held a dinged silk hat in
his hand. The manager asked repeatedly did no one know who the injured man was or where
had his friends gone. The door of the bar opened and an immense constable entered. A crowd
which had followed him down the laneway collected outside the door, struggling to look in
through the glass panels.
The manager at once began to narrate what he knew. The constable, a young man with thick
immobile features, listened. He moved his head slowly to right and left and from the manager
to the person on the floor, as if he feared to be the victim of some delusion. Then he drew off
his glove, produced a small book from his waist, licked the lead of his pencil and made ready
to indite. He asked in a suspicious provincial accent:
"Who is the man What's his name and address"
A young man in a cycling-suit cleared his way through the ring of bystanders. He knelt down
promptly beside the injured man and called for water. The constable knelt down also to help.
The young man washed the blood from the injured man's mouth and then called for some
brandy. The constable repeated the order in an authoritative voice until a curate came running
with the glass. The brandy was forced down the man's throat. In a few seconds he opened his
eyes and looked about him. He looked at the circle of faces and then, understanding, strove to
rise to his feet.
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"You're all right now" asked the young man in the cycling-suit.
"Sha,'s nothing," said the injured man, trying to stand up.
He was helped to his feet. The manager said something about a hospital and some of the
bystanders gave advice. The battered silk hat was placed on the man's head. The constable
asked:
"Where do you live"
The man, without answering, began to twirl the ends of his moustache. He made light of his
accident. It was nothing, he said: only a little accident. He spoke very thickly.
"Where do you live" repeated the constable.
The man said they were to get a cab for him. While the point was being debated a tall agile
gentleman of fair complexion, wearing a long yellow ulster, came from the far end of the bar.
Seeing the spectacle, he called out:
"Hallo, Tom, old man! What's the trouble"
"Sha,'s nothing," said the man.
The new-comer surveyed the deplorable figure before him and then turned to the constable,
saying:
"It's all right, constable. I'll see him home."
The constable touched his helmet and answered:
"All right, Mr. Power!"
"Come now, Tom," said Mr. Power, taking his friend by the arm. "No bones broken. What
Can you walk"
The young man in the cycling-suit took the man by the other arm and the crowd divided.
"How did you get yourself into this mess" asked Mr. Power.
"The gentleman fell down the stairs," said the young man.
"I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir," said the injured man.
"Not at all."
"'ant we have a little..."
"Not now. Not now."
135

The three men left the bar and the crowd sifted through the doors in to the laneway. The
manager brought the constable to the stairs to inspect the scene of the accident. They agreed
that the gentleman must have missed his footing. The customers returned to the counter and a
curate set about removing the traces of blood from the floor.
When they came out into Grafton Street, Mr. Power whistled for an outsider. The injured man
said again as well as he could.
"I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir. I hope we'll 'eet again. 'y na'e is Kernan."
The shock and the incipient pain had partly sobered him.
"Don't mention it," said the young man.
They shook hands. Mr. Kernan was hoisted on to the car and, while Mr. Power was giving
directions to the carman, he expressed his gratitude to the young man and regretted that they
could not have a little drink together.
"Another time," said the young man.
The car drove off towards Westmoreland Street. As it passed Ballast Office the clock showed
half-past nine. A keen east wind hit them, blowing from the mouth of the river. Mr. Kernan
was huddled together with cold. His friend asked him to tell how the accident had happened.
"I'an't 'an," he answered, "'y 'ongue is hurt."
"Show."
The other leaned over the well of the car and peered into Mr. Kernan's mouth but he could
not see. He struck a match and, sheltering it in the shell of his hands, peered again into the
mouth which Mr. Kernan opened obediently. The swaying movement of the car brought the
match to and from the opened mouth. The lower teeth and gums were covered with clotted
blood and a minute piece of the tongue seemed to have been bitten off. The match was blown
out.
"That's ugly," said Mr. Power.
"Sha, 's nothing," said Mr. Kernan, closing his mouth and pulling the collar of his filthy coat
across his neck.
Mr. Kernan was a commercial traveller of the old school which believed in the dignity of its
calling. He had never been seen in the city without a silk hat of some decency and a pair of
gaiters. By grace of these two articles of clothing, he said, a man could always pass muster.
He carried on the tradition of his Napoleon, the great Blackwhite, whose memory he evoked
at times by legend and mimicry. Modern business methods had spared him only so far as to
allow him a little office in Crowe Street, on the window blind of which was written the name
of his firm with the address—London, E. C. On the mantelpiece of this little office a little
leaden battalion of canisters was drawn up and on the table before the window stood four or
five china bowls which were usually half full of a black liquid. From these bowls Mr. Kernan
136

tasted tea. He took a mouthful, drew it up, saturated his palate with it and then spat it forth
into the grate. Then he paused to judge.
Mr. Power, a much younger man, was employed in the Royal Irish Constabulary Office in
Dublin Castle. The arc of his social rise intersected the arc of his friend's decline, but Mr.
Kernan's decline was mitigated by the fact that certain of those friends who had known him at
his highest point of success still esteemed him as a character. Mr. Power was one of these
friends. His inexplicable debts were a byword in his circle; he was a debonair young man.
The car halted before a small house on the Glasnevin road and Mr. Kernan was helped into
the house. His wife put him to bed while Mr. Power sat downstairs in the kitchen asking the
children where they went to school and what book they were in. The children—two girls and
a boy, conscious of their father's helplessness and of their mother's absence, began some
horseplay with him. He was surprised at their manners and at their accents, and his brow
grew thoughtful. After a while Mrs. Kernan entered the kitchen, exclaiming:
"Such a sight! O, he'll do for himself one day and that's the holy alls of it. He's been drinking
since Friday."
Mr. Power was careful to explain to her that he was not responsible, that he had come on the
scene by the merest accident. Mrs. Kernan, remembering Mr. Power's good offices during
domestic quarrels, as well as many small, but opportune loans, said:
"O, you needn't tell me that, Mr. Power. I know you're a friend of his, not like some of the
others he does be with. They're all right so long as he has money in his pocket to keep him
out from his wife and family. Nice friends! Who was he with tonight, I'd like to know"
Mr. Power shook his head but said nothing.
"I'm so sorry," she continued, "that I've nothing in the house to offer you. But if you wait a
minute I'll send round to Fogarty's at the corner."
Mr. Power stood up.
"We were waiting for him to come home with the money. He never seems to think he has a
home at all."
"O, now, Mrs. Kernan," said Mr. Power, "we'll make him turn over a new leaf. I'll talk to
Martin. He's the man. We'll come here one of these nights and talk it over."
She saw him to the door. The carman was stamping up and down the footpath, and swinging
his arms to warm himself.
"It's very kind of you to bring him home," she said.
"Not at all," said Mr. Power.
He got up on the car. As it drove off he raised his hat to her gaily.
"We'll make a new man of him," he said. "Good-night, Mrs. Kernan."
137

Mrs. Kernan's puzzled eyes watched the car till it was out of sight. Then she withdrew them,
went into the house and emptied her husband's pockets.
She was an active, practical woman of middle age. Not long before she had celebrated her
silver wedding and renewed her intimacy with her husband by waltzing with him to Mr.
Power's accompaniment. In her days of courtship, Mr. Kernan had seemed to her a not
ungallant figure: and she still hurried to the chapel door whenever a wedding was reported
and, seeing the bridal pair, recalled with vivid pleasure how she had passed out of the Star of
the Sea Church in Sandymount, leaning on the arm of a jovial well-fed man, who was dressed
smartly in a frock-coat and lavender trousers and carried a silk hat gracefully balanced upon
his other arm. After three weeks she had found a wife's life irksome and, later on, when she
was beginning to find it unbearable, she had become a mother. The part of mother presented
to her no insuperable difficulties and for twenty-five years she had kept house shrewdly for
her husband. Her two eldest sons were launched. One was in a draper's shop in Glasgow and
the other was clerk to a tea-merchant in Belfast. They were good sons, wrote regularly and
sometimes sent home money. The other children were still at school.
Mr. Kernan sent a letter to his office next day and remained in bed. She made beef-tea for
him and scolded him roundly. She accepted his frequent intemperance as part of the climate,
healed him dutifully whenever he was sick and always tried to make him eat a breakfast.
There were worse husbands. He had never been violent since the boys had grown up, and she
knew that he would walk to the end of Thomas Street and back again to book even a small
order.
Two nights after, his friends came to see him. She brought them up to his bedroom, the air of
which was impregnated with a personal odour, and gave them chairs at the fire. Mr. Kernan's
tongue, the occasional stinging pain of which had made him somewhat irritable during the
day, became more polite. He sat propped up in the bed by pillows and the little colour in his
puffy cheeks made them resemble warm cinders. He apologised to his guests for the disorder
of the room, but at the same time looked at them a little proudly, with a veteran's pride.
He was quite unconscious that he was the victim of a plot which his friends, Mr.
Cunningham, Mr. M'Coy and Mr. Power had disclosed to Mrs. Kernan in the parlour. The
idea had been Mr. Power's, but its development was entrusted to Mr. Cunningham. Mr.
Kernan came of Protestant stock and, though he had been converted to the Catholic faith at
the time of his marriage, he had not been in the pale of the Church for twenty years. He was
fond, moreover, of giving side-thrusts at Catholicism.
Mr. Cunningham was the very man for such a case. He was an elder colleague of Mr. Power.
His own domestic life was not very happy. People had great sympathy with him, for it was
known that he had married an unpresentable woman who was an incurable drunkard. He had
set up house for her six times; and each time she had pawned the furniture on him.
Everyone had respect for poor Martin Cunningham. He was a thoroughly sensible man,
influential and intelligent. His blade of human knowledge, natural astuteness particularised
by long association with cases in the police courts, had been tempered by brief immersions in
the waters of general philosophy. He was well informed. His friends bowed to his opinions
and considered that his face was like Shakespeare's.
138

When the plot had been disclosed to her, Mrs. Kernan had said:
"I leave it all in your hands, Mr. Cunningham."
After a quarter of a century of married life, she had very few illusions left. Religion for her
was a habit, and she suspected that a man of her husband's age would not change greatly
before death. She was tempted to see a curious appropriateness in his accident and, but that
she did not wish to seem bloody-minded, would have told the gentlemen that Mr. Kernan's
tongue would not suffer by being shortened. However, Mr. Cunningham was a capable man;
and religion was religion. The scheme might do good and, at least, it could do no harm. Her
beliefs were not extravagant. She believed steadily in the Sacred Heart as the most generally
useful of all Catholic devotions and approved of the sacraments. Her faith was bounded by
her kitchen, but, if she was put to it, she could believe also in the banshee and in the Holy
Ghost.
The gentlemen began to talk of the accident. Mr. Cunningham said that he had once known a
similar case. A man of seventy had bitten off a piece of his tongue during an epileptic fit and
the tongue had filled in again, so that no one could see a trace of the bite.
"Well, I'm not seventy," said the invalid.
"God forbid," said Mr. Cunningham.
"It doesn't pain you now" asked Mr. M'Coy.
Mr. M'Coy had been at one time a tenor of some reputation. His wife, who had been a
soprano, still taught young children to play the piano at low terms. His line of life had not
been the shortest distance between two points and for short periods he had been driven to live
by his wits. He had been a clerk in the Midland Railway, a canvasser for advertisements for
The Irish Times and for The Freeman's Journal, a town traveller for a coal firm on
commission, a private inquiry agent, a clerk in the office of the Sub-Sheriff, and he had
recently become secretary to the City Coroner. His new office made him professionally
interested in Mr. Kernan's case.
"Pain Not much," answered Mr. Kernan. "But it's so sickening. I feel as if I wanted to retch
off."
"That's the boose," said Mr. Cunningham firmly.
"No," said Mr. Kernan. "I think I caught a cold on the car. There's something keeps coming
into my throat, phlegm or——"
"Mucus." said Mr. M'Coy.
"It keeps coming like from down in my throat; sickening."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. M'Coy, "that's the thorax."
He looked at Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Power at the same time with an air of challenge. Mr.
Cunningham nodded his head rapidly and Mr. Power said:
139

"Ah, well, all's well that ends well."
"I'm very much obliged to you, old man," said the invalid.
Mr. Power waved his hand.
"Those other two fellows I was with——"
"Who were you with" asked Mr. Cunningham.
"A chap. I don't know his name. Damn it now, what's his name Little chap with sandy
hair...."
"And who else"
"Harford."
"Hm," said Mr. Cunningham.
When Mr. Cunningham made that remark, people were silent. It was known that the speaker
had secret sources of information. In this case the monosyllable had a moral intention. Mr.
Harford sometimes formed one of a little detachment which left the city shortly after noon on
Sunday with the purpose of arriving as soon as possible at some public-house on the outskirts
of the city where its members duly qualified themselves as bona fide travellers. But his
fellow-travellers had never consented to overlook his origin. He had begun life as an obscure
financier by lending small sums of money to workmen at usurious interest. Later on he had
become the partner of a very fat, short gentleman, Mr. Goldberg, in the Liffey Loan Bank.
Though he had never embraced more than the Jewish ethical code, his fellow-Catholics,
whenever they had smarted in person or by proxy under his exactions, spoke of him bitterly
as an Irish Jew and an illiterate, and saw divine disapproval of usury made manifest through
the person of his idiot son. At other times they remembered his good points.
"I wonder where did he go to," said Mr. Kernan.
He wished the details of the incident to remain vague. He wished his friends to think there
had been some mistake, that Mr. Harford and he had missed each other. His friends, who
knew quite well Mr. Harford's manners in drinking were silent. Mr. Power said again:
"All's well that ends well."
Mr. Kernan changed the subject at once.
"That was a decent young chap, that medical fellow," he said. "Only for him——"
"O, only for him," said Mr. Power, "it might have been a case of seven days, without the
option of a fine."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Kernan, trying to remember. "I remember now there was a policeman.
Decent young fellow, he seemed. How did it happen at all"
140

"It happened that you were peloothered, Tom," said Mr. Cunningham gravely.
"True bill," said Mr. Kernan, equally gravely.
"I suppose you squared the constable, Jack," said Mr. M'Coy.
Mr. Power did not relish the use of his Christian name. He was not straight-laced, but he
could not forget that Mr. M'Coy had recently made a crusade in search of valises and
portmanteaus to enable Mrs. M'Coy to fulfil imaginary engagements in the country. More
than he resented the fact that he had been victimised he resented such low playing of the
game. He answered the question, therefore, as if Mr. Kernan had asked it.
The narrative made Mr. Kernan indignant. He was keenly conscious of his citizenship,
wished to live with his city on terms mutually honourable and resented any affront put upon
him by those whom he called country bumpkins.
"Is this what we pay rates for" he asked. "To feed and clothe these ignorant bostooms... and
they're nothing else."
Mr. Cunningham laughed. He was a Castle official only during office hours.
"How could they be anything else, Tom" he said.
He assumed a thick, provincial accent and said in a tone of command:
"65, catch your cabbage!"
Everyone laughed. Mr. M'Coy, who wanted to enter the conversation by any door, pretended
that he had never heard the story. Mr. Cunningham said:
"It is supposed—they say, you know—to take place in the depot where they get these
thundering big country fellows, omadhauns, you know, to drill. The sergeant makes them
stand in a row against the wall and hold up their plates."
He illustrated the story by grotesque gestures.
"At dinner, you know. Then he has a bloody big bowl of cabbage before him on the table and
a bloody big spoon like a shovel. He takes up a wad of cabbage on the spoon and pegs it
across the room and the poor devils have to try and catch it on their plates: 65, catch your
cabbage."
Everyone laughed again: but Mr. Kernan was somewhat indignant still. He talked of writing a
letter to the papers.
"These yahoos coming up here," he said, "think they can boss the people. I needn't tell you,
Martin, what kind of men they are."
Mr. Cunningham gave a qualified assent.
141

"It's like everything else in this world," he said. "You get some bad ones and you get some
good ones."
"O yes, you get some good ones, I admit," said Mr. Kernan, satisfied.
"It's better to have nothing to say to them," said Mr. M'Coy. "That's my opinion!"
Mrs. Kernan entered the room and, placing a tray on the table, said:
"Help yourselves, gentlemen."
Mr. Power stood up to officiate, offering her his chair. She declined it, saying she was ironing
downstairs, and, after having exchanged a nod with Mr. Cunningham behind Mr. Power's
back, prepared to leave the room. Her husband called out to her:
"And have you nothing for me, duckie"
"O, you! The back of my hand to you!" said Mrs. Kernan tartly.
Her husband called after her:
"Nothing for poor little hubby!"
He assumed such a comical face and voice that the distribution of the bottles of stout took
place amid general merriment.
The gentlemen drank from their glasses, set the glasses again on the table and paused. Then
Mr. Cunningham turned towards Mr. Power and said casually:
"On Thursday night, you said, Jack."
"Thursday, yes," said Mr. Power.
"Righto!" said Mr. Cunningham promptly.
"We can meet in M'Auley's," said Mr. M'Coy. "That'll be the most convenient place."
"But we mustn't be late," said Mr. Power earnestly, "because it is sure to be crammed to the
doors."
"We can meet at half-seven," said Mr. M'Coy.
"Righto!" said Mr. Cunningham.
"Half-seven at M'Auley's be it!"
There was a short silence. Mr. Kernan waited to see whether he would be taken into his
friends' confidence. Then he asked:
"What's in the wind"
142

"O, it's nothing," said Mr. Cunningham. "It's only a little matter that we're arranging about for
Thursday."
"The opera, is it" said Mr. Kernan.
"No, no," said Mr. Cunningham in an evasive tone, "it's just a little... spiritual matter."
"O," said Mr. Kernan.
There was silence again. Then Mr. Power said, point blank:
"To tell you the truth, Tom, we're going to make a retreat."
"Yes, that's it," said Mr. Cunningham, "Jack and I and M'Coy here—we're all going to wash
the pot."
He uttered the metaphor with a certain homely energy and, encouraged by his own voice,
proceeded:
"You see, we may as well all admit we're a nice collection of scoundrels, one and all. I say,
one and all," he added with gruff charity and turning to Mr. Power. "Own up now!"
"I own up," said Mr. Power.
"And I own up," said Mr. M'Coy.
"So we're going to wash the pot together," said Mr. Cunningham.
A thought seemed to strike him. He turned suddenly to the invalid and said:
"D'ye know what, Tom, has just occurred to me You night join in and we'd have a fourhanded
reel."
"Good idea," said Mr. Power. "The four of us together."
Mr. Kernan was silent. The proposal conveyed very little meaning to his mind, but,
understanding that some spiritual agencies were about to concern themselves on his behalf,
he thought he owed it to his dignity to show a stiff neck. He took no part in the conversation
for a long while, but listened, with an air of calm enmity, while his friends discussed the
Jesuits.
"I haven't such a bad opinion of the Jesuits," he said, intervening at length. "They're an
educated order. I believe they mean well, too."
"They're the grandest order in the Church, Tom," said Mr. Cunningham, with enthusiasm.
"The General of the Jesuits stands next to the Pope."
"There's no mistake about it," said Mr. M'Coy, "if you want a thing well done and no flies
about, you go to a Jesuit. They're the boyos have influence. I'll tell you a case in point...."
143

"The Jesuits are a fine body of men," said Mr. Power.
"It's a curious thing," said Mr. Cunningham, "about the Jesuit Order. Every other order of the
Church had to be reformed at some time or other but the Jesuit Order was never once
reformed. It never fell away."
"Is that so" asked Mr. M'Coy.
"That's a fact," said Mr. Cunningham. "That's history."
"Look at their church, too," said Mr. Power. "Look at the congregation they have."
"The Jesuits cater for the upper classes," said Mr. M'Coy.
"Of course," said Mr. Power.
"Yes," said Mr. Kernan. "That's why I have a feeling for them. It's some of those secular
priests, ignorant, bumptious——"
"They're all good men," said Mr. Cunningham, "each in his own way. The Irish priesthood is
honoured all the world over."
"O yes," said Mr. Power.
"Not like some of the other priesthoods on the continent," said Mr. M'Coy, "unworthy of the
name."
"Perhaps you're right," said Mr. Kernan, relenting.
"Of course I'm right," said Mr. Cunningham. "I haven't been in the world all this time and
seen most sides of it without being a judge of character."
The gentlemen drank again, one following another's example. Mr. Kernan seemed to be
weighing something in his mind. He was impressed. He had a high opinion of Mr.
Cunningham as a judge of character and as a reader of faces. He asked for particulars.
"O, it's just a retreat, you know," said Mr. Cunningham. "Father Purdon is giving it. It's for
business men, you know."
"He won't be too hard on us, Tom," said Mr. Power persuasively.
"Father Purdon Father Purdon" said the invalid.
"O, you must know him, Tom," said Mr. Cunningham stoutly. "Fine, jolly fellow! He's a man
of the world like ourselves."
"Ah,... yes. I think I know him. Rather red face; tall."
"That's the man."
144

"And tell me, Martin.... Is he a good preacher"
"Munno.... It's not exactly a sermon, you know. It's just kind of a friendly talk, you know, in a
common-sense way."
Mr. Kernan deliberated. Mr. M'Coy said:
"Father Tom Burke, that was the boy!"
"O, Father Tom Burke," said Mr. Cunningham, "that was a born orator. Did you ever hear
him, Tom"
"Did I ever hear him!" said the invalid, nettled. "Rather! I heard him...."
"And yet they say he wasn't much of a theologian," said Mr Cunningham.
"Is that so" said Mr. M'Coy.
"O, of course, nothing wrong, you know. Only sometimes, they say, he didn't preach what
was quite orthodox."
"Ah!... he was a splendid man," said Mr. M'Coy.
"I heard him once," Mr. Kernan continued. "I forget the subject of his discourse now. Crofton
and I were in the back of the... pit, you know... the——"
"The body," said Mr. Cunningham.
"Yes, in the back near the door. I forget now what.... O yes, it was on the Pope, the late Pope.
I remember it well. Upon my word it was magnificent, the style of the oratory. And his voice!
God! hadn't he a voice! The Prisoner of the Vatican, he called him. I remember Crofton
saying to me when we came out——"
"But he's an Orangeman, Crofton, isn't he" said Mr. Power.
"'Course he is," said Mr. Kernan, "and a damned decent Orangeman too. We went into
Butler's in Moore Street—faith, I was genuinely moved, tell you the God's truth—and I
remember well his very words. 'Kernan,' he said, 'we worship at different altars, he said, but
our belief is the same.' Struck me as very well put."
"There's a good deal in that," said Mr. Power. "There used always to be crowds of Protestants
in the chapel where Father Tom was preaching."
"There's not much difference between us," said Mr. M'Coy.
"We both believe in——"
He hesitated for a moment.
"... in the Redeemer. Only they don't believe in the Pope and in the mother of God."
145

"But, of course," said Mr. Cunningham quietly and effectively, "our religion is the religion,
the old, original faith."
"Not a doubt of it," said Mr. Kernan warmly.
Mrs. Kernan came to the door of the bedroom and announced:
"Here's a visitor for you!"
"Who is it"
"Mr. Fogarty."
"O, come in! come in!"
A pale, oval face came forward into the light. The arch of its fair trailing moustache was
repeated in the fair eyebrows looped above pleasantly astonished eyes. Mr. Fogarty was a
modest grocer. He had failed in business in a licensed house in the city because his financial
condition had constrained him to tie himself to second-class distillers and brewers. He had
opened a small shop on Glasnevin Road where, he flattered himself, his manners would
ingratiate him with the housewives of the district. He bore himself with a certain grace,
complimented little children and spoke with a neat enunciation. He was not without culture.
Mr. Fogarty brought a gift with him, a half-pint of special whisky. He inquired politely for
Mr. Kernan, placed his gift on the table and sat down with the company on equal terms. Mr.
Kernan appreciated the gift all the more since he was aware that there was a small account for
groceries unsettled between him and Mr. Fogarty. He said:
"I wouldn't doubt you, old man. Open that, Jack, will you"
Mr. Power again officiated. Glasses were rinsed and five small measures of whisky were
poured out. This new influence enlivened the conversation. Mr. Fogarty, sitting on a small
area of the chair, was specially interested.
"Pope Leo XIII," said Mr. Cunningham, "was one of the lights of the age. His great idea, you
know, was the union of the Latin and Greek Churches. That was the aim of his life."
"I often heard he was one of the most intellectual men in Europe," said Mr. Power. "I mean,
apart from his being Pope."
"So he was," said Mr. Cunningham, "if not the most so. His motto, you know, as Pope, was
Lux upon Lux—Light upon Light."
"No, no," said Mr. Fogarty eagerly. "I think you're wrong there. It was Lux in Tenebris, I
think—Light in Darkness."
"O yes," said Mr. M'Coy, "Tenebrae."
146

"Allow me," said Mr. Cunningham positively, "it was Lux upon Lux. And Pius IX his
predecessor's motto was Crux upon Crux—that is, Cross upon Cross—to show the difference
between their two pontificates."
The inference was allowed. Mr. Cunningham continued.
"Pope Leo, you know, was a great scholar and a poet."
"He had a strong face," said Mr. Kernan.
"Yes," said Mr. Cunningham. "He wrote Latin poetry."
"Is that so" said Mr. Fogarty.
Mr. M'Coy tasted his whisky contentedly and shook his head with a double intention, saying:
"That's no joke, I can tell you."
"We didn't learn that, Tom," said Mr. Power, following Mr. M'Coy's example, "when we
went to the penny-a-week school."
"There was many a good man went to the penny-a-week school with a sod of turf under his
oxter," said Mr. Kernan sententiously. "The old system was the best: plain honest education.
None of your modern trumpery...."
"Quite right," said Mr. Power.
"No superfluities," said Mr. Fogarty.
He enunciated the word and then drank gravely.
"I remember reading," said Mr. Cunningham, "that one of Pope Leo's poems was on the
invention of the photograph—in Latin, of course."
"On the photograph!" exclaimed Mr. Kernan.
"Yes," said Mr. Cunningham.
He also drank from his glass.
"Well, you know," said Mr. M'Coy, "isn't the photograph wonderful when you come to think
of it"
"O, of course," said Mr. Power, "great minds can see things."
"As the poet says: Great minds are very near to madness," said Mr. Fogarty.
Mr. Kernan seemed to be troubled in mind. He made an effort to recall the Protestant
theology on some thorny points and in the end addressed Mr. Cunningham.
147

"Tell me, Martin," he said. "Weren't some of the popes—of course, not our present man, or
his predecessor, but some of the old popes—not exactly... you know... up to the knocker"
There was a silence. Mr. Cunningham said
"O, of course, there were some bad lots... But the astonishing thing is this. Not one of them,
not the biggest drunkard, not the most... out-and-out ruffian, not one of them ever preached
ex cathedra a word of false doctrine. Now isn't that an astonishing thing"
"That is," said Mr. Kernan.
"Yes, because when the Pope speaks ex cathedra," Mr. Fogarty explained, "he is infallible."
"Yes," said Mr. Cunningham.
"O, I know about the infallibility of the Pope. I remember I was younger then.... Or was it
that——"
Mr. Fogarty interrupted. He took up the bottle and helped the others to a little more. Mr.
M'Coy, seeing that there was not enough to go round, pleaded that he had not finished his
first measure. The others accepted under protest. The light music of whisky falling into
glasses made an agreeable interlude.
"What's that you were saying, Tom" asked Mr. M'Coy.
"Papal infallibility," said Mr. Cunningham, "that was the greatest scene in the whole history
of the Church."
"How was that, Martin" asked Mr. Power.
Mr. Cunningham held up two thick fingers.
"In the sacred college, you know, of cardinals and archbishops and bishops there were two
men who held out against it while the others were all for it. The whole conclave except these
two was unanimous. No! They wouldn't have it!"
"Ha!" said Mr. M'Coy.
"And they were a German cardinal by the name of Dolling... or Dowling... or——"
"Dowling was no German, and that's a sure five," said Mr. Power, laughing.
"Well, this great German cardinal, whatever his name was, was one; and the other was John
MacHale."
"What" cried Mr. Kernan. "Is it John of Tuam"
"Are you sure of that now" asked Mr. Fogarty dubiously. "I thought it was some Italian or
American."
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"John of Tuam," repeated Mr. Cunningham, "was the man."
He drank and the other gentlemen followed his lead. Then he resumed:
"There they were at it, all the cardinals and bishops and archbishops from all the ends of the
earth and these two fighting dog and devil until at last the Pope himself stood up and declared
infallibility a dogma of the Church ex cathedra. On the very moment John MacHale, who had
been arguing and arguing against it, stood up and shouted out with the voice of a lion:
'Credo!'"
"I believe!" said Mr. Fogarty.
"Credo!" said Mr. Cunningham. "That showed the faith he had. He submitted the moment the
Pope spoke."
"And what about Dowling" asked Mr. M'Coy.
"The German cardinal wouldn't submit. He left the church."
Mr. Cunningham's words had built up the vast image of the church in the minds of his
hearers. His deep, raucous voice had thrilled them as it uttered the word of belief and
submission. When Mrs. Kernan came into the room, drying her hands she came into a solemn
company. She did not disturb the silence, but leaned over the rail at the foot of the bed.
"I once saw John MacHale," said Mr. Kernan, "and I'll never forget it as long as I live."
He turned towards his wife to be confirmed.
"I often told you that"
Mrs. Kernan nodded.
"It was at the unveiling of Sir John Gray's statue. Edmund Dwyer Gray was speaking,
blathering away, and here was this old fellow, crabbed-looking old chap, looking at him from
under his bushy eyebrows."
Mr. Kernan knitted his brows and, lowering his head like an angry bull, glared at his wife.
"God!" he exclaimed, resuming his natural face, "I never saw such an eye in a man's head. It
was as much as to say: I have you properly taped, my lad. He had an eye like a hawk."
"None of the Grays was any good," said Mr. Power.
There was a pause again. Mr. Power turned to Mrs. Kernan and said with abrupt joviality:
"Well, Mrs. Kernan, we're going to make your man here a good holy pious and God-fearing
Roman Catholic."
He swept his arm round the company inclusively.
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"We're all going to make a retreat together and confess our sins—and God knows we want it
badly."
"I don't mind," said Mr. Kernan, smiling a little nervously.
Mrs. Kernan thought it would be wiser to conceal her satisfaction. So she said:
"I pity the poor priest that has to listen to your tale."
Mr. Kernan's expression changed.
"If he doesn't like it," he said bluntly, "he can... do the other thing. I'll just tell him my little
tale of woe. I'm not such a bad fellow——"
Mr. Cunningham intervened promptly.
"We'll all renounce the devil," he said, "together, not forgetting his works and pomps."
"Get behind me, Satan!" said Mr. Fogarty, laughing and looking at the others.
Mr. Power said nothing. He felt completely out-generalled. But a pleased expression
flickered across his face.
"All we have to do," said Mr. Cunningham, "is to stand up with lighted candles in our hands
and renew our baptismal vows."
"O, don't forget the candle, Tom," said Mr. M'Coy, "whatever you do."
"What" said Mr. Kernan. "Must I have a candle"
"O yes," said Mr. Cunningham.
"No, damn it all," said Mr. Kernan sensibly, "I draw the line there. I'll do the job right
enough. I'll do the retreat business and confession, and... all that business. But... no candles!
No, damn it all, I bar the candles!"
He shook his head with farcical gravity.
"Listen to that!" said his wife.
"I bar the candles," said Mr. Kernan, conscious of having created an effect on his audience
and continuing to shake his head to and fro. "I bar the magic-lantern business."
Everyone laughed heartily.
"There's a nice Catholic for you!" said his wife.
"No candles!" repeated Mr. Kernan obdurately. "That's off!"
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The transept of the Jesuit Church in Gardiner Street was almost full; and still at every
moment gentlemen entered from the side door and, directed by the lay-brother, walked on
tiptoe along the aisles until they found seating accommodation. The gentlemen were all well
dressed and orderly. The light of the lamps of the church fell upon an assembly of black
clothes and white collars, relieved here and there by tweeds, on dark mottled pillars of green
marble and on lugubrious canvases. The gentlemen sat in the benches, having hitched their
trousers slightly above their knees and laid their hats in security. They sat well back and
gazed formally at the distant speck of red light which was suspended before the high altar.
In one of the benches near the pulpit sat Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Kernan. In the bench
behind sat Mr. M'Coy alone: and in the bench behind him sat Mr. Power and Mr. Fogarty.
Mr. M'Coy had tried unsuccessfully to find a place in the bench with the others, and, when
the party had settled down in the form of a quincunx, he had tried unsuccessfully to make
comic remarks. As these had not been well received, he had desisted. Even he was sensible of
the decorous atmosphere and even he began to respond to the religious stimulus. In a
whisper, Mr. Cunningham drew Mr. Kernan's attention to Mr. Harford, the moneylender,
who sat some distance off, and to Mr. Fanning, the registration agent and mayor maker of the
city, who was sitting immediately under the pulpit beside one of the newly elected
councillors of the ward. To the right sat old Michael Grimes, the owner of three pawnbroker's
shops, and Dan Hogan's nephew, who was up for the job in the Town Clerk's office. Farther
in front sat Mr. Hendrick, the chief reporter of The Freeman's Journal, and poor O'Carroll, an
old friend of Mr. Kernan's, who had been at one time a considerable commercial figure.
Gradually, as he recognised familiar faces, Mr. Kernan began to feel more at home. His hat,
which had been rehabilitated by his wife, rested upon his knees. Once or twice he pulled
down his cuffs with one hand while he held the brim of his hat lightly, but firmly, with the
other hand.
A powerful-looking figure, the upper part of which was draped with a white surplice, was
observed to be struggling into the pulpit. Simultaneously the congregation unsettled,
produced handkerchiefs and knelt upon them with care. Mr. Kernan followed the general
example. The priest's figure now stood upright in the pulpit, two-thirds of its bulk, crowned
by a massive red face, appearing above the balustrade.
Father Purdon knelt down, turned towards the red speck of light and, covering his face with
his hands, prayed. After an interval, he uncovered his face and rose. The congregation rose
also and settled again on its benches. Mr. Kernan restored his hat to its original position on
his knee and presented an attentive face to the preacher. The preacher turned back each wide
sleeve of his surplice with an elaborate large gesture and slowly surveyed the array of faces.
Then he said:
"For the children of this world are wiser in their generation than the children of light.
Wherefore make unto yourselves friends out of the mammon of iniquity so that when you die
they may receive you into everlasting dwellings."
Father Purdon developed the text with resonant assurance. It was one of the most difficult
texts in all the Scriptures, he said, to interpret properly. It was a text which might seem to the
casual observer at variance with the lofty morality elsewhere preached by Jesus Christ. But,
he told his hearers, the text had seemed to him specially adapted for the guidance of those
whose lot it was to lead the life of the world and who yet wished to lead that life not in the
manner of worldlings. It was a text for business men and professional men. Jesus Christ, with
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His divine understanding of every cranny of our human nature, understood that all men were
not called to the religious life, that by far the vast majority were forced to live in the world,
and, to a certain extent, for the world: and in this sentence He designed to give them a word
of counsel, setting before them as exemplars in the religious life those very worshippers of
Mammon who were of all men the least solicitous in matters religious.
He told his hearers that he was there that evening for no terrifying, no extravagant purpose;
but as a man of the world speaking to his fellow-men. He came to speak to business men and
he would speak to them in a businesslike way. If he might use the metaphor, he said, he was
their spiritual accountant; and he wished each and every one of his hearers to open his books,
the books of his spiritual life, and see if they tallied accurately with conscience.
Jesus Christ was not a hard taskmaster. He understood our little failings, understood the
weakness of our poor fallen nature, understood the temptations of this life. We might have
had, we all had from time to time, our temptations: we might have, we all had, our failings.
But one thing only, he said, he would ask of his hearers. And that was: to be straight and
manly with God. If their accounts tallied in every point to say:
"Well, I have verified my accounts. I find all well."
But if, as might happen, there were some discrepancies, to admit the truth, to be frank and say
like a man:
"Well, I have looked into my accounts. I find this wrong and this wrong. But, with God's
grace, I will rectify this and this. I will set right my accounts."
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THE METAMORPHOSIS - FRANZ KAFKA
Trans. Edwin and Willa Muir
As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in
his bed into a gigantic insect. He was lying on his hard, as it were armor-plated, back and
when he lifted his head a little he could see his domelike brown belly divided into stiff arched
segments on top of which the bed quilt could hardly stay in place and was about to slide off
completely. His numerous legs, which were pitifully thin compared to the rest of his bulk,
waved helplessly before his eyes.
What has happened to me he thought. It was no dream. His room, a regular human bedroom,
only rather too small, lay quiet within its four familiar walls. Above the table on which a
collection of cloth samples was unpacked and spread out—Samsa was a traveling salesman—
hung the picture which he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and put into a pretty
gilt frame. It showed a lady, with a fur hat on and a fur stole, sitting upright and holding out
to the spectator a huge fur muff into which the whole of her forearm had vanished!
Gregor's eyes turned next to the window, and the overcast sky—one could hear raindrops
beating on the window gutter—made him quite melancholy. What about sleeping a little
longer and forgetting all this nonsense, he thought, but it could not be done, for he was
accustomed to sleep on his right side and in his present condition he could not turn himself
over. However violently he forced himself toward his right side he always rolled onto his
back again. He tried it at least a hundred times, shutting his eyes to keep from seeing his
struggling legs, and only desisted when he began to feel in his side a faint dull ache he had
never felt before.
Oh God, he thought, what an exhausting job I've picked out for myself! On the road day in,
day out. It's much more irritating work than doing the actual business in the home office, and
on top of that there's the trouble of constant traveling, of worrying about train connections,
the bad food and irregular meals, casual acquaintances that are always new and never become
intimate friends. The devil take it all! He felt a slight itching up on his belly, slowly pushed
himself on his back nearer to the top of the bed so that he could lift his head more easily,
identified the itching place which was surrounded by many small white spots the nature of
which he could not understand and was about to touch it with a leg, but drew the leg back
immediately, for the contact made a cold shiver run through him.
He slid down again into his former position. This getting up early, he thought, can make an
idiot out of anyone. A man needs his sleep. Other salesmen live like harem women. For
instance, when I come back to the hotel in the morning to write up my orders these others are
only sitting down to breakfast. Let me just try that with my boss; I‘d be fired on the spot.
Anyhow, that might be quite a good thing for me, who can tell If I didn't have to hold back
because of my parents I'd have given notice long ago, I'd have gone to the boss and told him
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exactly what I think of him. That would knock him right off his desk! It's a peculiar habit of
his, too, sitting on top of the desk like that and talking down to employees, especially when
they have to come quite near because the boss is hard of hearing. Well, there's still hope; once
I've saved enough money to pay back my parents' debts to him—that should take another five
or six years—I'll do it without fail. I‘ll cut my ties completely then. For the moment, though,
I'd better get up, since my train leaves at five.
He looked at the alarm clock ticking on the chest of drawers. Heavenly Father! he thought. It
was half-past six and the hands were quietly moving on, it was even past the half-hour, it was
getting on toward a quarter to seven. Had the alarm clock not gone off From the bed one
could see that it had been properly set for four o'clock; of course it must have gone off. Yes,
but was it possible to sleep quietly through that ear-splitting noise Well, he had not slept
qui-etly, yet apparently all the more soundly for that. But what was he to do now The next
train went at seven o'clock; to catch that he would need to hurry like mad and his samples
weren't even packed, and he himself wasn't feeling particularly fresh and energetic. And even
if he did catch the train he couldn't avoid a tirade from the boss, since the messenger boy
must have been waiting for the five o'clock train and must have long since reported his failure
to turn up. This messenger was a creature of the boss's, spineless and stupid. Well, supposing
he were to say he was sick But that would be very awkward and would look suspicious,
since during his five years‘ employment he had not been ill once. The boss himself would be
sure to come with the health insurance doctor, would reproach his parents for their son's
laziness, and would cut all excuses short by handing the matter over to the insurance doctor,
who of course regarded all mankind as perfectly healthy malingerers. And would he be so far
wrong in this case Gregor really felt quite well, apart from a drowsiness that was quite
inexcusable after such a long sleep, and he was even unusually hungry.
As all this was running through his mind at top speed without his being able to decide to
leave his bed—the alarm clock had just struck a quarter to seven—there was a cautious tap at
the door near the head of his bed. "Gregor,‖ said a voice—it was his mother's—"it's a quarter
to seven. Didn't you have a train to catch" That gentle voice! Gregor had a shock as he heard
his own voice answering hers, unmistakably his own voice, it was true, but with a persistent
horrible twittering squeak behind it like an undertone, which left the words in their clear
shape only for the first moment and then rose up reverberating around them to destroy their
sense, so that one could not be sure one had heard them rightly. Gregor wanted to answer at
length and explain everything, but in the circumstances he confined himself to saying: "Yes,
yes, thank you, Mother, I'm getting up now." The wooden door between them must have kept
the change in his voice from being noticeable outside, for his mother contented herself with
this statement and shuffled away. Yet this brief exchange of words had made the other
members of the family aware that Gregor was, strangely, still at home, and at one of the side
doors his father was already knocking, gently, yet with his fist. "Gregor, Gregor," he called,
"What's the matter with you" And after a little while he called again in a deeper voice:
―Gregor! Gregor!" At the other side door his sister was saying in a low, plaintive tone:
"Gregor Aren't you well Do you need anything" He answered them both at once: "I'm just
about ready," and did his best to make his voice sound as normal as possible by enunciating
the words very clearly and leaving long pauses between them. So his father went back to his
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eakfast, but his sister whispered: "Gregor, open the door, I beg you." However, he was not
thinking of opening the door, and felt thankful for the prudent habit he had acquired on the
road of locking all doors during the night, even at home. His immediate intention was to get
up quietly without being disturbed, to put on his clothes and above all eat his breakfast, and
only then to consider what else had to be done, since he was well aware his meditations
would come to no sensible conclusion if he remained in bed. He remembered that often
enough in bed he had felt small aches and pains, probably caused by lying in awkward
positions, which had proved purely imaginary once he got up, and he looked forward eagerly
to seeing this morning's delusions gradually evaporate. That the change in his voice was
nothing but the precursor of a bad cold, a typical ailment of traveling salesmen, he had not
the slightest doubt.
To get rid of the quilt was quite easy; he had only to inflate himself a little and it fell off by
itself. But the next move was difficult, especially because he was so unusually broad. He
would have needed arms and hands to hoist himself up; instead he had only the numerous
little legs which never stopped waving in all directions and which he could not control in the
least. When he tried to bend one of them the first thing it did was to stretch itself out straight;
and if he finally succeeded in making it do what he wanted, all the other legs meanwhile
waved the more wildly in the most painful anal unpleasant way. ―But what's the use of lying
idle in bed" said Gregor to himself.
He thought that he might get out of bed with the lower part of his body first, but this lower
part, which he had not yet seen and of which he could form no clear picture, proved too
difficult to move; it shifted so slowly; and when finally, almost wild with annoyance, he
gathered his forces together and thrust out recklessly, he had miscalculated the direction and
bumped heavily against the lower end of the bed, and the stinging pain he felt informed him
that precisely this lower part of his body was at the moment probably the most sensitive. So
he tried to get the top part of himself out first, and cautiously moved his head toward the edge
of the bed. That proved easy enough, and despite its breadth and mass the bulk of his body at
last slowly followed the movement of his head. Still, when he finally got his head free over
the edge of the bed he felt too scared to go on advancing, for, after all, if he let himself fall in
this way it would take a miracle to keep his head from being injured. And under no circumstances
could he afford to lose consciousness now, precisely now; he would rather stay in
bed.
Metamorphosis: Gregor Samsa's Nightmare
But when after a repetition of the same efforts he lay in his former position again, sighing,
and watched his little legs struggling against each other more wildly than ever, if that were
possible, and saw no way of bringing any calm and order into this senseless confusion, he
told himself again that it was impossible to stay in bed and that the most sensible course was
to risk everything for the smallest hope of getting away from it. At the same time, however,
he did not forget to remind himself occasionally that cool reflection, the coolest possible, was
much better than desperate resolves. At such moments he focused his eyes as sharply as
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possible on the window, but, unfortunately, the prospect of the morning fog, which
enshrouded even the other side of the narrow street, brought him little encouragement and
comfort. ―Seven o‘clock already," he said to himself when the alarm clock chimed again,
"seven o'clock already and still such a thick fog." And for a little while he lay quiet, breathing
lightly as if perhaps expecting the total silence around him to restore all things to their real
and normal condition.
But then he said to himself: "Before it strikes a quarter past seven I absolutely must be quite
out of this bed, without fail. Anyhow, by that time someone will have come from the office to
ask for me, since it opens before seven." And he began to rock his whole body at once in a
regular rhythm, with the idea of swinging it out of the bed. If he tipped himself out in that
way he could keep his head from injury by lifting it at a sharp angle as he fell. His back
seemed to be hard and was not likely to suffer from a fall on the carpet. His biggest worry
was the loud crash he would not be able to help making which would probably cause anxiety,
if not terror, behind all the doors. Still, he must take the risk.
When he was already half out of the bed—the new method was more a game than an effort,
for he needed only to shift himself across by rocking to and fro—it struck him how simple it
would be if he could get help. Twostrong people—he thought of his father and the maid—
would be amply sufficient; they would only have to thrust their arms under his convex back,
lever him out of the bed, bend down with their burden, and then be patient enough to let him
turn himself right over onto the floor, where it was to be hoped his little legs would then find
their proper function. Well, ignoring the fact that the doors were all locked, should he really
call for help In spite of his predicament he could not suppress a smile at the very idea of it.
He had already gotten to the point where he would lose his balance if he rocked any harder,
and very soon he would have to make up his mind once and for all since in five minutes it
would be a quarter past seven—when the front doorbell rang. "That's someone from the
office,‖ he said to himself, and grew almost rigid, while his little legs only thrashed about all
the faster. For a moment everything stayed quiet. "They're not going to open the door," said
Gregor to himself, grasping at some kind of irrational hope. But then of course the maid went
as usual to the door with her determined stride and opened it. Gregor needed only to hear the
first good morning of the visitor to know immediately who it was—the chief clerk himself.
What a fate: to be condemned to work for a firm where the slightest negligence at once gave
rise to the gravest suspicion! Were all the employees nothing but a bunch of scoundrels, was
there not among them one single loyal devoted man who, had he wasted only an hour or so of
the firm's time in the morning, was so tormented by conscience as to be driven out of his
mind and actually incapable of leaving his bed Wouldn't it really have been sufficient to
send an office boy to inquire—if indeed any inquiry were necessary—did the chief clerk
himself have to come and thus indicate to the entire innocent family that this suspicious
circumstance could be investi-gated by no one less versed in affairs than himself And more
through the agitation caused by these reflections than through any act of will Gregor swung
himself out of bed with all his strength. There was a loud thump, but it was not really a crash.
His fall was broken to some extent by the carpet, his back, too, was less stiff than he had
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thought, and so there was merely a dull thud, not so very startling. Only he had not lifted his
head carefully enough and had hit it; he turned it and rubbed it on the carpet in pain and
irrita-tion.
"Something fell in there," said the chief clerk in the adjacent room to the left. Gregor tried to
suppose to himself that something like what had happened to him today might someday
happen to the chief clerk; one really could not deny that it was possible. But, as if in brusque
reply to this supposition, the chief clerk took a couple of firm steps in the next-door room and
his patent leather boots creaked. From the right-hand room his sister was whispering to
inform him of the situation: "Gregor, the chief clerk's here.‖ "I know,‖ muttered Gregor to
himself; but he didn't dare to make his voice loud enough for his sister to hear it.
"Gregor,‖ said his father now from the room on the left, "the chief clerk has come and wants
to know why you didn't catch the early train. We don't know what to say to him. Besides, he
wants to talk to you in person. So open the door, please. He will be good enough to excuse
the mess in your room." ―Good morning, Mr. Samsa," the chief clerk was calling amiably
meanwhile. "He's not well," said his mother to the visitor, while his father was still speaking
through the door, ―he's not well, sir, believe me. What else would make him miss a train! The
boy thinks about nothing but his work. It makes me almost cross the way he never goes out in
the evening; he's been here all last week and has stayed at home every single evening. He just
sits there quietly at the table reading a newspaper or looking through railroad timetables. The
only amusement he gets is working with his jigsaw. For instance, he spent Twoor three
evenings cutting out a little picture frame; you would be surprised to see how pretty it is; it's
hanging in his room; you'll see it in a minute when Gregor opens the door. I must say I'm
glad you've come, sir; we should never have gotten him to unlock the door by ourselves; he's
so obstinate; and I'm sure he's unwell, even if he denied it earlier this morning." ―I'll be right
there," said Gregor slowly and carefully, not moving an inch for fear of losing one word of
the conversation. "I can't think of any other explanation, madam," said the chief clerk, "I hope
it's nothing serious. Although on the other hand I must say that we men of business—
unfortunately or perhaps fortunately—very often simply have to ignore any slight
indisposition, since business must be attended to." "Well, can the chief clerk come in now"
asked Gregor‘s father impatiently, again knocking on the door. "No," said Gregor. In the lefthand
room a painful silence followed this refusal; in the right-hand room his sister began to
sob.
Why didn't his sister join the others She had probably just gotten out of bed and hadn't even
begun to put on her clothes yet. Well, why was she crying Because he wouldn't get up and
let the chief clerk in, because he was in danger of losing his job, and because the head of the
firm would begin dunning his parents again for the old debts Surely these were things one
didn't need to worry about for the present. Gregor was still at home and not in the least thinking
of deserting the family. At the moment, true, he was lying on the carpet and no one who
knew the condition he was in could seriously expect him to admit the chief clerk. But for
such a small discourtesy, which could plausibly be explained away somehow later on, Gregor
could hardly be fired on the spot. And it seemed to Gregor that it would be much more
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sensible to leave him in peace for the present than to trouble him with tears and entreaties.
Still, of course, their uncertainty bewildered them all and excused their behavior.
―Mr. Samsa,‖ the chief clerk called now in a louder voice, ―what's the matter with you Here
you are, barricading yourself in your room, giving only 'yes' and 'no' for answers, causing
your parents a lot of unnecessary trouble and neglecting—I mention this only in passing—
neglecting your business duties in an incredible fashion. I am speaking here in the name of
your parents and of your employer, and I beg you quite seriously to give me an immediate
and precise explanation. You amaze me, you amaze me. I thought you were a quiet,
dependable person, and now all at once you seem bent on making a disgraceful exhibition of
yourself. The boss did hint to me early this morning a possi-ble explanation for your
disappearance—with reference to the cash payments that were entrusted to you recently—but
I almost pledged my solemn word of honor that this could not be so. But now that I see how
incredibly obstinate you are. I no longer have the slightest desire to take your part at all. And
your position in the firm is not exactly unassailable. I came with the intention of telling you
all this in private, but since you are wasting my time so needlessly I don't see why your
parents shouldn't hear it too. For some time now your work has been most unsatisfactory; this
is not the best time of the year for business, of course, we admit that, but a time of the year
for doing no business at all, that does not exist, Mr. Samsa, must not exist."
"But, sir," cried Gregor, beside himself and in his agita-tion forgetting everything else, "I'm
just about to open the door this very minute. A slight illness, an attack of dizziness, has kept
me from getting up. I'm still lying in bed. But I feel all right again. I'm getting out of bed right
now. Just give me a moment or Two longer! It's not going as well as I thought. But I'm all
right, really. How such a thing can suddenly strike one down! Only last night I was quite
well, my parents can tell you, or rather I did have a slight presentiment. I must have showed
some sign of it. Why didn't I mention it at the office! But we always think we can get over
any illness without having to stay at home. Oh sir, do spare my parents! All that you're
reproaching me with now has no foundation; no one has ever said a word to me about it.
Perhaps you haven't looked at the last orders I sent in. Anyway, I can still catch the eight
o'clock train, I'm much the better for my few extra hours' rest. Don't let me detain you here,
sir; I'll be attending to business very soon, and do be good enough to tell the boss so and to
give him my best regards!‖ And while all this was tumbling out in a rush and Gregor hardly
knew what he was saying, he had reached the chest of drawers quite easily, perhaps because
of the practice he had had in bed, and was now trying to get himself upright by means of it.
He actually meant to open the door, actually meant to show himself and speak to the chief
clerk; he was eager to find out what the others, after all their insistence, would say at the sight
of him. If they were horrified then the responsibility was no longer his and he could relax.
But if they took it in stride, then he had no reason either to be upset, and could actually get to
the station for the eight o'clock train if he hurried. At first he slipped down a few times from
the polished surface of the chest, but finally with one last heave he stood upright; he paid no
more attention to the pains in the lower part of his body, no matter how much they smarted.
Then he let himself fall against the back of a nearby chair, and clung to its frame with his
little legs. With that he regained control over himself and he stopped speaking, for now he
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could hear that the chief clerk was saying something.
―Did you understand one single word of that" the chief clerk was asking; "surely he can't be
trying to make fools of us" "Oh, dear God," cried his mother, in tears, ―perhaps he's terribly
ill and we're tormenting him. Grete! Grete!" she called out then. "Yes, Mother" called his
sister from the other side. They were calling to each other through Gregor's room. ―You must
go this minute for the doctor. Gregor is ill. Go for the doctor, quick. Did you hear how he was
speaking" "That was the voice of an animal," said the chief clerk in a voice conspicuously
soft compared to the shrillness of the mother's. ―Anna! Anna!" his father was calling through
the hall to the kitchen, clapping his hands, "get a locksmith at once!" And the Two girls were
already running through the hall with a swish of skirts—how could his sister have gotten
dressed so quickly—and were tearing the front door open. There was no sound of its closing
again; they had evidently left it open, as one does in homes where some great misfortune has
happened.
But Gregor was now much calmer. The words he uttered could no longer be understood
apparently, although they seemed clear enough to him, even clearer than before, perhaps
because his ear had grown accustomed to the sound of them. Yet at any rate people now
believed that something was wrong with him, and were ready to help. The positive certainty
with which these first measures had been taken comforted him. He felt himself drawn once
more into the human circle and hoped for great and remarkable results from both the doctor
and the locksmith, without really distinguishing precisely between them. To make his voice
as clear as possible for the crucial consultations that were soon to take place he cleared his
throat a little, as quietly as he could, of course, since this noise too might not sound human
for all he was able to judge. In the next room meanwhile there was complete silence. Perhaps
his parents were sitting at the table with the chief clerk, whispering, perhaps they were all
leaning against the door and listening.
Slowly Gregor pushed the chair toward the door, then let go of it, caught hold of the door for
support—the pads at the ends of his little legs were somewhat sticky—and rested against it
for a moment after his efforts. Then he set himself to turning the Key in the lock with his
mouth. It seemed, unfortunately, that he didn't really have any teeth—what was he supposed
to grip the Key with—but on the other hand his jaws were certainly very strong; with their
help he did manage to get the Key turning, heedless of the fact that he was undoubtedly
damaging himself, since a brown fluid issued from his mouth, flowed over the Key, and
dripped onto the floor. "Just listen to that," said the chief clerk in the next room, "he's turning
the Key." That was a great encouragement to Gregor; but they should all have shouted
encouragement to him, his father and mother too: "Come on, Gregor," they should have
called out, "keep going, get a good grip on that Key!" And in the belief that they were all
following his efforts intently, he bit down frantically on the Key with all the force at his
command. As the turning of the Key progressed he circled around the lock, holding on now
only with his mouth, pushing on the Key, as required, or pulling it down again with all the
weight of his body. The louder click of the finally yielding lock literally quickened Gregor.
With a deep breath of relief he said to himself: "So I didn't need the locksmith,‖ and laid his
head on the handle to open the door wide.
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Since he had to pull the door toward him, he was still invisible even when it was really wide
open. He had to edge himself slowly around the near half of the double door, and to do it very
carefully if he was not to fall flat on his back before he even got inside. He was still carrying
out this difficult maneuver, with no time to observe anything else, when he heard the chief
clerk utter a loud "Oh!"—it sounded like a gust of wind—and now he could see the man,
standing as he was nearest to the door, clapping one hand over his open mouth and slowly
backing away as if he were being repelled by some unseen but inexorable force. His
mother—in spite of the chief clerk's presence her hair was still undone and sticking out in all
directions—first clasped her hands and looked at his father, then took Two-steps toward
Gregor and fell on the floor among her outspread skirts, her face completely hidden on her
breast. His father clenched one fist with a fierce expression on his face as if he meant to
knock Gregor back into his room, then looked uncertainly around the living room, covered
his eyes with his hands, and wept until his great chest heaved.
Gregor did not go now into the living room, but leaned against the inside of the firmly shut
wing of the door, so that only half his body was visible and his head above it tilted sideways
to look at the others. It had meanwhile become much brighter outside; on the other side of the
street one could see clearly a section of the endlessly long, dark gray building opposite—it
was a hospital—its facade relentlessly punctuated by evenly spaced windows; the rain was
still falling, but only in large, singly discernible drops, each one of which, it seemed, was
literally being hurled to the ground below. The breakfast dishes were set out on the table in
great number, for breakfast was the most important meal of the day for Gregor's father, who
stretched it out for hours over various newspapers. Right opposite Gregor on the wall hung a
photograph of himself in military service, as a lieutenant, hand on sword, a carefree smile on
his face, inviting respect for his uniform and military bearing. The door lead-ing to the hall
was open, and one could see that the front door stood open too, showing the landing beyond
and the beginning of the stairs going down.
"Well," said Gregor, knowing perfectly that he was the only one who had retained any
composure, "I'll get dressed right away, pack up my samples, and start off. Will you, will you
be willing to let me go You see, sir, I'm not stubborn, and I like my work; traveling is a hard
life, but I couldn't live without it. Where are you going now, sir To the office Yes Will
you give an honest account of all this One can be temporarily incapacitated, but that's just
the moment for remembering former services and for bearing in mind that later on, when the
problem has been resolved, one will certainly work all the harder and with all the more
concentration. I'm so indebted to the head of the firm, you know that very well. On the other
hand, I have my parents and my sister to worry about. I'm in great difficulties, but I'll get out
of them again. Don't make things any worse for me than they already are. Stand up for me in
the firm. Salesmen are not popular there, I know. People think they earn piles of money and
just have a good time. A prejudice there's no particular reason to correct. But you, sir, have a
better view of the situation than the rest of the staff, yes, let me tell you in confidence, a
better view than the boss himself, who, being the owner, lets his judgment be easily swayed
against one of his employees. And you know very well that a traveling salesman, who is
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almost never seen in the office all year long, can so easily fall victim to gossip and bad luck
and unfair accusations he can't defend himself against because he generally knows nothing
about them and only finds out when he comes back exhausted from one of his trips and then
has to suffer the terrible consequences in some mysterious personal way. Sir, sir, don't go
away without a word to me to show that you think me in the right at least to some extent!"
But at Gregor's very first words the chief clerk had already backed away and only stared at
him with parted lips over one twitching shoulder. And while Gregor was speak-ing he did not
stand still one moment but inched toward the door, yet without taking his eyes off Gregor, as
if obeying some mysterious order not to leave the room. He was already in the hall, and to
judge from the suddenness with which he took his last step out of the living room one could
easily have thought he had burned the sole of his foot. Once in the hall he stretched his right
arm before him toward the staircase as if some supernatural power were waiting there to
deliver him.
Gregor realized that the chief clerk must on no account be allowed to go away in this frame
of mind if his position in the firm were not to be endangered to the utmost. His parents did
not understand this so well; they had convinced themselves in the course of years that Gregor
was settled for life in this firm, and, besides, they were so preoccupied with their immediate
troubles that all foresight had forsaken them. But Gregor had this foresight. The chief clerk
must be detained, soothed, persuaded, and finally won over; the whole future of Gregor and
his family depended on it! If only his sister were here! She was intelligent; she had begun to
cry even while Gregor was still lying quietly on his back. And no doubt the chief clerk, so
partial to ladies, would have been guided by her; she would have shut the door to the
apartment and in the hall talked him out of his horror. But she was not there, and Gregor
would have to handle the situation himself. And without remembering that he was still
unaware what powers of movement he possessed, without even remembering that his words
in all possibility, indeed in all likelihood, would again be unintelligible, he let go the wing of
the door, pushed himself through the opening, and started to walk toward the chief clerk, who
was already clinging ridiculously with both hands to the railing on the landing; but
immediately, as he was feeling for a support, he fell down with a little cry upon all his
numerous legs. Hardly was he down when he experienced for the first time this morning a
sense of physical well-being; his legs had firm ground under them; they were completely
obedient, as he noted with joy; they even strove to carry him along in whatever direction he
chose; and he was inclined to believe that a final relief from all his sufferings was at hand.
But at the same moment as he found himself on the floor, not far from his mother, indeed just
in front of her, rocking with pent-up eagerness to move, she, who had seemed so com-pletely
crushed, sprang all at once to her feet, her arms and fingers spread wide, cried: ―Help, for
God's sake, help!‖ bent her head down as if to see Gregor better, yet on the contrary kept
backing senselessly away; had quite forgotten that the breakfast table stood behind her; sat
down upon it abruptly and with a confused look on her face when she bumped into it; and
seemed altogether unaware that the big coffeepot beside her had been tipped over and that
coffee was gushing all over the carpet. "Mother, Mother," said Gregor in a low voice, and
looked up at her. The chief clerk had for the moment quite slipped from his mind; instead, he
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could not resist snapping his jaws together a couple of times at the sight of the streaming
coffee. That made his mother scream again; she fled from the table and fell into the arms of
his father, who rushed to catch her. But Gregor had no time now to spare for his parents; the
chief clerk was already on the stairs; with his chin on the banister he was taking one last
backward look. Gregor made a dash forward, to be as sure as possible of overtaking him; the
chief clerk must have suspected what he was up to, for he leaped down several steps at once
and vanished. ―Aieee!" he yelled; it was the last sound heard from him, and it echoed through
the whole stairwell.
Unfortunately, the flight of the chief clerk seemed completely to unhinge Gregor's father,
who had remained relatively calm until now, for instead of running after the man himself, or
at least not hindering Gregor in his pursuit, he seized in his right hand the walking stick that
the chief clerk had left behind on a chair, together with his hat and overcoat, snatched in his
left hand a large newspaper from the table, and began stamping his feet and flourishing the
cane and the newspaper to drive Gregor back into his room. No entreaty of Gregor's was of
any use, indeed no entreaty was even understood; no matter how humbly he inclined his head
his father only stamped on the floor the more forcefully. Over there his mother had thrown
open a window, despite the cold weather, and was leaning far out of it with her face in her
hands. A powerful draft set in from the street to the staircase, the window curtains blew in,
the newspapers on the table fluttered, stray pages sailed across the floor. Pitilessly Gregor's
father drove him back, making hissing sounds like a savage. But Gregor had had no practice
yet in walking backward, it really was a slow business. If only he had a chance to turn around
he could get back to his room at once, but he was afraid of exasperating his father with such a
time-consuming maneuver and at any moment the stick in his father's hand might strike him a
fatal blow on the back or the head. In the end, however nothing else was left for him to do
since to his horror he realized that in moving backward he could not even control the
direction he took; and so, keeping an anxious eye on his father all the time over his shoulder,
he began to turn around as quickly as he could, which was in reality very slowly. Perhaps his
father noticed his good intentions, for he did not interfere; instead, every now and then he
even directed the maneuver like a conductor from a distance with the point of the stick. If
only he would stop making that unbearable hissing noise! It drove Gregor out of his mind. By
the time he managed to turn almost completely around, the hissing noise so distracted him
that he even turned a little too far. But when he finally succeeded in getting his head right up
in front of the doorway, it was clear that his body was too broad to fit easily through the
opening. His father, of course, in his present mood was far from thinking of such a thing as
opening the other half of the door, to let Gregor have enough space. The only thought in his
head was that Gregor should get back into his room as quickly as possible. He would never
have allowed Gregor to make the complicated preparations needed for standing upright again
and perhaps slipping through the door that way. On the contrary, the father was now making
more noise than ever in an effort to drive Gregor forward, as if there were no obstacle in the
way at all; to Gregor, though, the noise at his rear no longer sounded like the voice of one
single father; this was really no joke, and Gregor thrust himself—come what might— into the
doorway. One side of his body rose up, he was tilted at an angle in the doorway, his flank was
scraped raw; horrid blotches stained the white door, soon he was stuck fast and, left to
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himself, could not have moved at all; his little legs on one side fluttered trembling in the air,
those on the other were crushed painfully to the floor—when from behind his father gave him
a strong push which was literally a deliver-ance and he flew far into the room, bleeding
violently. The door was slammed behind him with the stick, and then at last there was
silence.
II Not until it was twilight did Gregor awake out of a deep sleep, more like a swoon than a
sleep. He would certainly have awoken of his own accord not much later, for he felt himself
sufficiently well rested, but it seemed to him as if a fleeting step and a cautious shutting of
the door leading into the hall had aroused him. The electric lights in the street cast a pale
sheen here and there on the ceiling and the upper surfaces of the furniture, but down below,
where he lay, it was dark. Slowly, awkwardly trying out his feelers, which he now first
learned to appreciate, he pushed his way to the door to see what had been happening there.
His left side felt like one single long, unpleasantly tense scar, and he had actually to limp on
his Two rows of legs. One little leg, moreover, had been severely damaged in the course of
that morning's events—it was almost a miracle that only one had been damaged—and trailed
uselessly behind him.
He had reached the door before he discovered what had really drawn him to it: the smell of
food. For there stood a bowl filled with fresh milk in which floated little slices of white
bread. He could almost have laughed with joy, since he was now far hungrier than in the
morning, and he dipped his head almost up to his eyes in the milk. But soon in
disappointment he withdrew it again; not only did he find it difficult to eat because of his
tender left side—and he could only eat with the cooperation of his whole snorting body—he
did not like the milk either, although milk had been his favorite drink and that was certainly
why his sister had set it there for him; indeed it was almost with repulsion that he turned
away from the bowl and crawled back to the middle of the room.
He could see through the crack of the door that the gas was turned on in the living room, but
while usually at this time his father made a habit of reading the afternoon news-paper in a
loud voice to his mother and occasionally to his sister as well, not a sound was now to be
heard. Well, perhaps his father had recently given up this habit of reading aloud, which his
sister had mentioned so often in conversation and in her letters. But there was the same
silence all around, although the apartment was certainly not empty of occupants. "What a
quiet life our family leads," said Gregor to himself, and as he sat there motionless staring into
the darkness he felt great pride in the fact that he had been able to provide such a life for his
parents and sister in such a fine apartment. But what if all the quiet, the comfort, the
contentment were now to end in horror To keep himself from being lost in such thoughts
Gregor took refuge in movement and crawled back and forth in the room.
Once during the long evening one of the side doors was opened a little and quickly shut
again, later the other side door too; someone had apparently wanted to come in and then
thought better of it. Gregor now stationed himself immediately before the living room door,
determined to persuade any hesitating visitor to come in or at least to discover who it might
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e; but the door was not opened again and he waited in vain. In the early morning, when the
doors were locked, they had all wanted to come in, now that he had opened one door and the
others had apparently been opened during the day, no one came in and even the keys were on
the other side of the doors.
It was late at night before the gaslights were extinguished in the living room, and Gregor
could easily tell that his parents and his sister had all stayed awake until then, for he could
clearly hear the three of them stealing away on tiptoe. No one was likely to visit him, not
until the morning, that was certain; so he had plenty of time to meditate at his leisure on how
he was to rearrange his life. But the lofty, empty room in which he had to lie flat on the floor
filled him with an apprehension he could not account for, since it had been his very own
room for the past five years—and half-unconsciously, not without a slight feeling of shame,
he turned from the door and scuttled under the sofa, where he felt comfortable at once,
although his back was a little cramped and he could not lift his head up, and his only regret
was that his body was too broad to get all of it under the sofa.
He stayed there all night, spending the time partly in a light slumber, from which his hunger
kept waking him up with a start, and partly in worrying and sketching vague hopes, which all
led to the same conclusion, that he must lie low for the present and, by exercising patience
and the utmost consideration, help the family to bear the inconvenience he was bound to
cause them in his present condition.
Very early in the morning—it was still almost night—Gregor had the chance to test the
strength of his new resolutions, for his sister, nearly fully dressed, opened the door from the
hall and peered in apprehensively. She did not see him at once, yet when she caught sight of
him under the sofa—well, he had to be somewhere, he couldn't have flown away, could
he—she was so startled that without being able to help it she slammed the door shut again.
But as if regretting her behavior she opened the door again immediately and came in on
tiptoe, as if she were visiting an invalid or even a stranger. Gregor had pushed his head
forward to the very edge of the sofa and watched her. Would she notice that he had left the
milk standing, and not for lack of hunger, and would she bring in some other kind of food
more to his taste If she did not do it of her own accord, he would rather starve than draw her
attention to the fact, although he felt a wild impulse to dart out from under the sofa, throw
himself at her feet, and beg her for something to eat. But his sister at once noticed, with
surprise, that the bowl was still full, except for a little milk that had been spilled all around it,
she lifted it immediately, not with her bare hands, true, but with a cloth and carried it away.
Gregor was extremely curious to know what she would bring instead, and imagined all sorts
of possibilities. Yet what she actually did next, in the goodness of her heart, he could never
have guessed. To find out what he liked she brought him a whole selection of food, all set out
on an old newspaper. There were old, half decayed vegetables, bones from last night's supper
covered with a white sauce that had congealed, some raisins and almonds; a piece of cheese
that Gregor would have pronounced inedible Two days ago; a plain piece of bread, a buttered
piece, and a piece both buttered and salted. Besides all that, she set down again the same
bowl, into which she had poured some water, and which was apparently to be reserved for his
exclusive use. And with great tact, knowing that Gregor would not eat in her presence, she
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withdrew quickly and even turned the Key, to let him understand that he could make himself
as comfortable as he liked. Gregor's little legs all whirred in his rush to get to the food. His
wounds must have healed completely, moreover, for he no longer felt incapacitated, which
amazed him and made him reflect how more than a month ago he had cut one finger a little
with a knife and was still suffering from the wound only the day before yesterday. Might it be
that I am less sensitive now he thought, and sucked greedily at the cheese, which more than
any of the other delicacies attracted him at once, and strongly. One after another, and with
tears of satisfaction in his eyes, he quickly devoured the cheese, the vegetables, and the
sauce; the fresh food, on the other hand, had no charm for him, he could not even stand the
smell of it and actually dragged away to some little distance the things he wanted to eat. He
had long since finished his meal and was only lying lazily on the same spot when his sister
turned the Key slowly as a sign for him to retreat. That roused him at once, although he was
nearly asleep, and he hurried under the sofa again. But it took considerable self-control for
him to stay under the sofa, even for the short time his sister was in the room, since the large
meal had swollen his body somewhat and he was so cramped he could hardly breathe. Slight
attacks of breathlessness afflicted him and his eyes were bulging a little from their sockets as
he watched his unsuspecting sister sweeping together with a broom not only the remains of
what he had eaten but even the things he had not touched, as if these were now of no use to
anyone, and hastily shoveling it all into a bucket, which she covered with a wooden lid and
carried away. Hardly had she turned her back when Gregor came from under the sofa and
stretched and puffed himself out.
In this manner Gregor was fed, once in the early morn-ing while his parents and the maid
were still asleep, and a second time after they had all had their midday meal, for then his
parents took a short nap and the girl could be sent out on some errand or other by his sister.
Not that they would have wanted him to starve, of course, but perhaps they could not have
endured learning more about his feeding than from hearsay; perhaps too his sister wanted to
spare them such little anxieties wherever possible, since they had quite enough to bear as it
was.
Under what pretext the doctor and the locksmith had been gotten rid of on that first morning
Gregor could not discover, for since what he said was not understood by the others it never
occurred to any of them, not even his sister, that he could understand what they said, and so
whenever his sister came into his room he had to content himself with hearing her utter only a
sigh now and then and an occasional appeal to the saints. Later on, when she had gotten a
little used to the situation—of course she could never get completely used to it—Gregor
would occasionally catch a re-mark which was kindly meant or could be so interpreted.
"Well, he liked his dinner today," she would say when Gregor had gobbled down all of his
food; and when he had not eaten, which gradually happened more and more often, she would
say almost sadly: "Everything‘s been left untouched again.‖
But although Gregor could get no news directly, he overheard a lot from the neighboring
rooms, and as soon as voices were audible, he would run to the door of whichever room it
was and press his whole body against it. In the first few days especially there was no
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conversation that did not concern him somehow, even if only indirectly. For Two whole days
there were family consultations at every mealtime about what should be done; but also
between meals the same subject was discussed, for there were always at least Two members
of the family at home, since no one wanted to be alone in the apartment and to leave it
altogether empty was unthinkable. And on the very first of these days the cook—it was not
quite clear what and how much she knew of the situation—fell on her knees before his
mother and begged permission to leave, and when she departed a quarter of an hour later
gave thanks for her release with tears in her eyes as if this were the greatest blessing that
could ever be conferred on her, and without any prompting swore a solemn oath that she
would never say a single word to anyone about what had happened.
Now Gregor's sister had to do the cooking too with her mother's help; true, this did not
amount to much, for they ate scarcely anything. Gregor was always hearing one of the family
vainly urging another to eat and getting no answer but "Thanks, I've had all I want," or
something similar. Nor did they seem to be drinking anything either. Time and again his
sister kept asking his father if he wouldn't like some beer and kindly offered to go and fetch it
herself, and when he didn't answer suggested that she could ask the concierge to fetch it, so
that he need feel no sense of obligation, but then a loud ―No" came from his father and no
more was said about it.
In the course of that very first day Gregor's father explained the family's financial position
and prospects to both his mother and his sister. Now and then he rose from the table to get
some document or notebook out of the small safe he had rescued from the collapse of his
business five years earlier. One could hear him opening the complicated lock and taking
papers out and shutting it again. These explanations were the first cheerful information
Gregor had heard since his imprisonment. He had been of the opinion that nothing at all was
left over from his father's business, at least his father had never said anything to the contrary,
and of course he had not asked him directly. At that time Gregor's sole desire was to do his
utmost to help the family to forget as soon as possible the catastrophe that had overwhelmed
the business and thrown them all into a state of complete despair. And so he had set to work
with unusual ardor and almost overnight had become a traveling salesman instead of a little
clerk, with of course much greater chances of earning money, and his success was
immediately transformed into hard cash which he could lay on the table before his amazed
and happy family. These had been fine times, and they had never recurred, at least not with
the same sense of glory, although later on Gregor had earned so much money that he was able
to meet the expenses of the whole household and did so. They had simply gotten used to it,
both the family and Gregor; the money was gratefully accepted and gladly given, but there
was no special outpouring of warm feeling. With his sister alone had he remained intimate,
and it was a secret plan of his that she, who, unlike himself, loved music and could play the
violin movingly, should be sent next year to study at the Conservatory, despite the great
expense that would entail and which would have to be made up in some other way. During
his brief visits home the Conservatory was often mentioned in the talks he had with his sister,
but always merely as a beautiful dream which could never come true, and his parents
discouraged even these innocent references to it; yet Gregor had made up his mind firmly
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about it and meant to announce the fact with due solemnity on Christmas Day.
Such were the thoughts, completely futile in his present condition, that went through his head
as he stood glued upright to the door and listening. Sometimes out of sheer weariness he
could no longer pay attention and accidentally let his head fall against the door, but he always
pulled himself together again at once, for even the slight sound his head made was audible
next door and brought all conversation to a stop. ―What can he be doing now" his father
would say after a while, obviously turning toward the door, and only then would the
interrupted conversation gradually start up again. Gregor was now informed as amply as he
could wish—for his father tended to repeat himself in his explanations, partly because it was
a long time since he had dealt with such matters and partly because his mother could not
always grasp things at once—that a certain amount of money, not all that much really, had
survived the wreck of their fortunes and had even increased a little because the dividends had
not been touched meanwhile. And besides that, the money Gregor brought home every
month—he had kept only a few thalers for himself—had never been quite used up and now
amounted to a substantial sum. Behind the door Gregor nodded his head eagerly, delighted by
this evidence of unexpected thrift and foresight. True, he could really have paid off some
more of his father's debts to the head of his firm with this extra money, and thus brought
much nearer the day on which he could quit his job, but doubtless it was better the way his
father had arranged it.
Yet this capital was by no means sufficient to let the family live on the interest from it; for
one year, perhaps, or at the most Two, they could live on the principal, that was all. It was
simply a sum that ought not to be touched and should be kept for a rainy day; money for
living expenses would have to be earned. Now his father was still healthy enough but an old
man, and he had done no work for the past five years and could not be expected to exert
himself; during these five years, the first years of leisure in his laborious though unsuccessful
life, he had put on a lot of weight and become sluggish. And Gregor's old mother, how was
she to earn a living with her asthma, which troubled her even when she walked through the
apartment and kept her lying on a sofa every other day panting for breath beside an open
window And was his sister to earn her bread, she who was still a child of seventeen and
whose life hitherto had been so pleasant, consisting as it did in dressing herself nicely,
sleeping long, helping with the housework, going out to a few modest entertainments, and
above all playing the violin At first whenever the need for earning money was mentioned
Gregor let go of the door and threw himself down on the cool leather sofa beside it, he felt so
hot with shame and grief.
Often he just lay there the long nights through without sleeping at all, scrabbling for hours on
the leather. Or he worked himself up to the great effort of pushing an armchair to the
window, then crawled up over the windowsill and, braced against the chair, leaned against
the windowpanes obviously in some recollection of the sense of freedom that looking out of a
window always used to give him. For, in reality, day-by-day things that were only a little
distance away were growing dimmer to his sight; the hospital across the street, which he used
to curse for being all too often before his eyes, was now quite beyond his range of vision, and
if he had not known that he lived on Charlotte Street, a quiet street but still a city street, he
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might have believed that his window looked out on a desert waste where gray sky and gray
land blended indistinguishably into each other. His quick-witted sister only needed to observe
twice that the armchair stood by the window; after that whenever she had tidied the room she
always pushed the chair back to the same place at the window and even left the inner
casements open.
If he could have spoken to her and thanked her for all she had to do for him, he could have
endured her ministrations better; as it was, they pained him. She certainly tried to make as
light as possible of whatever was disagreeable in her task, and as time went on she succeeded,
of course, more and more, but time also allowed Gregor to see through things better too. The
very way she came in distressed him. Hardly was she in the room when she rushed straight to
the window, without even taking time to shut the door, careful as she was usually to shield
the sight of Gregor's room from the others, and as if she were about to suffocate tore the
windows open with impatient hands, standing then in the open draft for a while even in the
bitterest cold and drawing deep breaths. This rushing around and banging of hers upset
Gregor twice a day; he would crouch trembling under the sofa all the while, knowing quite
well that she would certainly have spared him such a disturbance had she found it at all
possible to stay in his presence without opening the window. On one occasion, about a month
after Gregor's meta-morphosis, when there was surely no reason for her to be still startled at
his appearance, she came a little earlier than usual and found him gazing out of the window,
quite motionless, and thus the perfect figure of terror. Gregor would not have been surprised
had she not come in at all, for she could not immediately open the window while he was
there, but not only did she retreat, she jumped back as if in alarm and slammed the door shut;
a stranger might well have thought that he had been lying in wait for her there, planning to
bite her. Of course he hid himself under the sofa at once, but he had to wait until midday
before she came again, and she seemed more ill at ease than usual. This made him realize
how repulsive the sight of him still was to her, and that it was bound to go on being repulsive,
and what an effort it must cost her not to run away even from the sight of the small portion of
his body that stuck out from under the sofa. In order to spare her that, therefore, one day he
carried a sheet on his back to the sofa—it cost him four hours' labor—and arranged it there in
such a way as to hide himself completely, so that even if she were to bend down she could
not see him. Had she considered the sheet un-necessary, she would certainly have stripped it
off the sofa again, for it was clear enough that this total confinement of himself had not been
undertaken just for his own pleasure, but she left it where it was, and Gregor even imagined
that he caught a grateful look in her eye when he lifted the sheet carefully a very little with
his head to see how she was taking the new arrangement.
For the first Two weeks his parents could not bring themselves to enter his room, and he
often heard them expressing their appreciation of his sister's activities, whereas formerly they
had frequently been annoyed with her for being as they thought a somewhat useless girl. But
now both of them often waited outside the door, his father and his mother, while his sister
tidied his room, and as soon as she came out she had to tell them exactly how things were in
the room, what Gregor had eaten, how he had conducted him-self this time, and whether there
was not perhaps some slight improvement in his condition. His mother, moreover, began
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elatively soon to want to visit him, but his father and sister dissuaded her at first with
arguments which Gregor listened to very attentively and altogether approved. Later, however,
she had to be held back by force, and when she cried out, "Let me in to see Gregor, he is my
unfortunate son! Can't you understand that I must go to him" Gregor thought that it might be
well to have her come in, not every day, of course, but perhaps once a week; she understood
things, after all, much better than his sister, who was only a child despite her courage and
when all was said and done had perhaps taken on so difficult a task merely out of childish
frivolity.
Gregor's desire to see his mother was soon fulfilled. During the daytime he did not want to
show himself at the window, out of consideration for his parents, but he could not crawl very
far around the few square yards of floor space he had, nor could he bear lying quietly at rest
all during the night; in addition he was fast losing any interest he had ever taken in food, so
for mere recreation he had formed the habit of crawling crisscross over the walls and ceiling.
He especially enjoyed hanging suspended from the ceiling; it was altogether different from
lying on the floor; one could breathe more freely; one's body swung and rocked lightly; and
in the almost blissful absorption induced by this suspension it could happen, to his own
surprise, that he let go and fell plop onto the floor. Yet he now had his body much better
under control than formerly and even such a big fall did him no harm. His sister noticed at
once the new distraction Gregor had found for himself—he left behind traces of the sticky
stuff from his pads wherever he crawled—and she got the idea in her head of giving him as
wide a field as possible to crawl around in and of removing the pieces of furniture that
hindered him, above all the chest of drawers and the writing desk. But that was more than she
could manage all by herself; she did not dare ask her father to help her; and as for the maid, a
girl of sixteen who had had the courage to stay on after the cook's departure, she could not be
asked to help, for she had begged as a special favor that she might keep the kitchen door
locked and open it only on a definite summons; so there was nothing left but to turn to her
mother one day when her father was out. And the mother did come, with exclamations of
excitement and joy, which, however, died away at the door of Gregor's room. Gregor's sister,
of course, went in first to see that everything was in order before letting his mother enter. In
great haste Gregor had pulled the sheet lower than usual and arranged it more in folds so that
it really looked as if it had been thrown casually over the sofa. And this time he did not peer
out from under it; he denied himself the pleasure of seeing his mother on this first occasion
and was only glad that she had come at all. "Come in, he's out of sight," said his sister,
obviously leading her mother in by the hand. Gregor could now hear the Two frail women
struggling to shift the heavy old chest from its place, and his sister insisting on doing the
greater part of the work herself without listening to the admonitions of her mother, who
feared she might overstrain herself. It took a long time. After at least a quarter of an hour's
tugging his mother said that the chest had better be left right where they had found it, for in
the first place it was too heavy and could never be removed before his father came home, and
with the chest halfway in the middle of the room like this it would only hamper Gregor‘s
movements, while in the second place it was not at all certain that remove-ing the furniture
would be doing Gregor a favor. She was inclined to think the contrary; the sight of the naked
wall made her own heart heavy, and why shouldn't Gregor have the same feeling, considering
that he had been used to his furniture for so long and might feel forlorn without it. "And
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doesn't it look," his mother concluded in a low voice—in fact she had been almost whispering
all the time as if to avoid letting Gregor, whose exact whereabouts she did not know, hear
even the sounds of her voice, for she was convinced that he could not understand her
words—"doesn't it look as if we were showing him, by taking away his furniture, that we
have given up hope of his ever getting better and are just thoughtlessly leaving him to
himself I think it would be best to keep his room exactly as it has always been, so that when
he comes back to us he will find everything unchanged and be able to forget all the more
easily what has happened in the meantime."
On hearing these words from his mother Gregor realized that the lack of all direct human
communication for the past Two months together with the monotony of family life must have
confused his mind, otherwise he could not account for the fact that he had seriously looked
forward to having his room emptied of its furnishings. Did he really want his cozy room, so
comfortably fitted with old family furniture, to be turned into a cave in which he would
certainly be able to crawl unhampered in all directions but at the price of shedding instantly
and totally all recollection of his human past He had indeed been close to the brink of
forgetfulness and only the voice of his mother, which he had not heard for so long, had drawn
him back from it. Nothing should be taken out of his room; everything must stay as it was; he
could not dispense with the beneficial effects of the furniture on his state of mind; and even if
the furniture did hamper him in his senseless crawling around and around, that was no
drawback but a great advantage.
Unfortunately his sister was of the contrary opinion; she had grown accustomed, and not
without reason, to consider herself an expert in Gregor's affairs as against her parents, and so
her mother's advice was now enough to make her determined on the removal not only of the
chest and the desk, which had been her first intention, but of all the furniture except the
indispensable sofa. This determination was not, of course, merely the outcome of childish
recalcitrance and of the self-confidence she had recently developed so unexpectedly and at
such cost; she had in fact perceived that Gregor needed a lot of space to crawl around in,
while on the other hand he never used the furniture at all, so far as could be seen. Another
factor might also have been the enthusiastic temperament of girls her age, which seeks to
indulge itself at every opportunity and which now tempted Grete to exaggerate the horror of
her brother's circumstances in order that she might do all the more for him. In a room where
Gregor lorded it all alone over empty walls no one except herself was likely ever to set foot.
And so she was not to be moved from her resolve by her mother, who seemed, moreover, to
be ill at ease in Gregor's room and therefore unsure of herself, was soon reduced to silence
and helped her daughter as best she could to push the chest outside. Now, Gregor could do
without the chest if need be, but the desk had to stay. As soon as the Two women had gotten
the chest out of his room, groaning as they pushed it, Gregor stuck his head out from under
the sofa to see how he might intervene as considerately and cautiously as possible. But as bad
luck would have it, his mother was the first to return, leaving Grete grappling with the chest
in the room next door where she was trying to shift it all by herself, without of course moving
it from the spot. His mother however was not accustomed to the sight of him, it might sicken
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her, and so in alarm Gregor backed quickly to the other end of the sofa, yet could not prevent
the sheet from swaying a little in front. That was enough to put her on the alert. She paused,
stood still for a moment, and then went back to Grete.
Although Gregor kept reassuring himself that nothing out of the ordinary was happening, that
only a few bits of furniture were being rearranged, he soon had to admit that all this trotting
to and fro of the Two women, their little shouts to each other, and the scraping of furniture
along the floor had the effect on him of some vast disturbance coming from all sides at once,
and however much he tucked in his head and legs and pressed his body to the floor, he had to
confess that he would not be able to stand it much longer. They were clearing his room out,
taking away everything he loved; the chest in which he kept his jigsaw and other tools was
already dragged off; they were now loosening the desk which had almost sunk into the floor,
the desk at which he had done all his homework when he was at the commercial academy, at
the secondary school before that, and, yes, even at the primary school—he had no more time
to waste in weighing the good intentions of the Two women, whose existence he had by now
almost forgotten, for they were so exhausted that they were laboring in silence and nothing
could be heard but the heavy scuffling of their feet.
And so he broke out—the women were just leaning against the desk in the next room to give
themselves a breather—and four times changed his direction, since he really did not know
what to rescue first, then on the wall opposite, which was already all but empty, he was struck
by the picture of the lady muffled in so much fur and quickly crawled up to it and pressed
himself to the glass, which was a good surface to adhere to and soothed his hot belly. This
picture at least, now entirely hidden beneath him, was going to be removed by nobody. He
turned his head toward the door of the living room so as to observe the women when they
came back.
They had not allowed themselves much of a rest and were already returning; Grete had
twined her arm around her mother and was almost supporting her. ―Well, what shall we take
now‖ said Grete, looking around. Her eyes met Gregor's from the wall. She kept her
composure, presumably because of her mother, bent her head down to her mother, to keep her
from looking up, and said, although in a trembling and unconvincing tone of voice: "Come,
hadn't we better go back to the living room for a moment" Her intentions were clear enough
to Gregor, she wanted to get her mother to safety and then drive him down from the wall.
Well, just let her try it! He clung to his picture and would not give it up. He would rather fly
in Grete's face.
But Grete's words had succeeded in upsetting her mother, who took a step to one side, caught
sight of the huge brown mass on the flowered wallpaper, and before she was really aware that
what she saw was Gregor, screamed in a loud, hoarse voice, "Oh God, oh God!" fell with
outspread arms over the sofa as if giving up, and did not move. "Gregor!" cried his sister,
shaking her fist and glaring at him. This was the first time she had directly addressed him
since his metamorphosis. She ran into the next room for some smelling salts with which to
rouse her mother from her fainting fit. Gregor wanted to help too—there was time to rescue
the picture later—but he was stuck fast to the glass and had to tear himself loose; he then ran
after his sister into the next room as if he could still advise her the way he used to; but all he
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could do was stand helplessly behind her; she meanwhile searched among various small
bottles and when she turned around started in alarm at the sight of him; one bottle fell on the
floor and broke; a splinter of glass cut Gregor's face and some kind of corrosive medicine
splashed him; without pausing a moment longer Grete gathered up all the bottles she could
carry and ran to her mother with them; she banged the door shut with her foot. Gregor was
now cut off from his mother, who was perhaps about to die because of him; he dared not
open the door for fear of frightening away his sister, who had to stay with her mother; there
was nothing he could do but wait; and tormented by self-reproach and worry he began now to
crawl to and fro, over everything, walls, furniture, and ceiling, and finally in his despair,
when the whole room seemed to be reeling around him, fell down onto the middle of the big
table.
A little while elapsed, Gregor was still lying there feebly and all around him was quiet;
perhaps that was a good omen. Then the doorbell rang. The maid was of course locked in her
kitchen, and Grete had to go and open the door. It was his father. ―What's happened" were
his first words; the look on Grete's face must have told him everything. Grete answered in a
muffled voice, apparently hiding her head on his chest: "Mother fainted, but she's better now.
Gregor's broken loose." ―Just what I expected,‖ said his father, ―just what I've been telling
you would happen, but you women would never listen." It was clear to Gregor that his father
had taken the worst interpretation of Grete's all too brief statement and was assuming that
Gregor had been guilty of some violent act. Therefore Gregor must now try to calm his father
down, since he had neither time nor means for an explanation. And so he ran to the door of
his own room and crouched against it, to let his father see as soon as he came in from the hall
that his son had the good intention of getting back into his room immediately and that it was
not necessary to drive him there, but that if only the door were opened for him he would
disappear at once. Yet his father was not in the mood to perceive such find distinctions.
―Aha!‖ he cried as soon as he appeared, in a tone that sounded at once angry and exultant.
Gregor drew his head back from the door and lifted it to look at his father. Truly, this was not
the father he had imagined to himself; admittedly he had been too absorbed of late in his new
recreation of crawling over the ceiling to take the same interest as before in what was
happening elsewhere in the apartment, and he really should have been prepared for some
changes. And yet, and yet, could that be his father The man who used to lie wearily sunk in
bed whenever Gregor set out on a business trip; who on the evenings of his return welcomed
him back lying in an easy chair in his bathrobe; who could not really rise to his feet but only
lifted his arms in greeting, and who on the rare occasions when he did go out with his family,
on one or Two Sundays a year and on the most important holidays, walked between Gregor
and his mother, who were slow walkers themselves, even more slowly than they did, muffled
in his old overcoat, shuffling laboriously forward with the help of his crook-handled cane,
which he set down most cautiously at every step and, whenever he wanted to say anything,
nearly always came to a full stop and gathered his escort around him Now he was standing
there straight as a stick, dressed in a smart blue uniform with gold buttons, such as bank
attendants wear; his strong double chin bulged over the stiff high collar of his jacket; from
under his bushy eyebrows his black eyes darted fresh and penetrating glances; his formerly
tangled white hair had been combed flat on either side of a shining and carefully exact
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parting. He pitched his cap, which bore a gold monogram, probably the badge of some bank,
in a wide arc across the whole room onto a sofa and with the tail-ends of his jacket thrown
back, his hands in his trouser pockets, advanced with a grim visage toward Gregor. Likely
enough he did not himself know what he meant to do; at any rate, he lifted his feet unusually
high off the floor, and Gregor was dumbfounded at the enormous size of his shoe soles. But
Gregor could not risk standing up to him, aware, as he had been from the very first day of his
new life, that his father believed only the severest measures suitable for dealing with him.
And so he ran before his father, stopping when he stopped and scuttling forward again when
his father made any kind of move. In this way they circled the room several times without
anything decisive happening, indeed the whole operation did not even look like a pursuit
because it was carried out so slowly. And so Gregor confined himself to the floor, for he
feared that his father might interpret any recourse to the walls or the ceiling as especially
wicked behavior. All the same, he could not keep this race up much longer, for while his
father took a single step he had to carry out a whole series of movements. He was already
beginning to feel breathless, just as in his former life his lungs had not been very dependable.
As he was staggering along, trying to concentrate his energy on running, hardly keeping his
eyes open, in his dazed state never even thinking of any other escape than simply going
forward, and having almost for-gotten that the walls were free to him, which in this room, to
be sure, were obstructed by finely carved pieces of furniture full of sharp points and jagged
edges—suddenly some-thing lightly flung landed close beside him and rolled in front of him.
It was an apple; a second apple followed immediately; Gregor came to a stop in alarm; there
was no point in running away now, for his father was determined to bombard him. He had
filled his pockets with fruit from the dish on the sideboard and was now throwing apple after
apple, without taking particularly good aim for the moment. The small red apples rolled about
the floor as if magnetized and bumped into each other. An apple thrown without much force
grazed Gregor's back and glanced off harmlessly. But another, following immediately, landed
right on his back and got stuck in it; Gregor wanted to drag himself forward, as if this
startling, incredible pain would disappear if he moved to a different spot; but he felt as if he
were nailed to the floor, and stretched himself out in the complete derangement of all his
senses. With his last conscious look he saw the door of his room being torn open and his
mother rushing out ahead of his screaming sister, in her under bodice, for her daughter had
loosened her clothing to let her breathe more freely and recover from her swoon; he saw his
mother rushing toward his father, leaving her loosened petticoats, one after another, behind
her on the floor, stumbling over them straight to his father and embracing him, in complete
union with him—but by now Gregor‘s sight was already failing—with her hands clasped
around his father's neck as she begged for Gregor's life.
III The serious injury done to Gregor, which disabled him for more than a month—the apple
remained stuck in his body as a visible reminder, since no one dared to remove it—seemed to
have made even his father recollect that Gregor was a member of the family, despite his
present unfortunate and repulsive shape, and ought not to be treated as an enemy, that, on the
contrary family duty required them to swallow their disgust and to practice patience, nothing
but patience.
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And although his injury had impaired, probably forever, his powers of movement, and for the
time being it took him long, long minutes to creep across his room like an old invalid—there
was no question now of crawling up the wall—yet in his own opinion he was sufficiently
compensated for this worsening of his condition by the fact that toward evening the livingroom
door, which he used to watch intently for an hour or Two beforehand, was now always
opened, so that lying in the darkness of his room, invisible to the family, he was permitted to
see them all at the lamp-lit table and listen to their talk by general consent, as it were, very
different from his earlier eavesdropping.
True, their conversation lacked the lively character of former times, which he had always
called to mind with a certain wistfulness in the small hotel bedrooms where he so often used
to throw himself down, tired out, on the damp bedding. They were now mostly very silent.
Soon after supper his father would fall asleep in his armchair; his mother and sister would
admonish each other to be silent; his mother, bending low under the lamp, would sew delicate
undergarments for a fashionable shop; his sister, who had taken a job as a salesgirl, was
learning shorthand and French in the evenings in the hopes of getting a better position some
day. Sometimes his father woke up, and as if quite unaware that he had been sleeping said to
his mother: "What a lot of sewing you're doing today!" and at once fell asleep again, while
the Two women exchanged a tired smile.
With a kind of mulishness his father persisted in keeping his uniform on even in the house;
his robe hung uselessly on its peg and he slept fully dressed where he sat, as if he were ready
for service at any moment and even here only awaiting the call of his superior. As a result, his
uniform, which was not brand-new to start with, began to look dirty, despite all the loving
care of the mother and sister to keep it clean, and Gregor often spent whole evenings gazing
at the many greasy spots on the garment, gleaming with gold buttons always in a high state of
polish, in which the old man sat sleeping in extreme discomfort and yet quite peacefully.
As soon as the clock struck ten his mother tried to rouse his father with gentle words and to
persuade him after that to get into bed, for sitting there he could not have a proper sleep and
that was what he needed most, since he had to go on duty at six. But with the mulishness he
displayed since becoming a bank attendant he always insisted on staying longer at the table,
although he regularly fell asleep again and finally only with the greatest trouble could be
persuaded to relinquish his armchair and go to bed. However insistently Gregor's mother and
sister kept urging him with gentle reminders, he would go on slowly shaking his head for a
quarter of an hour, keeping his eyes shut, and refuse to get to his feet. The mother plucked at
his sleeve, whispering endearments in his ear, the sister left her lessons to come to her
mother's help, but it all made little impression on Gregor's father. He would only sink down
deeper in his chair. Not until the Two women hoisted him up by the armpits did he open his
eyes and look at them both, one after the other, usually with the remark, "What a life. So this
is the peace and quiet of my old age." And leaning on the Two of them he would heave
himself up, with difficulty, as if he were his own greatest burden, permit them to lead him as
far as the door, and then wave them away and go on alone, while the mother threw down her
needlework and the sister her pen in order to run after him and be of further assistance.
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Who could find time in this overworked and tired-out family to bother about Gregor more
than was absolutely necessary The household was reduced more and more; the maid was
now let go; a gigantic bony cleaning woman with white hair flying around her head came in
mornings and evenings to do the rough work; Gregor's mother did all the rest, as well as all
her sewing. Even various pieces of family jewelry, which his mother and sister had loved to
wear at parties and celebrations, had to be sold, as Gregor discovered one evening from
hearing them discuss the prices obtained. But what they lamented most was the fact that they
could not leave the apartment, which was much too big for their present circumstances,
because they could not think of any way to transfer Gregor. Yet Gregor saw well enough that
consideration for him was not the main difficulty preventing the move, for they could easily
have carried him in some suitable box with a few air holes in it; what really kept them from
moving into another apartment was rather their own complete hopelessness and the belief that
they had been singled out for a misfortune such as had never happened to any of their
relations or acquaintances. They fulfilled to the utmost all that the world demands of poor
people: the father fetched breakfast for the minor clerks in the bank, the mother devoted her
energy to making underwear for strangers, the sister trotted back and forth behind the counter
at the demand of her customers, but more than this they had not the strength to do. And the
wound in Gregor's back began to hurt him afresh when his mother and sister, after getting his
father into bed, came back again, left their work lying, drew close to each other, and sat
cheek by cheek—when his mother, pointing toward his room, said, ―Shut that door now,
Grete," and he was left again in darkness, while next door the women mingled their tears or
perhaps sat dry-eyed, staring at the table.
Gregor hardly slept at all now, night or day. He was often haunted by the idea that the next
time the door opened he would take the family's affairs in hand again just as he used to do;
once again after this long interval, there appeared in his thoughts the figures of the boss and
the chief clerk, the salesmen and the apprentices, the messenger boy who was so dull-witted,
Twoor three friends in other firms, a chambermaid in one of the rural hotels, a sweet and
fleeting memory, a cashier in a milliner's shop, whom he had courted earnestly but too
slowly—they all appeared, together with strangers or people he had quite forgotten, but
instead of helping him and his family they were all inaccessible and he was glad when they
vanished. At other times he would not be in the mood to bother about his family, he was only
filled with rage at the way they were neglecting him, and although he could not imagine what
he might like to eat he would make plans for getting into the pantry to take the food that, after
all, was due him, hungry or not. His sister no longer gave a second thought now to what
might especially please him, but in the morning and at noon before she went to work
hurriedly pushed into his room with her foot any food that was available, and in the evening
cleared it out again with one sweep of the broom, heedless of whether it had been nibbled at,
or—as most frequently happened—left completely untouched. The cleaning of his room,
which she now always did in the evenings, could not have been done more hastily. Streaks of
dirt were smeared along the walls, here and there lay balls of dust and filth. At first Gregor
used to station himself in some particularly filthy corner when his sister arrived in order to
reproach her with it, so to speak. But he could have sat there for weeks without getting her to
make any improvement; she could see the dirt as well as he did, but she had simply made up
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her mind to leave it alone. And yet, with a touchiness that was new to her, and which seemed,
moreover, to have infected the whole family, she jealously guarded her claim to be the sole
caretaker of Gregor's room. His mother once subjected his room to a thorough cleaning,
which was achieved only by means of several buckets of water—all this dampness of course
upset Gregor too and he lay stretched out, sulky and motionless on the sofa—but she was
well punished for it. Hardly had his sister noticed the changed aspect of his room that eveevening
than she rushed mortally offended into the living room and, despite the imploringly
raised hands of her mother, burst into a storm of weeping, while her parents—her father had
of course been startled out of his chair—looked on at first in helpless amazement; then they
too began to go into action; the father reproached the mother on his right for not having left
the cleaning of Gregor's room to his sister; shrieked at the sister on his left that never again
would she be allowed to clean Gregor's room; while the mother tried to drag the father into
his bedroom since he was beside himself with agitation; the sister, shaken with sobs, then
beat upon the table with her small fists; and Gregor hissed loudly with rage because not one
of them thought of shutting the door to spare him such a spectacle and so much noise.
Still, even if the sister, exhausted by her daily work, had grown tired of looking after Gregor
as she formerly did, there was no need at all for his mother's intervention or for Gregor's
being neglected. The cleaning woman was there. This old widow, whose strong and bony
frame had enabled her to survive the worst a long life could offer, had no particular aversion
to Gregor. Without being in the least inquisitive she had once by chance opened the door to
his room and at the sight of Gregor, who, taken by surprise, began to rush to and fro although
no one was chasing him, merely stood there in amazement with her arms folded. From that
time on she never failed to open his door a little for a moment, morning and evening, to have
a look at him. At first she even used to call him to her, with words which apparently she
meant to be friendly, such as: "Come on over here, you old dung beetle!‖ or ―Will you look at
that old dung beetle!" To such forms of address Gregor made no answer, but stayed
motionless where he was, as if the door had never been opened. Instead of being allowed to
disturb him so senselessly whenever the whim took her, that servant should have been
ordered instead to clean out his room daily. Once, early in the morning—heavy rain was
lashing at the windowpanes, perhaps a sign that spring was on its way—Gregor was so
exasperated when she began addressing him again that he turned and went toward her as if to
attack her, although slowly and feebly enough. But the cleaning woman, instead of being
afraid, merely picked up a chair that happened to be beside the door, held it high, and as she
stood there with her mouth wide open it was clear that she meant to shut it only after she
brought the chair down on Gregor's back. ―Not coming any closer, then" she asked, as
Gregor turned away again, and quietly put the chair back into the corner.
Gregor was now eating hardly anything. Only when he happened to pass the food laid out for
him did he take a bit of something in his mouth as a kind of game, kept it there for hours at a
time, and usually spat it out again. At first he thought it was chagrin over the state of his
room that prevented him from eating, yet in fact he very quickly got used to the various
changes in his room. It had become a habit in the family to put things into his room for which
there was no space elsewhere, and there were plenty of these things now, since one of the
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ooms had been rented to three boarders. These serious gentlemen—all three of them with
full beards, as Gregor once observed through a crack in the door—had a passion for order,
not only in their own room but, since they were now members of the household, in all its
arrangements, especially in the kitchen. They could not endure useless, let alone dirty, clutter.
Besides, they had brought with them most of the furnishings they needed. For this reason
many things could be dispensed with that it was no use trying to sell but that should not be
thrown away either. All of them found their way into Gregor's room. The ash can likewise
and the kitchen garbage can. Anything that was not needed for the moment was simply flung
into Gregor's room by the cleaning woman, who did everything in a hurry; fortunately Gregor
usually saw only the object, whatever it was, and the hand that held it. Perhaps she intended
to take the things away again as time and opportunity offered, or to collect them until she
could throw them all out in a heap, but in fact they just lay wherever she happened to throw
them, except when Gregor pushed his way through the junk heap and arranged it somewhat,
at first out of necessity because he had no room to crawl around in, but later with increasing
enjoyment, although after such excursions, being sad and weary to death, he would lie
motionless for hours.
Since the boarders often ate their supper at home in the common living room, the living-room
door stayed shut many an evening, yet Gregor reconciled himself quite easily to the shutting
of the door, for often enough on evenings when it was opened he had disregarded it entirely
and lain in the darkest corner of his room, quite unnoticed by the family. On one occasion the
cleaning woman had left the door open a little and it stayed ajar even when the lodgers came
in for supper and the lamp was lit. They sat down at the upper end of the table where
formerly Gregor and his father and mother had eaten their meals, unfolded their napkins and
took knife and fork in hand. At once his mother appeared in the doorway with a platter of
meat and close behind her his sister with a bowl of potatoes piled high. The food steamed
with a thick vapor. The boarders bent over the food set before them as if to scrutinize it
before eating; in fact, the man in the middle, who seemed to pass for an authority with the
other Two, cut a piece of meat as it lay on the platter, obviously to determine if it was tender
enough or should be sent back to the kitchen. He was satisfied, and Gregor‘s mother and
sister, who had been watching anxiously, breathed a sigh of relief and began to smile.
The family itself took its meals in the kitchen. Nonetheless, Gregor's father came into the
living room before going to the kitchen and with one prolonged bow, cap in hand, made a
round of the table. The boarders all stood up and muttered something in their beards. When
they were alone again they ate their food in almost complete silence. It seemed remarkable to
Gregor that among the various noises coming from the table he could always distinguish the
sound of their chewing teeth, as if this were a sign to Gregor that one needed teeth in order to
eat, and that even with the finest of toothless jaws one could do nothing. ―I'm certainly
hungry," said Gregor sadly to himself, "but not for that kind of food. How these boarders are
stuffing themselves, and here am I dying of starvation!"
On that very evening—during all this time Gregor could not remember ever having heard the
violin—the sound of violin playing came from the kitchen. The boarders had already finished
their supper, the one in the middle had brought out a newspaper and given the other Two
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page apiece, and now they were leaning back at ease reading and smoking. When the violin
began to play they pricked up their ears, got to their feet, and went on tiptoe to the hall door
where they stood huddled together. Their movements must have been heard in the kitchen,
for Gregor‘s father called out: "Is the violin playing disturbing you, gentlemen It can be
stopped at once." "On the contrary," said the middle boarder, "wouldn't the young lady like to
join us here and play where it is much more pleasant and comfortable" "Oh certainly," cried
Gregor's father, as if he were the violin player. The boarders returned to the living room and
waited. Soon Gregor's father arrived with the music stand, his mother carrying the music and
his sister with the violin. His sister calmly made everything ready to start playing; his parents,
who had never let rooms before and so had an exaggerated idea of the courtesy due to
boarders, did not venture to sit down on their own chairs; his father leaned against the door,
his right hand thrust between Two buttons of his uniform jacket, which was formally
buttoned up; but his mother was offered a chair by one of the boarders and, since she left the
chair just where he had happened to put it, sat down in a corner off to one side.
Gregor's sister began to play; the father and mother, from either side, intently watched the
movements of her hands. Gregor, attracted by the playing, ventured to move forward a little
until his head was actually inside the living room. He felt hardly any surprise at his growing
lack of consideration for the others; there had been a time when he prided himself on being
considerate. Yet on this occasion he had more reason than ever to hide himself, since owing
to the amount of dust that lay thick in his room and rose into the air at the slightest
movement, he too was covered with dust; fluff and hair and remnants of food trailed with
him, caught on his back and along his sides; his indifference to everything was much too
great for him to turn on his back and scrape himself clean on the carpet, as once he had done
several times a day. And in spite of his condition, no shame deterred him from advancing a
little over the spotless floor of the living room.
To be sure, no one paid any attention to him. The family was entirely absorbed in the violin
playing; the boarders however, who at first had stationed themselves, hands in pockets, much
too close behind the music stand so that they could all have read the music, something which
must have bothered his sister, had soon retreated to the window, half whispering with bowed
heads, and stayed there while his father turned an anxious eye on them. Indeed, they were
making it more than obvious that they had been disappointed in their expectation of hearing
good or even entertaining violin playing, that they had had more than enough of the
performance, and that they were putting up with this disturbance of their peace only out of
courtesy. From the way they all kept blowing the smoke of their cigars high in the air through
nose and mouth one could divine their irritation. And yet Gregor‘s sister was playing so
beautifully. Her face tilted to one side, intently and sadly her eyes followed the notes of
music. Gregor crawled a little farther forward and lowered his head to the ground so that it
might be possible for his eyes to meet hers. Was he an animal, since music so moved him
He felt as if the way were opening before him to the unknown nourishment he craved. He
was determined to push forward until he reached his sister, to pull at her skirt and so let her
know that she should come into his room with her violin, for no one here appreciated her
playing as he would appreciate it. He would never let her out of his room, at least not so long
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as he lived; his frightful appearance would become, for the first time, useful to him; he would
watch over all the doors of his room at once and hiss like a dragon at any intruders; but his
sister would not be forced to stay, she would stay with him of her own free will; she would sit
beside him on the sofa, bend down her ear to him, and hear him confide that he had had the
firm intention of sending her to the Conservatory and that, but for his mishap last
Christmas—surely Christmas was long past—he would have announced it to everybody
without allowing a single objection. After this declaration his sister would be so touched that
she would burst into tears, and Gregor would then raise himself to her shoulder and kiss her
on the neck, which, now that she was a young working woman, she kept free of any ribbon or
collar.
―Mr. Samsa!" cried the middle boarder to Gregor's father, and pointed, without wasting any
more words, at Gregor, now working himself slowly forward. The violin fell silent, the
middle boarder first smiled to his friends with a shake of the head and then looked at Gregor
again. Instead of driving Gregor out, his father seemed to think it more important to begin by
soothing down the boarders, although they were not at all agitated and apparently found
Gregor more entertaining than the violin playing. He hurried toward them and, spreading out
his arms, tried to urge them back into their own room and at the same time to block their view
of Gregor. They now began to be really a little angry, one could not tell whether because of
the old man's behavior or because it had just dawned on them that without knowing it they
had such a neighbor as Gregor in the next room. They demanded explanations of his father,
they waved their arms like him, tugged uneasily at their beards, and only with reluctance
backed toward their room. Meanwhile Gregor's sister, who stood there as if lost when her
playing was so abruptly broken off, came to life again, pulled herself together all at once after
standing for a while holding violin and bow in her slack and drooping hands and staring at
her music, pushed her violin into the lap of her mother, who was still sitting in her chair
fighting asthmatically for breath, and ran into the boarders' room, to which they were now
being shepherded by her father rather more quickly than before. One could see the pillows
and blankets on the beds flying about under her practiced fingers and being laid in order.
Even before the boarders had actually reached their room she had finished making the beds
and slipped out.
The father seemed once more to be so possessed by his mulish self-assertiveness that he was
forgetting all the respect he owed his boarders. He kept driving them on and driving them on
until, at the very door of the bedroom, the middle boarder stamped his foot loudly on the
floor and so brought him to a halt. ―I herewith declare," said the boarder, lifting one hand and
looking also at Gregor's mother and sister, "that because of the disgusting conditions
prevailing in this household and family‖—here he spat on the floor with emphatic brevity—
―I give you notice on the spot. Naturally I won't pay you a penny for the days I have lived
here, on the contrary I shall consider suing you for damages, based on claims—believe me—
that will be easily substantiated." He ceased and stared straight ahead, as if he were expecting
something. In fact, his Two friends at once rushed into the breach with these words: ―And we
too give notice on the spot." At that he seized the door handle and shut the door with a slam.
Gregor's father, groping with his hands, staggered forward and fell into his chair; it looked as
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if he were stretching himself out there for his usual evening nap, but the powerful and
uncontrolled jerking of his head showed that he was far from asleep. Gregor had simply
stayed quietly all the time on the spot where the boarders had caught sight of him.
Disappointment at the failure of his plan, perhaps also the weakness arising from extreme
hunger, made it impossible for him to move. He feared, with a fair degree of certainty, that at
any moment the general tension would discharge itself in a combined attack upon him, and he
lay there waiting. He did not react even to the noise made by the violin as it fell off his
mother's lap from under her trembling fingers and gave out a resonant sound.
"My dear parents,‖ said his sister, slapping her hand on the table by way of introduction
"things can't go on like this. Perhaps you don't realize that, but I do. I won't utter my brother's
name in the presence of this creature, and so all I say is: we must try to get rid of it. We've
tried to look after it and to put up with it as far as is humanly possible, and I don't think
anyone could reproach us in the slightest."
"She is absolutely right,‖ said Gregor's father to himself. His mother, who was still choking
for lack of breath, began to cough hollowly into her hand with a wild look in her eyes.
His sister rushed over to her and held her forehead. His father's thoughts seemed to have lost
their vagueness at Grete's words, he sat more upright, fingering his service cap, which lay
among the plates still on the table from the boarders' supper, and from time to time looked at
the motionless form of Gregor.
"We must try to get rid of it," his sister now said explicitly to her father, since her mother was
coughing too much to hear a word, "it will be the death of both of you, I can see that coming.
When one has to work as hard as we do, all of us, one can't stand this continual torment at
home on top of it. At least I can't stand it any longer." And she burst into such a fit of sobbing
that her tears dropped onto her mother's face, from which she wiped them with mechanical
flicks of her hand.
"My child," said the old man sympathetically and with evident understanding, "but what
should we do‖
Gregor's sister merely shrugged her shoulders to indicate the feeling of helplessness that, in
contrast to her former confidence, had overtaken her during her weeping fit.
"If only he could understand us,‖ said her father, half questioningly; Grete, still sobbing,
vehemently waved a hand to show how unthinkable that was.
"If he could understand us," repeated the old man, shutting his eyes to consider his daughter's
conviction that un-distending was impossible, "then perhaps we might come to some
agreement with him. But as it is . . ―He must go," cried Gregor's sister, "that's the only
solution, Father. You must just try to get rid of the idea that this is Gregor. The fact that
we've believed it for so long is the root of all our misfortune. But how can it be Gregor If
this were Gregor, he would have realized long ago that human beings can't live with such a
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creature, and he'd have gone away of his own accord. We wouldn't have any brother then, but
we'd be able to go on living and keep his memory in honor. As it is, this creature persecutes
us, drives away our boarders, obviously wants the whole apartment to himself, and would
have us all sleep in the gutter. Look, Father," she suddenly shrieked, ―he's at it again!" And in
a state of panic that was quite incomprehensible to Gregor she even left her mother's side,
literally thrusting the chair from her as if she would rather sacrifice her mother than be
anywhere near Gregor, and rushed behind her father, who also stood up, upset by her
behavior, and half spread his arms out as if to protect her.
Yet Gregor hadn't the slightest intention of frightening anyone, least of all his sister. He had
only begun to turn around in order to crawl back to his room, but it was certainly a startling
operation to see, since because of his disabled condition he could not execute the difficult
turning movements except by lifting his head and then bracing it against the floor over and
over again. He paused and looked around. His good intentions seemed to have been
recognized; the alarm had only been momentary. Now they were all watching him in
melancholy silence. His mother lay in her chair, her legs stiffly outstretched and pressed
together, her eyes almost closing from sheer exhaustion; his father and his sister were sitting
beside each other, his sister's arm around the father's neck.
Now perhaps they'll let me go on turning around, thought Gregor, and began his labors again.
He could not stop himself from panting with the effort, and had to pause now and then to take
a breath. Nor was anyone rushing him, he was left entirely to himself. When he had
completed the turn, he began at once to crawl straight back. He was amazed at the distance
separating him from his room and could not understand how in his weak state he had
managed to accomplish the same journey so recently, almost without noticing it. Intent on
crawling as fast as possible he hardly realized that not a single word, not one exclamation
from his family, interfered with his progress. Only when he was already in the doorway did
he turn his head around, not completely, for his neck muscles were getting stiff, but enough
to see that nothing had changed behind him except that his sister had risen to her feet. His last
glance fell on his mother, who was now sound asleep.
Hardly was he inside his room when the door was hast-ily pushed shut, bolted, and locked.
The sudden noise be-hind him startled him so much that his little legs collapsed beneath him.
It was his sister who had shown such haste. She had been standing ready, waiting, and had
made a light spring forward, Gregor had not even heard her coming, and she cried "At last!"
to her parents as she turned the Key in the lock.
"And now" Gregor asked himself, looking around in the darkness. Soon he made the
discovery that he was now completely unable to move. This did not surprise him, rather it
seemed unnatural that he should ever actually have been able to move at all on these feeble
little legs. Otherwise he felt relatively comfortable. True, his whole body was aching, but it
seemed that the pain was gradually growing less and would finally pass away. The rotting
apple in his back and the inflamed area around it, all covered with soft dust, already hardly
troubled him. He thought of his family with tenderness and love. The conviction that he must
disappear was one that he held even more strongly than his sister, if that were possible. In this
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state of empty and peaceful meditation he remained until the tower clock struck three in the
morning. The first broadening of light in the world outside the window just entered his
consciousness. Then his head sank to the floor of its own accord and from his nostrils came
the last faint flicker of his breath.
When the cleaning woman arrived early in the morning out of sheer strength and impatience
she slammed all the doors so loudly, regardless of how often she had been begged not to do
so, that no one in the whole apartment could enjoy any quiet sleep after her arrival—she
noticed nothing unusual as she took her customary peek into Gregor‘s room. She thought he
was lying motionless on pur-pose, pretending to be in a sulk; she credited him with every
kind of intelligence. Since she happened to have the long-handled broom in her hand she tried
to tickle him with it from the doorway. When that too produced no reaction she felt provoked
and poked at him a little harder, and only when she had pushed him along the floor without
meeting any resistance was her attention aroused. Soon the truth of the matter dawned on her,
her eyes widened, she let out a whistle, yet did not waste much time over it but tore open the
door of the Samsas‘ bedroom and yelled into the darkness at the top of her voice: "Come look
at this, it's dead; it's lying there, dead as a doornail!"
Mr. and Mrs. Samsa sat bolt upright in their double bed and had some difficulty getting over
the shock before they realized the nature of the cleaning woman's announcement. But then
they got out of bed quickly, one on either side, Mr. Samsa throwing a blanket over his
shoulders, Mrs. Samsa in nothing but her nightgown; in this array they entered Gregor's
room. Meanwhile the door of the living room opened, too, where Grete had been sleeping
since the arrival of the boarders; she was completely dressed, as if she had not been to bed,
which seemed to be confirmed also by the paleness of her face. "Dead" said Mrs. Samsa,
looking questioningly at the cleaning woman, although she could have investigated for
herself, indeed the fact was obvious enough without investigation. "I should say so," said the
cleaning woman, and to prove it she pushed Gregor's corpse a long way to one side with her
broomstick; Mrs. Samsa made a movement as if to stop her, but checked herself. "Well," said
Mr. Samsa, "now thanks be to God." He crossed himself, and the three women followed his
example. Grete, whose eyes never left the corpse, said: "Just see how thin he was. It‘s such a
long time since he ate anything at all. The food came out again just as it went in." Indeed,
Gregor's body was completely flat and dry, as could only now be seen when it was no longer
supported by the legs and nothing prevented one from looking closely at it.
"Come into our room, Grete, for a little while," said Mrs. Samsa with a tremulous smile, and
Grete, not without looking hack at the corpse, followed her parents into their bedroom. The
cleaning woman shut the door and opened the window wide. Although it was still early in the
morning a certain softness was perceptible in the fresh air. After all, it was already the end of
March.
The three boarders emerged from their room and were surprised to see no breakfast; they had
been forgotten. ―Where's our breakfast" said the middle boarder peevishly to the cleaning
woman. But she put her finger to her lips and hastily, without a word, indicated by gestures
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that they should follow her into Gregor's room. They did so and stood, their hands in the
pockets of their somewhat shabby coats around Gregor's corpse in the room where it was now
fully light.
At that the door of the Samsas' bedroom opened and Mr. Samsa appeared in his uniform, his
wife on one arm, his daughter on the other. They all looked a little as if they had been crying;
from time to time Grete pressed her face against her father's arm.
"Leave my home at once!" said Mr. Samsa, and pointed to the door without disengaging
himself from the women. "What do you mean by that" said the middle boarder, taken
somewhat aback, with a feeble smile. The Twoothers put their hands behind their backs and
kept rubbing them together, as if in gleeful expectation of a big fight in which they were
bound to come out the winners. "I mean just what I say,‖ answered Mr. Samsa, and advanced
in a straight line with his Twocompanions toward the boarder. He stood his ground quietly at
first, looking at the floor as if his thoughts were forming a new pattern in his head. ―Well,
let's go then," he said, and looked up at Mr. Samsa as if in a sudden access of humility he
were asking his approval even for this decision. Mr. Samsa merely nodded at him briefly
once or twice with wide-open eyes. Thereupon the boarder actually did go with long strides
into the front hall; his Twofriends had been listening and by now had stopped rubbing their
hands together and went scuttling after him as if afraid that Mr. Samsa might get into the hall
before them and cut them off from their leader. In the hall all three took their hats from the
rack, their sticks from the umbrella stand, bowed in silence, and left the apartment. With a
suspiciousness that proved quite unfounded Mr. Samsa and the Twowomen followed them
out to the landing; leaning over the banister they watched the three figures slowly but surely
going down the long stairs, vanishing from sight at a certain turn of the staircase on every
floor and coming into view again after a moment or so; the more they dwindled, the more the
Samsa family's interest in them dwindled, and when a butcher's boy met them and passed
them on the stairs coming up proudly with a tray on his head, Mr. Samsa and the Twowomen
soon left the landing and as if a burden had been lifted from them went back into their
apartment.
They decided to spend this day in resting and going for a stroll; they had not only deserved
such a respite from work, but absolutely needed it. And so they sat down at the table and
wrote three notes of excuse, Mr. Samsa to his board of management, Mrs. Samsa to her
employer, and Grete to the head of her firm. While they were writing, the cleaning woman
came in to say that she was going now, since her morning's work was finished. At first they
only nodded without looking up, but as she kept hovering there they eyed her irritably.
"Well" said Mr. Samsa. The cleaning woman stood grinning in the doorway as if she had
good news to impart to the family but meant not to say a word unless properly questioned.
The little ostrich feather standing upright on her hat, which had annoyed Mr. Samsa ever
since she had been hired, was waving gaily in all directions. "Well, what is it then" asked
Mrs. Samsa, who obtained more respect from the cleaning woman than the others. "Oh," said
the cleaning woman, so overcome by amiable laughter that she could not continue right away,
"just this: you don't need to worry about how to get rid of that thing in the next room. It's
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een taken care of already." Mrs. Samsa and Grete bent over their letters again, as if
continuing to write; Mr. Samsa, who perceived that she was eager to begin describing it all in
detail, stopped her with a decisive gesture of his outstretched hand. But since she was not
allowed to tell her story, she remembered the great hurry she was in, obviously deeply
insulted: "Bye, everybody," she said, whirling off violently, and departed with a frightful
slamming of doors.
―She'll be given notice tonight," said Mr. Samsa, but neither from his wife nor his daughter
did he get any answer, for the cleaning woman seemed to have shattered again the composure
they had barely achieved. They rose, went to the window and stayed there, holding each other
tight. Mr. Samsa turned in his chair to look at them and quietly observed them for a while.
Then he called out: ―Come over here, you Two. Let bygones be bygones. And you might
have a little consideration for me too." The Twoof them complied at once, ran over to him,
caressed him, and then quickly finished their letters.
Then all three left the apartment together, which was more than they had done for months,
and took the streetcar to the open country outside of town. The car, in which they were the
only passengers, was filled with warm sunshine. Leaning comfortably back in their seats they
talked over their prospects for the future, and it appeared on closer inspection that these were
not at all bad, for the jobs they had, which so far they had never really discussed with each
other, were all three quite promising and likely to lead to better things later on. The greatest
immediate improvement in their situation would of course come from moving to another
apartment; they wanted to take a smaller and cheaper but also better situated and more
practical apartment than the one they had, which Gregor had selected. While they were thus
conversing it struck both Mr. and Mrs. Samsa, almost at the same moment, as they became
aware of their daughter's increasing vivacity, that in spite of all the sorrow of recent times,
which had made her cheeks pale, she had bloomed into a pretty girl with a good figure. They
grew quieter and half unconsciously exchanged glances of complete agreement, having both
come to the conclusion that it would soon be time to find a good husband for her. And it was
like a confirmation of their new dreams and excellent intentions that at the end of their ride
their daughter sprang to her feet first and stretched her young body.
184

A FRAGMENT OF STAINED GLASS – DH Lawrence
Beauvale is, or was, the largest parish in England. It is thinly populated, only just netting the
stragglers from shoals of houses in three large mining villages. For the rest, it holds a great
tract of woodland, fragment of old Sherwood, a few hills of pasture and arable land, three
collieries, and, finally, the ruins of a Cistercian abbey. These ruins lie in a still rich meadow
at the foot of the last fall of woodland, through whose oaks shines a blue of hyacinths, like
water, in May-time. Of the abbey, there remains only the east wall of the chancel standing, a
wild thick mass of ivy weighting one shoulder, while pigeons perch in the tracery of the lofty
window. This is the window in question.
The vicar of Beauvale is a bachelor of forty-two years. Quite early in life some illness caused
a slight paralysis of his right side, so that he drags a little, and so that the right corner of his
mouth is twisted up into his cheek with a constant grimace, unhidden by a heavy moustache.
There is something pathetic about this twist on the vicar's countenance: his eyes are so
shrewd and sad. It would be hard to get near to Mr Colbran. Indeed, now, his soul had some
of the twist of his face, so that, when he is not ironical, he is satiric. Yet a man of more
complete tolerance and generosity scarcely exists. Let the boors mock him, he merely smiles
on the other side, and there is no malice in his eyes, only a quiet expression of waiting till
they have finished. His people do not like him, yet none could bring forth an accusation
against him, save, that "You never can tell when he's having you."
I dined the other evening with the vicar in his study. The room scandalizes the neighbourhood
because of the statuary which adorns it: a Laocoon and other classic copies, with bronze and
silver Italian Renaissance work. For the rest, it is all dark and tawny.
Mr Colbran is an archaeologist. He does not take himself seriously, however, in his hobby, so
that nobody knows the worth of his opinions on the subject.
"Here you are," he said to me after dinner, "I've found another paragraph for my great work."
"What's that" I asked.
"Haven't I told you I was compiling a Bible of the English people--the Bible of their hearts--
their exclamations in presence of the unknown I've found a fragment at home, a jump at God
from Beauvale."
"Where" I asked, startled.
The vicar closed his eyes whilst looking at me.
"Only on parchment," he said.
Then, slowly, he reached for a yellow book, and read, translating as he went:
"Then, while we chanted, came a crackling at the window, at the great east window, where
hung our Lord on the Cross. It was a malicious covetous Devil wrathed by us, rended the
lovely image of the glass. We saw the iron clutches of the fiend pick the window, and a face
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flaming red like fire in a basket did glower down on us. Our hearts melted away, our legs
broke, we thought to die. The breath of the wretch filled the chapel.
"But our dear Saint, etc., etc., came hastening down heaven to defend us. The fiend began to
groan and bray--he was daunted and beat off.
"When the sun uprose, and it was morning, some went out in dread upon the thin snow. There
the figure of our Saint was broken and thrown down, whilst in the window was a wicked hole
as from the Holy Wounds the Blessed Blood was run out at the touch of the Fiend, and on the
snow was the Blood, sparkling like gold. Some gathered it up for the joy of this House. . . ."
"Interesting," I said. "Where's it from"
"Beauvale records--fifteenth century."
"Beauvale Abbey," I said; "they were only very few, the monks. What frightened them, I
wonder."
"I wonder," he repeated.
"Somebody climbed up," I supposed, "and attempted to get in."
"What" he exclaimed, smiling.
"Well, what do you think"
"Pretty much the same," he replied. "I glossed it out for my book."
"Your great work Tell me."
He put a shade over the lamp so that the room was almost in darkness.
"Am I more than a voice" he asked.
"I can see your hand," I replied. He moved entirely from the circle of light. Then his voice
began, sing-song, sardonic:
"I was a serf in Rollestoun's Newthorpe Manor, master of the stables I was. One day a horse
bit me as I was grooming him. He was an old enemy of mine. I fetched him a blow across the
nose. Then, when he got a chance, he lashed out at me and caught me a gash over the mouth.
I snatched at a hatchet and cut his head. He yelled, fiend as he was, and strained for me with
all his teeth bare. I brought him down.
"For killing him they flogged me till they thought I was dead. I was sturdy, because we horseserfs
got plenty to eat. I was sturdy, but they flogged me till I did not move. The next night I
set fire to the stables, and the stables set fire to the house. I watched and saw the red flame
rise and look out of the window, I saw the folk running, each for himself, master no more
than one of a frightened party. It was freezing, but the heat made me sweat. I saw them all
turn again to watch, all rimmed with red. They cried, all of them when the roof went in, when
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the sparks splashed up at rebound. They cried then like dogs at the bagpipes howling. Master
cursed me, till I laughed as I lay under a bush quite near.
"As the fire went down I got frightened. I ran for the woods, with fire blazing in my eyes and
crackling in my ears. For hours I was all fire. Then I went to sleep under the bracken. When I
woke it was evening. I had no mantle, was frozen stiff. I was afraid to move, lest all the sores
of my back should be broken like thin ice. I lay still until I could bear my hunger no longer. I
moved then to get used to the pain of movement, when I began to hunt for food. There was
nothing to be found but hips.
"After wandering about till I was faint I dropped again in the bracken. The boughs above me
creaked with frost. I started and looked round. The branches were like hair among the
starlight. My heart stood still. Again there was a creak, creak, and suddenly a whoop, that
whistled in fading. I fell down in the bracken like dead wood. Yet, by the peculiar whistling
sound at the end, I knew it was only the ice bending or tightening in the frost. I was in the
woods above the lake, only two miles from the Manor. And yet, when the lake whooped
hollowly again, I clutched the frozen soil, every one of my muscles as stiff as the stiff earth.
So all the night long I dare not move my face, but pressed it flat down, and taut I lay as if
pegged down and braced.
"When morning came still I did not move, I lay still in a dream. By afternoon my ache was
such it enlivened me. I cried, rocking my breath in the ache of moving. Then again I became
fierce. I beat my hands on the rough bark to hurt them, so that I should not ache so much. In
such a rage I was I swung my limbs to torture till I fell sick with pain. Yet I fought the hurt,
fought it and fought by twisting and flinging myself, until it was overcome. Then the evening
began to draw on. All day the sun had not loosened the frost. I felt the sky chill again towards
afternoon. Then I knew the night was coming, and, remembering the great space I had just
come through, horrible so that it seemed to have made me another man, I fled across the
wood.
"But in my running I came upon the oak where hanged five bodies. There they must hang,
bar-stiff, night after night. It was a terror worse than any. Turning, blundering through the
forest, I came out where the trees thinned, where only hawthorns, ragged and shaggy, went
down to the lake's edge.
"The sky across was red, the ice on the water glistened as if it were warm. A few wild geese
sat out like stones on the sheet of ice. I thought of Martha. She was the daughter of the miller
at the upper end of the lake. Her hair was red like beech leaves in a wind. When I had gone
often to the mill with the horses she had brought me food.
"'I thought,' said I to her, ''twas a squirrel sat on your shoulder. 'Tis your hair fallen loose.'
"'They call me the fox,' she said.
"'Would I were your dog,' said I. She would bring me bacon and good bread, when I called at
the mill with the horses. The thought of cakes of bread and of bacon made me reel as if
drunk. I had torn at the rabbit holes, I had chewed wood all day. In such a dimness was my
head that I felt neither the soreness of my wounds nor the cuts of thorns on my knees, but
stumbled towards the mill, almost past fear of man and death, panting with fear of the
darkness that crept behind me from trunk to trunk.
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"Coming to the gap in the wood, below which lay the pond, I heard no sound. Always I knew
the place filled with the buzz of water, but now it was silent. In fear of this stillness I ran
forward, forgetting myself, forgetting the frost. The wood seemed to pursue me. I fell, just in
time, down by a shed wherein were housed the few wintry pigs. The miller came riding in on
his horse, and the barking of dogs was for him. I heard him curse the day, curse his servant,
curse me, whom he had been out to hunt, in his rage of wasted labour, curse all. As I lay I
heard inside the shed a sucking. Then I knew that the sow was there, and that the most of her
sucking pigs would be already killed for tomorrow's Christmas. The miller, from forethought
to have young at that time, made profit by his sucking pigs that were sold for the mid-winter
feast.
"When in a moment all was silent in the dusk, I broke the bar and came into the shed. The
sow grunted, but did not come forth to discover me. By and by I crept in towards her warmth.
She had but three young left, which now angered her, she being too full of milk. Every now
and again she slashed at them and they squealed. Busy as she was with them, I in the
darkness advanced towards her. I trembled so that scarce dared I trust myself near her, for
long dared not put my naked face towards her. Shuddering with hunger and fear, I at last fed
of her, guarding my face with my arm. Her own full young tumbled squealing against me, but
she, feeling her ease, lay grunting. At last I, too, lay drunk, swooning.
"I was roused by the shouting of the miller. He, angered by his daughter who wept, abused
her, driving her from the house to feed the swine. She came, bowing under a yoke, to the door
of the shed. Finding the pin broken she stood afraid, then, as the sow grunted, she came
cautiously in. I took her with my arm, my hand over her mouth. As she struggled against my
breast my heart began to beat loudly. At last she knew it was I. I clasped her. She hung in my
arms, turning away her face, so that I kissed her throat. The tears blinded my eyes, I know not
why, unless it were the hurt of my mouth, wounded by the horse, was keen.
"'They will kill you,' she whispered.
"'No,' I answered.
"And she wept softly. She took my head in her arms and kissed me, wetting me with her
tears, brushing me with her keen hair, warming me through.
"'I will not go away from here,' I said. 'Bring me a knife, and I will defend myself.'
"'No,' she wept. 'Ah, no!'
"When she went I lay down, pressing my chest where she had rested on the earth, lest being
alone were worse emptiness than hunger.
"Later she came again. I saw her bend in the doorway, a lanthorn hanging in front. As she
peered under the redness of her falling hair, I was afraid of her. But she came with food. We
sat together in the dull light. Sometimes still I shivered and my throat would not swallow.
"'If,' said I, 'I eat all this you have brought me, I shall sleep till somebody finds me.'
"Then she took away the rest of the meat.
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"'Why,' said I, 'should I not eat' She looked at me in tears of fear.
"'What' I said, but still she had no answer. I kissed her, and the hurt of my wounded mouth
angered me.
"'Now there is my blood,' said I, 'on your mouth.' Wiping her smooth hand over her lips, she
looked thereat, then at me.
"'Leave me,' I said, 'I am tired.' She rose to leave me.
"'But bring a knife,' I said. Then she held the lanthorn near my face, looking as at a picture.
"'You look to me,' she said, 'like a stirk that is roped for the axe. Your eyes are dark, but they
are wide open.'
"'Then I will sleep,' said I, 'but will not wake too late.'
"'Do not stay here,' she said.
"'I will not sleep in the wood,' I answered, and it was my heart that spoke, 'for I am afraid. I
had better be afraid of the voice of man and dogs, than the sounds in the woods. Bring me a
knife, and in the morning I will go. Alone will I not go now.'
"'The searchers will take you,' she said.
"'Bring me a knife,' I answered.
"'Ah, go,' she wept.
"'Not now--I will not--'
"With that she lifted the lanthorn, lit up her own face and mine. Her blue eyes dried of tears.
Then I took her to myself, knowing she was mine.
"'I will come again,' she said.
"She went, and I folded my arms, lay down and slept.
"When I woke, she was rocking me wildly to rouse me.
"'I dreamed,' said I, 'that a great heap, as if it were a hill, lay on me and above me.'
"She put a cloak over me, gave me a hunting-knife and a wallet of food, and other things I did
not note. Then under her own cloak she hid the lanthorn.
"'Let us go,' she said, and blindly I followed her.
"When I came out into the cold someone touched my face and my hair.
"'Ha!' I cried, 'who now--' Then she swiftly clung to me, hushed me.
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"'Someone has touched me,' I said aloud, still dazed with sleep.
"'Oh hush!' she wept. ''Tis snowing.' The dogs within the house began to bark. She fled
forward, I after her. Coming to the ford of the stream she ran swiftly over, but I broke
through the ice. Then I knew where I was. Snowflakes, fine and rapid, were biting at my face.
In the wood there was no wind nor snow.
"'Listen,' said I to her, 'listen, for I am locked up with sleep.'
"'I hear roaring overhead,' she answered. 'I hear in the trees like great bats squeaking.'
"'Give me your hand,' said I.
"We heard many noises as we passed. Once as there uprose a whiteness before us, she cried
aloud.
"'Nay,' said I, 'do not untie thy hand from mine,' and soon we were crossing fallen snow. But
ever and again she started back from fear.
"'When you draw back my arm,' I said, angry, 'you loosed a weal on my shoulder.'
"Thereafter she ran by my side, like a fawn beside its mother.
"'We will cross the valley and gain the stream,' I said. 'That will lead us on its ice as on a path
deep into the forest. There we can join the outlaws. The wolves are driven from this part.
They have followed the driven deer.'
"We came directly on a large gleam that shaped itself up among flying grains of snow.
"'Ah!' she cried, and she stood amazed.
"Then I thought we had gone through the bounds into faery realm, and I was no more a man.
How did I know what eyes were gleaming at me between the snow, what cunning spirits in
the draughts of air So I waited for what would happen, and I forgot her, that she was there.
Only I could feel the spirits whirling and blowing about me.
"Whereupon she clung upon me, kissing me lavishly, and, were dogs or men or demons come
upon us at that moment, she had let us be stricken down, nor heeded not. So we moved
forward to the shadow that shone in colours upon the passing snow. We found ourselves
under a door of light which shed its colours mixed with snow. This Martha had never seen,
nor I, this door open for a red and brave issuing like fires. We wondered.
"'It is faery,' she said, and after a while, 'Could one catch such--Ah, no!'
"Through the snow shone bunches of red and blue.
"'Could one have such a little light like a red flower--only a little, like a rose-berry scarlet on
one's breast!--then one were singled out as Our Lady.'
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"I flung off my cloak and my burden to climb up the face of the shadow. Standing on rims of
stone, then in pockets of snow, I reached upward. My hand was red and blue, but I could not
take the stuff. Like colour of a moth's wing it was on my hand, it flew on the increasing
snow. I stood higher on the head of a frozen man, reached higher my hand. Then I felt the
bright stuff cold. I could not pluck it off. Down below she cried to me to come again to her. I
felt a rib that yielded, I struck at it with my knife. There came a gap in the redness. Looking
through I saw below as it were white stunted angels, with sad faces lifted in fear. Two faces
they had each, and round rings of hair. I was afraid. I grasped the shining red, I pulled. Then
the cold man under me sank, so I fell as if broken on to the snow.
"Soon I was risen again, and we were running downwards towards the stream. We felt
ourselves eased when the smooth road of ice was beneath us. For a while it was resting, to
travel thus evenly. But the wind blew round us, the snow hung upon us, we leaned us this
way and that, towards the storm. I drew her along, for she came as a bird that stems lifting
and swaying against the wind. By and by the snow came smaller, there was not wind in the
wood. Then I felt nor labour, nor cold. Only I knew the darkness drifted by on either side,
that overhead was a lane of paleness where a moon fled us before. Still, I can feel the moon
fleeing from me, can feel the trees passing round me in slow dizzy reel, can feel the hurt of
my shoulder and my straight arm torn with holding her. I was following the moon and the
stream, for I knew where the water peeped from its burrow in the ground there were shelters
of the outlaw. But she fell, without sound or sign.
"I gathered her up and climbed the bank. There all round me hissed the larchwood, dry
beneath, and laced with its dry-fretted cords. For a little way I carried her into the trees. Then
I laid her down till I cut flat hairy boughs. I put her in my bosom on this dry bed, so we
swooned together through the night. I laced her round and covered her with myself, so she lay
like a nut within its shell.
"Again, when morning came, it was pain of cold that woke me. I groaned, but my heart was
warm as I saw the heap of red hair in my arms. As I looked at her, her eyes opened into mine.
She smiled--from out of her smile came fear. As if in a trap she pressed back her head.
"'We have no flint,' said I.
"'Yes--in the wallet, flint and steel and tinder box,' she answered.
"'God yield you blessing,' I said.
"In a place a little open I kindled a fire of larch boughs. She was afraid of me, hovering near,
yet never crossing a space.
"'Come,' said I, 'let us eat this food.'
"'Your face,' she said, 'is smeared with blood.'
"I opened out my cloak.
"'But come,' said I, 'you are frosted with cold.'
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"I took a handful of snow in my hand, wiping my face with it, which then I dried on my
cloak.
"'My face is no longer painted with blood, you are no longer afraid of me. Come here then, sit
by me while we eat.'
"But as I cut the cold bread for her, she clasped me suddenly, kissing me. She fell before me,
clasped my knees to her breast, weeping. She laid her face down to my feet, so that her hair
spread like a fire before me. I wondered at the woman. 'Nay,' I cried. At that she lifted her
face to me from below. 'Nay,' I cried, feeling my tears fall. With her head on my breast, my
own tears rose from their source, wetting my cheek and her hair, which was wet with the rain
of my eyes.
"Then I remembered and took from my bosom the coloured light of that night before. I saw it
was black and rough.
"'Ah,' said I, 'this is magic.'
"'The black stone!' she wondered.
"'It is the red light of the night before,' I said.
"'It is magic,' she answered.
"'Shall I throw it' said I, lifting the stone, 'shall I throw it away, for fear'
"'It shines!' she cried, looking up. 'It shines like the eye of a creature at night, the eye of a
wolf in the doorway.'
"''Tis magic,' I said, 'let me throw it from us.' But nay, she held my arm.
"'It is red and shining,' she cried.
"'It is a bloodstone,' I answered. 'It will hurt us, we shall die in blood.'
"'But give it to me,' she answered.
"'It is red of blood,' I said.
"'Ah, give it to me,' she called.
"'It is my blood,' I said.
"'Give it,' she commanded, low.
"'It is my life-stone,' I said.
"'Give it me,' she pleaded.
192

"'I gave it her. She held it up, she smiled, she smiled in my face, lifting her arms to me. I took
her with my mouth, her mouth, her white throat. Nor she ever shrank, but trembled with
happiness.
"What woke us, when the woods were filling again with shadow, when the fire was out, when
we opened our eyes and looked up as if drowned, into the light which stood bright and thick
on the tree-tops, what woke us was the sound of wolves. . . ."
"Nay," said the vicar, suddenly rising, "they lived happily ever after."
"No," I said.
193

ODOUR OF CHRYSANTHEMUMS – DH Lawrence
I
The small locomotive engine, Number 4, came clanking, stumbling down from Selston--with
seven full waggons. It appeared round the corner with loud threats of speed, but the colt that
it startled from among the gorse, which still flickered indistinctly in the raw afternoon,
outdistanced it at a canter. A woman, walking up the railway line to Underwood, drew back
into the hedge, held her basket aside, and watched the footplate of the engine advancing. The
trucks thumped heavily past, one by one, with slow inevitable movement, as she stood
insignificantly trapped between the jolting black waggons and the hedge; then they curved
away towards the coppice where the withered oak leaves dropped noiselessly, while the birds,
pulling at the scarlet hips beside the track, made off into the dusk that had already crept into
the spinney. In the open, the smoke from the engine sank and cleaved to the rough grass. The
fields were dreary and forsaken, and in the marshy strip that led to the whimsey, a reedy pitpond,
the fowls had already abandoned their run among the alders, to roost in the tarred fowlhouse.
The pit-bank loomed up beyond the pond, flames like red sores licking its ashy sides,
in the afternoon's stagnant light. Just beyond rose the tapering chimneys and the clumsy black
head-stocks of Brinsley Colliery. The two wheels were spinning fast up against the sky, and
the winding-engine rapped out its little spasms. The miners were being turned up.
The engine whistled as it came into the wide bay of railway lines beside the colliery, where
rows of trucks stood in harbour.
Miners, single, trailing and in groups, passed like shadows diverging home. At the edge of
the ribbed level of sidings squat a low cottage, three steps down from the cinder track. A
large bony vine clutched at the house, as if to claw down the tiled roof. Round the bricked
yard grew a few wintry primroses. Beyond, the long garden sloped down to a bush-covered
brook course. There were some twiggy apple trees, winter-crack trees, and ragged cabbages.
Beside the path hung dishevelled pink chrysanthemums, like pink cloths hung on bushes. A
woman came stooping out of the felt-covered fowl-house, half-way down the garden. She
closed and padlocked the door, then drew herself erect, having brushed some bits from her
white apron.
She was a till woman of imperious mien, handsome, with definite black eyebrows. Her
smooth black hair was parted exactly. For a few moments she stood steadily watching the
miners as they passed along the railway: then she turned towards the brook course. Her face
was calm and set, her mouth was closed with disillusionment. After a moment she called:
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"John!" There was no answer. She waited, and then said distinctly:
"Where are you"
"Here!" replied a child's sulky voice from among the bushes. The woman looked piercingly
through the dusk.
"Are you at that brook" she asked sternly.
For answer the child showed himself before the raspberry-canes that rose like whips. He was
a small, sturdy boy of five. He stood quite still, defiantly.
"Oh!" said the mother, conciliated. "I thought you were down at that wet brook--and you
remember what I told you--"
The boy did not move or answer.
"Come, come on in," she said more gently, "it's getting dark. There's your grandfather's
engine coming down the line!"
The lad advanced slowly, with resentful, taciturn movement. He was dressed in trousers and
waistcoat of cloth that was too thick and hard for the size of the garments. They were
evidently cut down from a man's clothes.
As they went slowly towards the house he tore at the ragged wisps of chrysanthemums and
dropped the petals in handfuls along the path.
"Don't do that--it does look nasty," said his mother. He refrained, and she, suddenly pitiful,
broke off a twig with three or four wan flowers and held them against her face. When mother
and son reached the yard her hand hesitated, and instead of laying the flower aside, she
pushed it in her apron-band. The mother and son stood at the foot of the three steps looking
195

across the bay of lines at the passing home of the miners. The trundle of the small train was
imminent. Suddenly the engine loomed past the house and came to a stop opposite the gate.
The engine-driver, a short man with round grey beard, leaned out of the cab high above the
woman.
"Have you got a cup of tea" he said in a cheery, hearty fashion.
It was her father. She went in, saying she would mash. Directly, she returned.
"I didn't come to see you on Sunday," began the little grey-bearded man.
"I didn't expect you," said his daughter.
The engine-driver winced; then, reassuming his cheery, airy manner, he said:
"Oh, have you heard then Well, and what do you think--"
"I think it is soon enough," she replied.
At her brief censure the little man made an impatient gesture, and said coaxingly, yet with
dangerous coldness:
"Well, what's a man to do It's no sort of life for a man of my years, to sit at my own hearth
like a stranger. And if I'm going to marry again it may as well be soon as late--what does it
matter to anybody"
The woman did not reply, but turned and went into the house. The man in the engine-cab
stood assertive, till she returned with a cup of tea and a piece of bread and butter on a plate.
She went up the steps and stood near the footplate of the hissing engine.
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"You needn't 'a' brought me bread an' butter," said her father. "But a cup of tea"--he sipped
appreciatively--"it's very nice." He sipped for a moment or two, then: "I hear as Walter's got
another bout on," he said.
"When hasn't he" said the woman bitterly.
"I heered tell of him in the 'Lord Nelson' braggin' as he was going to spend that b---- afore he
went: half a sovereign that was."
"When" asked the woman.
"A' Sat'day night--I know that's true."
"Very likely," she laughed bitterly. "He gives me twenty-three shillings."
"Aye, it's a nice thing, when a man can do nothing with his money but make a beast of
himself!" said the grey-whiskered man. The woman turned her head away. Her father
swallowed the last of his tea and handed her the cup.
"Aye," he sighed, wiping his mouth. "It's a settler, it is--"
He put his hand on the lever. The little engine strained and groaned, and the train rumbled
towards the crossing. The woman again looked across the metals. Darkness was settling over
the spaces of the railway and trucks: the miners, in grey sombre groups, were still passing
home. The winding-engine pulsed hurriedly, with brief pauses. Elizabeth Bates looked at the
dreary flow of men, then she went indoors. Her husband did not come.
The kitchen was small and full of firelight; red coals piled glowing up the chimney mouth.
All the life of the room seemed in the white, warm hearth and the steel fender reflecting the
red fire. The cloth was laid for tea; cups glinted in the shadows. At the back, where the lowest
stairs protruded into the room, the boy sat struggling with a knife and a piece of whitewood.
197

He was almost hidden in the shadow. It was half-past four. They had but to await the father's
coming to begin tea. As the mother watched her son's sullen little struggle with the wood, she
saw herself in his silence and pertinacity; she saw the father in her child's indifference to all
but himself. She seemed to be occupied by her husband. He had probably gone past his home,
slunk past his own door, to drink before he came in, while his dinner spoiled and wasted in
waiting. She glanced at the clock, then took the potatoes to strain them in the yard. The
garden and fields beyond the brook were closed in uncertain darkness. When she rose with
the saucepan, leaving the drain steaming into the night behind her, she saw the yellow lamps
were lit along the high road that went up the hill away beyond the space of the railway lines
and the field.
Then again she watched the men trooping home, fewer now and fewer.
Indoors the fire was sinking and the room was dark red. The woman put her saucepan on the
hob, and set a batter pudding near the mouth of the oven. Then she stood unmoving. Directly,
gratefully, came quick young steps to the door. Someone hung on the latch a moment, then a
little girl entered and began pulling off her outdoor things, dragging a mass of curls, just
ripening from gold to brown, over her eyes with her hat.
Her mother chid her for coming late from school, and said she would have to keep her at
home the dark winter days.
"Why, mother, it's hardly a bit dark yet. The lamp's not lighted, and my father's not home."
"No, he isn't. But it's a quarter to five! Did you see anything of him"
The child became serious. She looked at her mother with large, wistful blue eyes.
"No, mother, I've never seen him. Why Has he come up an' gone past, to Old Brinsley He
hasn't, mother, 'cos I never saw him."
"He'd watch that," said the mother bitterly, "he'd take care as you didn't see him. But you may
depend upon it, he's seated in the 'Prince o' Wales'. He wouldn't be this late."
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The girl looked at her mother piteously.
"Let's have our teas, mother, should we" said she.
The mother called John to table. She opened the door once more and looked out across the
darkness of the lines. All was deserted: she could not hear the winding-engines.
"Perhaps," she said to herself, "he's stopped to get some ripping done."
They sat down to tea. John, at the end of the table near the door, was almost lost in the
darkness. Their faces were hidden from each other. The girl crouched against the fender
slowly moving a thick piece of bread before the fire. The lad, his face a dusky mark on the
shadow, sat watching her who was transfigured in the red glow.
"I do think it's beautiful to look in the fire," said the child.
"Do you" said her mother. "Why"
"It's so red, and full of little caves--and it feels so nice, and you can fair smell it."
"It'll want mending directly," replied her mother, "and then if your father comes he'll carry on
and say there never is a fire when a man comes home sweating from the pit.--A public-house
is always warm enough."
There was silence till the boy said complainingly: "Make haste, our Annie."
"Well, I am doing! I can't make the fire do it no faster, can I"
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"She keeps wafflin' it about so's to make 'er slow," grumbled the boy.
"Don't have such an evil imagination, child," replied the mother.
Soon the room was busy in the darkness with the crisp sound of crunching. The mother ate
very little. She drank her tea determinedly, and sat thinking. When she rose her anger was
evident in the stern unbending of her head. She looked at the pudding in the fender, and broke
out:
"It is a scandalous thing as a man can't even come home to his dinner! If it's crozzled up to a
cinder I don't see why I should care. Past his very door he goes to get to a public-house, and
here I sit with his dinner waiting for him--"
She went out. As she dropped piece after piece of coal on the red fire, the shadows fell on the
walls, till the room was almost in total darkness.
"I canna see," grumbled the invisible John. In spite of herself, the mother laughed.
"You know the way to your mouth," she said. She set the dustpan outside the door. When she
came again like a shadow on the hearth, the lad repeated, complaining sulkily:
"I canna see."
"Good gracious!" cried the mother irritably, "you're as bad as your father if it's a bit dusk!"
Nevertheless she took a paper spill from a sheaf on the mantelpiece and proceeded to light the
lamp that hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room. As she reached up, her figure
displayed itself just rounding with maternity.
"Oh, mother--!" exclaimed the girl.
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"What" said the woman, suspended in the act of putting the lamp glass over the flame. The
copper reflector shone handsomely on her, as she stood with uplifted arm, turning to face her
daughter.
"You've got a flower in your apron!" said the child, in a little rapture at this unusual event.
"Goodness me!" exclaimed the woman, relieved. "One would think the house was afire." She
replaced the glass and waited a moment before turning up the wick. A pale shadow was seen
floating vaguely on the floor.
"Let me smell!" said the child, still rapturously, coming forward and putting her face to her
mother's waist.
"Go along, silly!" said the mother, turning up the lamp. The light revealed their suspense so
that the woman felt it almost unbearable. Annie was still bending at her waist. Irritably, the
mother took the flowers out from her apron-band.
"Oh, mother--don't take them out!" Annie cried, catching her hand and trying to replace the
sprig.
"Such nonsense!" said the mother, turning away. The child put the pale chrysanthemums to
her lips, murmuring:
"Don't they smell beautiful!"
Her mother gave a short laugh.
"No," she said, "not to me. It was chrysanthemums when I married him, and chrysanthemums
when you were born, and the first time they ever brought him home drunk, he'd got brown
chrysanthemums in his button-hole."
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She looked at the children. Their eyes and their parted lips were wondering. The mother sat
rocking in silence for some time. Then she looked at the clock.
"Twenty minutes to six!" In a tone of fine bitter carelessness she continued: "Eh, he'll not
come now till they bring him. There he'll stick! But he needn't come rolling in here in his pitdirt,
for I won't wash him. He can lie on the floor--Eh, what a fool I've been, what a fool! And
this is what I came here for, to this dirty hole, rats and all, for him to slink past his very door.
Twice last week--he's begun now-"
She silenced herself, and rose to clear the table.
While for an hour or more the children played, subduedly intent, fertile of imagination, united
in fear of the mother's wrath, and in dread of their father's home-coming, Mrs Bates sat in her
rocking-chair making a 'singlet' of thick cream-coloured flannel, which gave a dull wounded
sound as she tore off the grey edge. She worked at her sewing with energy, listening to the
children, and her anger wearied itself, lay down to rest, opening its eyes from time to time
and steadily watching, its ears raised to listen. Sometimes even her anger quailed and shrank,
and the mother suspended her sewing, tracing the footsteps that thudded along the sleepers
outside; she would lift her head sharply to bid the children 'hush', but she recovered herself in
time, and the footsteps went past the gate, and the children were not flung out of their playing
world.
But at last Annie sighed, and gave in. She glanced at her waggon of slippers, and loathed the
game. She turned plaintively to her mother.
"Mother!"--but she was inarticulate.
John crept out like a frog from under the sofa. His mother glanced up.
"Yes," she said, "just look at those shirt-sleeves!"
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The boy held them out to survey them, saying nothing. Then somebody called in a hoarse
voice away down the line, and suspense bristled in the room, till two people had gone by
outside, talking.
"It is time for bed," said the mother.
"My father hasn't come," wailed Annie plaintively. But her mother was primed with courage.
"Never mind. They'll bring him when he does come--like a log." She meant there would be
no scene. "And he may sleep on the floor till he wakes himself. I know he'll not go to work
tomorrow after this!"
The children had their hands and faces wiped with a flannel. They were very quiet. When
they had put on their nightdresses, they said their prayers, the boy mumbling. The mother
looked down at them, at the brown silken bush of intertwining curls in the nape of the girl's
neck, at the little black head of the lad, and her heart burst with anger at their father who
caused all three such distress. The children hid their faces in her skirts for comfort.
When Mrs Bates came down, the room was strangely empty, with a tension of expectancy.
She took up her sewing and stitched for some time without raising her head. Meantime her
anger was tinged with fear.
II
The clock struck eight and she rose suddenly, dropping her sewing on her chair. She went to
the stairfoot door, opened it, listening. Then she went out, locking the door behind her.
Something scuffled in the yard, and she started, though she knew it was only the rats with
which the place was overrun. The night was very dark. In the great bay of railway lines,
bulked with trucks, there was no trace of light, only away back she could see a few yellow
lamps at the pit-top, and the red smear of the burning pit-bank on the night. She hurried along
the edge of the track, then, crossing the converging lines, came to the stile by the white gates,
whence she emerged on the road. Then the fear which had led her shrank. People were
walking up to New Brinsley; she saw the lights in the houses; twenty yards further on were
the broad windows of the 'Prince of Wales', very warm and bright, and the loud voices of men
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could be heard distinctly. What a fool she had been to imagine that anything had happened to
him! He was merely drinking over there at the 'Prince of Wales'. She faltered. She had never
yet been to fetch him, and she never would go. So she continued her walk towards the long
straggling line of houses, standing blank on the highway. She entered a passage between the
dwellings.
"Mr Rigley--Yes! Did you want him No, he's not in at this minute."
The raw-boned woman leaned forward from her dark scullery and peered at the other, upon
whom fell a dim light through the blind of the kitchen window.
"Is it Mrs Bates" she asked in a tone tinged with respect.
"Yes. I wondered if your Master was at home. Mine hasn't come yet."
"'Asn't 'e! Oh, Jack's been 'ome an 'ad 'is dinner an' gone out. E's just gone for 'alf an hour
afore bedtime. Did you call at the 'Prince of Wales'"
"No--"
"No, you didn't like--! It's not very nice." The other woman was indulgent. There was an
awkward pause. "Jack never said nothink about--about your Mester," she said.
"No!--I expect he's stuck in there!"
Elizabeth Bates said this bitterly, and with recklessness. She knew that the woman across the
yard was standing at her door listening, but she did not care. As she turned:
"Stop a minute! I'll just go an' ask Jack if e' knows anythink," said Mrs Rigley.
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"Oh, no--I wouldn't like to put--!"
"Yes, I will, if you'll just step inside an' see as th' childer doesn't come downstairs and set
theirselves afire."
Elizabeth Bates, murmuring a remonstrance, stepped inside. The other woman apologized for
the state of the room.
The kitchen needed apology. There were little frocks and trousers and childish undergarments
on the squab and on the floor, and a litter of playthings everywhere. On the black American
cloth of the table were pieces of bread and cake, crusts, slops, and a teapot with cold tea.
"Eh, ours is just as bad," said Elizabeth Bates, looking at the woman, not at the house. Mrs
Rigley put a shawl over her head and hurried out, saying:
"I shanna be a minute."
The other sat, noting with faint disapproval the general untidiness of the room. Then she fell
to counting the shoes of various sizes scattered over the floor. There were twelve. She sighed
and said to herself, "No wonder!"--glancing at the litter. There came the scratching of two
pairs of feet on the yard, and the Rigleys entered. Elizabeth Bates rose. Rigley was a big man,
with very large bones. His head looked particularly bony. Across his temple was a blue scar,
caused by a wound got in the pit, a wound in which the coal-dust remained blue like
tattooing.
"Asna 'e come whoam yit" asked the man, without any form of greeting, but with deference
and sympathy. "I couldna say wheer he is--'e's non ower theer!"--he jerked his head to signify
the 'Prince of Wales'.
"'E's 'appen gone up to th' 'Yew'," said Mrs Rigley.
There was another pause. Rigley had evidently something to get off his mind:
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"Ah left 'im finishin' a stint," he began. "Loose-all 'ad bin gone about ten minutes when we
com'n away, an' I shouted, 'Are ter comin', Walt' an' 'e said, 'Go on, Ah shanna be but a'ef a
minnit,' so we com'n ter th' bottom, me an' Bowers, thinkin' as 'e wor just behint, an' 'ud come
up i' th' next bantle--"
He stood perplexed, as if answering a charge of deserting his mate. Elizabeth Bates, now
again certain of disaster, hastened to reassure him:
"I expect 'e's gone up to th' 'Yew Tree', as you say. It's not the first time. I've fretted myself
into a fever before now. He'll come home when they carry him."
"Ay, isn't it too bad!" deplored the other woman.
"I'll just step up to Dick's an' see if 'e is theer," offered the man, afraid of appearing alarmed,
afraid of taking liberties.
"Oh, I wouldn't think of bothering you that far," said Elizabeth Bates, with emphasis, but he
knew she was glad of his offer.
As they stumbled up the entry, Elizabeth Bates heard Rigley's wife run across the yard and
open her neighbour's door. At this, suddenly all the blood in her body seemed to switch away
from her heart.
"Mind!" warned Rigley. "Ah've said many a time as Ah'd fill up them ruts in this entry,
sumb'dy 'll be breakin' their legs yit."
She recovered herself and walked quickly along with the miner.
"I don't like leaving the children in bed, and nobody in the house," she said.
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"No, you dunna!" he replied courteously. They were soon at the gate of the cottage.
"Well, I shanna be many minnits. Dunna you be frettin' now, 'e'll be all right," said the butty.
"Thank you very much, Mr Rigley," she replied.
"You're welcome!" he stammered, moving away. "I shanna be many minnits."
The house was quiet. Elizabeth Bates took off her hat and shawl, and rolled back the rug.
When she had finished, she sat down. It was a few minutes past nine. She was startled by the
rapid chuff of the winding-engine at the pit, and the sharp whirr of the brakes on the rope as it
descended. Again she felt the painful sweep of her blood, and she put her hand to her side,
saying aloud, "Good gracious!--it's only the nine o'clock deputy going down," rebuking
herself.
She sat still, listening. Half an hour of this, and she was wearied out.
"What am I working myself up like this for" she said pitiably to herself, "I s'll only be doing
myself some damage."
She took out her sewing again.
At a quarter to ten there were footsteps. One person! She watched for the door to open. It was
an elderly woman, in a black bonnet and a black woollen shawl--his mother. She was about
sixty years old, pale, with blue eyes, and her face all wrinkled and lamentable. She shut the
door and turned to her daughter-in-law peevishly.
"Eh, Lizzie, whatever shall we do, whatever shall we do!" she cried.
Elizabeth drew back a little, sharply.
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"What is it, mother" she said.
The elder woman seated herself on the sofa.
"I don't know, child, I can't tell you!"--she shook her head slowly. Elizabeth sat watching her,
anxious and vexed.
"I don't know," replied the grandmother, sighing very deeply. "There's no end to my troubles,
there isn't. The things I've gone through, I'm sure it's enough--!" She wept without wiping her
eyes, the tears running.
"But, mother," interrupted Elizabeth, "what do you mean What is it"
The grandmother slowly wiped her eyes. The fountains of her tears were stopped by
Elizabeth's directness. She wiped her eyes slowly.
"Poor child! Eh, you poor thing!" she moaned. "I don't know what we're going to do, I don't--
and you as you are--it's a thing, it is indeed!"
Elizabeth waited.
"Is he dead" she asked, and at the words her heart swung violently, though she felt a slight
flush of shame at the ultimate extravagance of the question. Her words sufficiently frightened
the old lady, almost brought her to herself.
"Don't say so, Elizabeth! We'll hope it's not as bad as that; no, may the Lord spare us that,
Elizabeth. Jack Rigley came just as I was sittin' down to a glass afore going to bed, an' 'e said,
''Appen you'll go down th' line, Mrs Bates. Walt's had an accident. 'Appen you'll go an' sit wi'
'er till we can get him home.' I hadn't time to ask him a word afore he was gone. An' I put my
bonnet on an' come straight down, Lizzie. I thought to myself, 'Eh, that poor blessed child, if
anybody should come an' tell her of a sudden, there's no knowin' what'll 'appen to 'er.' You
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mustn't let it upset you, Lizzie--or you know what to expect. How long is it, six months--or is
it five, Lizzie Ay!"--the old woman shook her head--"time slips on, it slips on! Ay!"
Elizabeth's thoughts were busy elsewhere. If he was killed--would she be able to manage on
the little pension and what she could earn--she counted up rapidly. If he was hurt--they
wouldn't take him to the hospital--how tiresome he would be to nurse!--but perhaps she'd be
able to get him away from the drink and his hateful ways. She would--while he was ill. The
tears offered to come to her eyes at the picture. But what sentimental luxury was this she was
beginning--She turned to consider the children. At any rate she was absolutely necessary for
them. They were her business.
"Ay!" repeated the old woman, "it seems but a week or two since he brought me his first
wages. Ay--he was a good lad, Elizabeth, he was, in his way. I don't know why he got to be
such a trouble, I don't. He was a happy lad at home, only full of spirits. But there's no mistake
he's been a handful of trouble, he has! I hope the Lord'll spare him to mend his ways. I hope
so, I hope so. You've had a sight o' trouble with him, Elizabeth, you have indeed. But he was
a jolly enough lad wi' me, he was, I can assure you. I don't know how it is . . ."
The old woman continued to muse aloud, a monotonous irritating sound, while Elizabeth
thought concentratedly, startled once, when she heard the winding-engine chuff quickly, and
the brakes skirr with a shriek. Then she heard the engine more slowly, and the brakes made
no sound. The old woman did not notice. Elizabeth waited in suspense. The mother-in-law
talked, with lapses into silence.
"But he wasn't your son, Lizzie, an' it makes a difference. Whatever he was, I remember him
when he was little, an' I learned to understand him and to make allowances. You've got to
make allowances for them--"
It was half-past ten, and the old woman was saying: "But it's trouble from beginning to end;
you're never too old for trouble, never too old for that--" when the gate banged back, and
there were heavy feet on the steps.
"I'll go, Lizzie, let me go," cried the old woman, rising. But Elizabeth was at the door. It was
a man in pit-clothes.
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"They're bringin' 'im, Missis," he said. Elizabeth's heart halted a moment. Then it surged on
again, almost suffocating her.
"Is he--is it bad" she asked.
The man turned away, looking at the darkness:
"The doctor says 'e'd been dead hours. 'E saw 'im i' th' lamp-cabin."
The old woman, who stood just behind Elizabeth, dropped into a chair, and folded her hands,
crying: "Oh, my boy, my boy!"
"Hush!" said Elizabeth, with a sharp twitch of a frown. "Be still, mother, don't waken th'
children: I wouldn't have them down for anything!"
The old woman moaned softly, rocking herself. The man was drawing away. Elizabeth took a
step forward.
"How was it" she asked.
"Well, I couldn't say for sure," the man replied, very ill at ease. "'E wor finishin' a stint an' th'
butties 'ad gone, an' a lot o' stuff come down atop 'n 'im."
"And crushed him" cried the widow, with a shudder.
"No," said the man, "it fell at th' back of 'im. 'E wor under th' face, an' it niver touched 'im. It
shut 'im in. It seems 'e wor smothered."
Elizabeth shrank back. She heard the old woman behind her cry:
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"What--what did 'e say it was"
The man replied, more loudly: "'E wor smothered!"
Then the old woman wailed aloud, and this relieved Elizabeth.
"Oh, mother," she said, putting her hand on the old woman, "don't waken th' children, don't
waken th' children."
She wept a little, unknowing, while the old mother rocked herself and moaned. Elizabeth
remembered that they were bringing him home, and she must be ready. "They'll lay him in
the parlour," she said to herself, standing a moment pale and perplexed.
Then she lighted a candle and went into the tiny room. The air was cold and damp, but she
could not make a fire, there was no fireplace. She set down the candle and looked round. The
candle-light glittered on the lustre-glasses, on the two vases that held some of the pink
chrysanthemums, and on the dark mahogany. There was a cold, deathly smell of
chrysanthemums in the room. Elizabeth stood looking at the flowers. She turned away, and
calculated whether there would be room to lay him on the floor, between the couch and the
chiffonier. She pushed the chairs aside. There would be room to lay him down and to step
round him. Then she fetched the old red tablecloth, and another old cloth, spreading them
down to save her bit of carpet. She shivered on leaving the parlour; so, from the dresserdrawer
she took a clean shirt and put it at the fire to air. All the time her mother-in-law was
rocking herself in the chair and moaning.
"You'll have to move from there, mother," said Elizabeth. "They'll be bringing him in. Come
in the rocker."
The old mother rose mechanically, and seated herself by the fire, continuing to lament.
Elizabeth went into the pantry for another candle, and there, in the little penthouse under the
naked tiles, she heard them coming. She stood still in the pantry doorway, listening. She
heard them pass the end of the house, and come awkwardly down the three steps, a jumble of
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shuffling footsteps and muttering voices. The old woman was silent. The men were in the
yard.
Then Elizabeth heard Matthews, the manager of the pit, say: "You go in first, Jim. Mind!"
The door came open, and the two women saw a collier backing into the room, holding one
end of a stretcher, on which they could see the nailed pit-boots of the dead man. The two
carriers halted, the man at the head stooping to the lintel of the door.
"Wheer will you have him" asked the manager, a short, white-bearded man.
Elizabeth roused herself and came from the pantry carrying the unlighted candle.
"In the parlour," she said.
"In there, Jim!" pointed the manager, and the carriers backed round into the tiny room. The
coat with which they had covered the body fell off as they awkwardly turned through the two
doorways, and the women saw their man, naked to the waist, lying stripped for work. The old
woman began to moan in a low voice of horror.
"Lay th' stretcher at th' side," snapped the manager, "an' put 'im on th' cloths. Mind now,
mind! Look you now--!"
One of the men had knocked off a vase of chrysanthemums. He stared awkwardly, then they
set down the stretcher. Elizabeth did not look at her husband. As soon as she could get in the
room, she went and picked up the broken vase and the flowers.
"Wait a minute!" she said.
The three men waited in silence while she mopped up the water with a duster.
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"Eh, what a job, what a job, to be sure!" the manager was saying, rubbing his brow with
trouble and perplexity. "Never knew such a thing in my life, never! He'd no business to ha'
been left. I never knew such a thing in my life! Fell over him clean as a whistle, an' shut him
in. Not four foot of space, there wasn't--yet it scarce bruised him."
He looked down at the dead man, lying prone, half naked, all grimed with coal-dust.
"''Sphyxiated,' the doctor said. It is the most terrible job I've ever known. Seems as if it was
done o' purpose. Clean over him, an' shut 'im in, like a mouse-trap"--he made a sharp,
descending gesture with his hand.
The colliers standing by jerked aside their heads in hopeless comment.
The horror of the thing bristled upon them all.
Then they heard the girl's voice upstairs calling shrilly: "Mother, mother--who is it Mother,
who is it"
Elizabeth hurried to the foot of the stairs and opened the door:
"Go to sleep!" she commanded sharply. "What are you shouting about Go to sleep at once--
there's nothing--"
Then she began to mount the stairs. They could hear her on the boards, and on the plaster
floor of the little bedroom. They could hear her distinctly:
"What's the matter now--what's the matter with you, silly thing"--her voice was much
agitated, with an unreal gentleness.
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"I thought it was some men come," said the plaintive voice of the child. "Has he come"
"Yes, they've brought him. There's nothing to make a fuss about. Go to sleep now, like a
good child."
They could hear her voice in the bedroom, they waited whilst she covered the children under
the bedclothes.
"Is he drunk" asked the girl, timidly, faintly.
"No! No--he's not! He--he's asleep."
"Is he asleep downstairs"
"Yes--and don't make a noise."
There was silence for a moment, then the men heard the frightened child again:
"What's that noise"
"It's nothing, I tell you, what are you bothering for"
The noise was the grandmother moaning. She was oblivious of everything, sitting on her
chair rocking and moaning. The manager put his hand on her arm and bade her "Sh--sh!!"
The old woman opened her eyes and looked at him. She was shocked by this interruption, and
seemed to wonder.
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"What time is it"--the plaintive thin voice of the child, sinking back unhappily into sleep,
asked this last question.
"Ten o'clock," answered the mother more softly. Then she must have bent down and kissed
the children.
Matthews beckoned to the men to come away. They put on their caps and took up the
stretcher. Stepping over the body, they tiptoed out of the house. None of them spoke till they
were far from the wakeful children.
When Elizabeth came down she found her mother alone on the parlour floor, leaning over the
dead man, the tears dropping on him.
"We must lay him out," the wife said. She put on the kettle, then returning knelt at the feet,
and began to unfasten the knotted leather laces. The room was clammy and dim with only
one candle, so that she had to bend her face almost to the floor. At last she got off the heavy
boots and put them away.
"You must help me now," she whispered to the old woman. Together they stripped the man.
When they arose, saw him lying in the naïve dignity of death, the women stood arrested in
fear and respect. For a few moments they remained still, looking down, the old mother
whimpering. Elizabeth felt countermanded. She saw him, how utterly inviolable he lay in
himself. She had nothing to do with him. She could not accept it. Stooping, she laid her hand
on him, in claim. He was still warm, for the mine was hot where he had died. His mother had
his face between her hands, and was murmuring incoherently. The old tears fell in succession
as drops from wet leaves; the mother was not weeping, merely her tears flowed. Elizabeth
embraced the body of her husband, with cheek and lips. She seemed to be listening,
inquiring, trying to get some connection. But she could not. She was driven away. He was
impregnable.
She rose, went into the kitchen, where she poured warm water into a bowl, brought soap and
flannel and a soft towel.
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"I must wash him," she said.
Then the old mother rose stiffly, and watched Elizabeth as she carefully washed his face,
carefully brushing the big blond moustache from his mouth with the flannel. She was afraid
with a bottomless fear, so she ministered to him. The old woman, jealous, said:
"Let me wipe him!"--and she kneeled on the other side drying slowly as Elizabeth washed,
her big black bonnet sometimes brushing the dark head of her daughter. They worked thus in
silence for a long time. They never forgot it was death, and the touch of the man's dead body
gave them strange emotions, different in each of the women; a great dread possessed them
both, the mother felt the lie was given to her womb, she was denied; the wife felt the utter
isolation of the human soul, the child within her was a weight apart from her.
At last it was finished. He was a man of handsome body, and his face showed no traces of
drink. He was blonde, full-fleshed, with fine limbs. But he was dead.
"Bless him," whispered his mother, looking always at his face, and speaking out of sheer
terror. "Dear lad--bless him!" She spoke in a faint, sibilant ecstasy of fear and mother love.
Elizabeth sank down again to the floor, and put her face against his neck, and trembled and
shuddered. But she had to draw away again. He was dead, and her living flesh had no place
against his. A great dread and weariness held her: she was so unavailing. Her life was gone
like this.
"White as milk he is, clear as a twelve-month baby, bless him, the darling!" the old mother
murmured to herself. "Not a mark on him, clear and clean and white, beautiful as ever a child
was made," she murmured with pride. Elizabeth kept her face hidden.
"He went peaceful, Lizzie--peaceful as sleep. Isn't he beautiful, the lamb Ay--he must ha'
made his peace, Lizzie. 'Appen he made it all right, Lizzie, shut in there. He'd have time. He
wouldn't look like this if he hadn't made his peace. The lamb, the dear lamb. Eh, but he had a
hearty laugh. I loved to hear it. He had the heartiest laugh, Lizzie, as a lad--"
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Elizabeth looked up. The man's mouth was fallen back, slightly open under the cover of the
moustache. The eyes, half shut, did not show glazed in the obscurity. Life with its smoky
burning gone from him, had left him apart and utterly alien to her. And she knew what a
stranger he was to her. In her womb was ice of fear, because of this separate stranger with
whom she had been living as one flesh. Was this what it all meant--utter, intact separateness,
obscured by heat of living In dread she turned her face away. The fact was too deadly. There
had been nothing between them, and yet they had come together, exchanging their nakedness
repeatedly. Each time he had taken her, they had been two isolated beings, far apart as now.
He was no more responsible than she. The child was like ice in her womb. For as she looked
at the dead man, her mind, cold and detached, said clearly: "Who am I What have I been
doing I have been fighting a husband who did not exist. He existed all the time. What wrong
have I done What was that I have been living with There lies the reality, this man."--And
her soul died in her for fear: she knew she had never seen him, he had never seen her, they
had met in the dark and had fought in the dark, not knowing whom they met nor whom they
fought. And now she saw, and turned silent in seeing. For she had been wrong. She had said
he was something he was not; she had felt familiar with him. Whereas he was apart all the
while, living as she never lived, feeling as she never felt.
In fear and shame she looked at his naked body, that she had known falsely. And he was the
father of her children. Her soul was torn from her body and stood apart. She looked at his
naked body and was ashamed, as if she had denied it. After all, it was itself. It seemed awful
to her. She looked at his face, and she turned her own face to the wall. For his look was other
than hers, his way was not her way. She had denied him what he was--she saw it now. She
had refused him as himself.--And this had been her life, and his life.--She was grateful to
death, which restored the truth. And she knew she was not dead.
And all the while her heart was bursting with grief and pity for him. What had he suffered
What stretch of horror for this helpless man! She was rigid with agony. She had not been able
to help him. He had been cruelly injured, this naked man, this other being, and she could
make no reparation. There were the children--but the children belonged to life. This dead man
had nothing to do with them. He and she were only channels through which life had flowed to
issue in the children. She was a mother--but how awful she knew it now to have been a wife.
And he, dead now, how awful he must have felt it to be a husband. She felt that in the next
world he would be a stranger to her. If they met there, in the beyond, they would only be
ashamed of what had been before. The children had come, for some mysterious reason, out of
both of them. But the children did not unite them. Now he was dead, she knew how eternally
he was apart from her, how eternally he had nothing more to do with her. She saw this
episode of her life closed. They had denied each other in life. Now he had withdrawn. An
anguish came over her. It was finished then: it had become hopeless between them long
before he died. Yet he had been her husband. But how little!--
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"Have you got his shirt, 'Lizabeth"
Elizabeth turned without answering, though she strove to weep and behave as her mother-inlaw
expected. But she could not, she was silenced. She went into the kitchen and returned
with the garment.
"It is aired," she said, grasping the cotton shirt here and there to try. She was almost ashamed
to handle him; what right had she or anyone to lay hands on him; but her touch was humble
on his body. It was hard work to clothe him. He was so heavy and inert. A terrible dread
gripped her all the while: that he could be so heavy and utterly inert, unresponsive, apart. The
horror of the distance between them was almost too much for her--it was so infinite a gap she
must look across.
At last it was finished. They covered him with a sheet and left him lying, with his face bound.
And she fastened the door of the little parlour, lest the children should E see what was lying
there. Then, with peace sunk heavy on her heart, she went about making tidy the kitchen. She
knew she submitted to life, which was her immediate master. But from death, her ultimate
master, she winced with fear and shame.
218

THE PRUSSIAN OFFICER – DH Lawrence
I
They had marched more than thirty kilometres since dawn, along the white, hot road where
occasional thickets of trees threw a moment of shade, then out into the glare again. On either
hand, the valley, wide and shallow, glittered with heat; dark green patches of rye, pale young
corn, fallow and meadow and black pine woods spread in a dull, hot diagram under a
glistening sky. But right in front the mountains ranged across, pale blue and very still, snow
gleaming gently out of the deep atmosphere. And towards the mountains, on and on, the
regiment marched between the rye fields and the meadows, between the scraggy fruit trees
set regularly on either side the high road. The burnished, dark green rye threw off a
suffocating heat, the mountains drew gradually nearer and more distinct. While the feet of the
soldiers grew hotter, sweat ran through their hair under their helmets, and their knapsacks
could burn no more in contact with their shoulders, but seemed instead to give off a cold,
prickly sensation.
He walked on and on in silence, staring at the mountains ahead, that rose sheer out of the
land, and stood fold behind fold, half earth, half heaven, the heaven, the barrier with slits of
soft snow, in the pale, bluish peaks.
He could now walk almost without pain. At the start, he had determined not to limp. It had
made him sick to take the first steps, and during the first mile or so, he had compressed his
breath, and the cold drops of sweat had stood on his forehead. But he had walked it off. What
were they after all but bruises! He had looked at them, as he was getting up: deep bruises on
the backs of his thighs. And since he had made his first step in the morning, he had been
conscious of them, till now he had a tight, hot place in his chest, with suppressing the pain,
and holding himself in. There seemed no air when he breathed. But he walked almost lightly.
The Captain's hand had trembled at taking his coffee at dawn: his orderly saw it again. And
he saw the fine figure of the Captain wheeling on horseback at the farm-house ahead, a
handsome figure in pale blue uniform with facings of scarlet, and the metal gleaming on the
black helmet and the sword-scabbard, and dark streaks of sweat coming on the silky bay
horse. The orderly felt he was connected with that figure moving so suddenly on horseback:
he followed it like a shadow, mute and inevitable and damned by it. And the officer was
always aware of the tramp of the company behind, the march of his orderly among the men.
The Captain was a tall man of about forty, grey at the temples. He had a handsome, finely
knit figure, and was one of the best horsemen in the West. His orderly, having to rub him
down, admired the amazing riding-muscles of his loins.
For the rest, the orderly scarcely noticed the officer any more than he noticed himself. It was
rarely he saw his master's face: he did not look at it. The Captain had reddish-brown, stiff
hair, that he wore short upon his skull. His moustache was also cut short and bristly over a
full, brutal mouth. His face was rather rugged, the cheeks thin. Perhaps the man was the more
handsome for the deep lines in his face, the irritable tension of his brow, which gave him the
look of a man who fights with life. His fair eyebrows stood bushy over light blue eyes that
were always flashing with cold fire.
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He was a Prussian aristocrat, haughty and overbearing. But his mother had been a Polish
Countess. Having made too many gambling debts when he was young, he had ruined his
prospects in the Army, and remained an infantry captain. He had never married: his position
did not allow of it, and no woman had ever moved him to it. His time he spent riding--
occasionally he rode one of his own horses at the races--and at the officers' club. Now and
then he took himself a mistress. But after such an event, he returned to duty with his brow
still more tense, his eyes still more hostile and irritable. With the men, however, he was
merely impersonal, though a devil when roused; so that, on the whole, they feared him, but
had no great aversion from him. They accepted him as the inevitable.
To his orderly he was at first cold and just and indifferent: he did not fuss over trifles. So that
his servant knew practically nothing about him, except just what orders he would give, and
how he wanted them obeyed. That was quite simple. Then the change gradually came.
The orderly was a youth of about twenty-two, of medium height, and well built. He had
strong, heavy limbs, was swarthy, with a soft, black, young moustache. There was something
altogether warm and young about him. He had firmly marked eyebrows over dark,
expressionless eyes, that seemed never to have thought, only to have received life direct
through his senses, and acted straight from instinct.
Gradually the officer had become aware of his servant's young, vigorous, unconscious
presence about him. He could not get away from the sense of the youth's person, while he
was in attendance. It was like a warm flame upon the older man's tense, rigid body, that had
become almost unliving, fixed. There was something so free and self-contained about him,
and something in the young fellow's movement, that made the officer aware of him. And this
irritated the Prussian. He did not choose to be touched into life by his servant. He might
easily have changed his man, but he did not. He now very rarely looked direct at his orderly,
but kept his face averted, as if to avoid seeing him. And yet as the young soldier moved
unthinking about the apartment, the elder watched him, and would notice the movement of
his strong young shoulders under the blue cloth, the bend of his neck. And it irritated him. To
see the soldier's young, brown, shapely peasant's hand grasp the loaf or the wine-bottle sent a
flash of hate or of anger through the elder man's blood. It was not that the youth was clumsy:
it was rather the blind, instinctive sureness of movement of an unhampered young animal that
irritated the officer to such a degree.
Once, when a bottle of wine had gone over, and the red gushed out on to the tablecloth, the
officer had started up with an oath, and his eyes, bluey like fire, had held those of the
confused youth for a moment. It was a shock for the young soldier. He felt something sink
deeper, deeper into his soul, where nothing had ever gone before. It left him rather blank and
wondering. Some of his natural completeness in himself was gone, a little uneasiness took its
place. And from that time an undiscovered feeling had held between the two men.
Henceforward the orderly was afraid of really meeting his master. His subconsciousness
remembered those steely blue eyes and the harsh brows, and did not intend to meet them
again. So he always stared past his master, and avoided him. Also, in a little anxiety, he
waited for the three months to have gone, when his time would be up. He began to feel a
constraint in the Captain's presence, and the soldier even more than the officer wanted to be
left alone, in his neutrality as servant.
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He had served the Captain for more than a year, and knew his duty. This he performed easily,
as if it were natural to him. The officer and his commands he took for granted, as he took the
sun and the rain, and he served as a matter of course. It did not implicate him personally.
But now if he were going to be forced into a personal interchange with his master he would
be like a wild thing caught, he felt he must get away.
But the influence of the young soldier's being had penetrated through the officer's stiffened
discipline, and perturbed the man in him. He, however, was a gentleman, with long, fine
hands and cultivated movements, and was not going to allow such a thing as the stirring of
his innate self. He was a man of passionate temper, who had always kept himself suppressed.
Occasionally there had been a duel, an outburst before the soldiers. He knew himself to be
always on the point of breaking out. But he kept himself hard to the idea of the Service.
Whereas the young soldier seemed to live out his warm, full nature, to give it off in his very
movements, which had a certain zest, such as wild animals have in free movement. And this
irritated the officer more and more.
In spite of himself, the Captain could not regain his neutrality of feeling towards his orderly.
Nor could he leave the man alone. In spite of himself, he watched him, gave him sharp
orders, tried to take up as much of his time as possible. Sometimes he flew into a rage with
the young soldier, and bullied him. Then the orderly shut himself off, as it were out of
earshot, and waited, with sullen, flushed face, for the end of the noise. The words never
pierced to his intelligence, he made himself, protectively, impervious to the feelings of his
master.
He had a scar on his left thumb, a deep seam going across the knuckle. The officer had long
suffered from it, and wanted to do something to it. Still it was there, ugly and brutal on the
young, brown hand. At last the Captain's reserve gave way. One day, as the orderly was
smoothing out the tablecloth, the officer pinned down his thumb with a pencil, asking:
"How did you come by that"
The young man winced and drew back at attention.
"A wood axe, Herr Hauptmann," he answered.
The officer waited for further explanation. None came. The orderly went about his duties.
The elder man was sullenly angry. His servant avoided him. And the next day he had to use
all his will-power to avoid seeing the scarred thumb. He wanted to get hold of it and--A hot
flame ran in his blood.
He knew his servant would soon be free, and would be glad. As yet, the soldier had held
himself off from the elder man. The Captain grew madly irritable. He could not rest when the
soldier was away, and when he was present, he glared at him with tormented eyes. He hated
those fine, black brows over the unmeaning, dark eyes, he was infuriated by the free
movement of the handsome limbs, which no military discipline could make stiff. And he
became harsh and cruelly bullying, using contempt and satire. The young soldier only grew
more mute and expressionless.
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"What cattle were you bred by, that you can't keep straight eyes Look me in the eyes when I
speak to you."
And the soldier turned his dark eyes to the other's face, but there was no sight in them: he
stared with the slightest possible cast, holding back his sight, perceiving the blue of his
master's eyes, but receiving no look from them. And the elder man went pale, and his reddish
eyebrows twitched. He gave his order, barrenly.
Once he flung a heavy military glove into the young soldier's face. Then he had the
satisfaction of seeing the black eyes flare up into his own, like a blaze when straw is thrown
on a fire. And he had laughed with a little tremor and a sneer.
But there were only two months more. The youth instinctively tried to keep himself intact: he
tried to serve the officer as if the latter were an abstract authority and not a man. All his
instinct was to avoid personal contact, even definite hate. But in spite of himself the hate
grew, responsive to the officer's passion. However, he put it in the background. When he had
left the Army he could dare acknowledge it. By nature he was active, and had many friends.
He thought what amazing good fellows they were. But, without knowing it, he was alone.
Now this solitariness was intensified. It would carry him through his term. But the officer
seemed to be going irritably insane, and the youth was deeply frightened.
The soldier had a sweetheart, a girl from the mountains, independent and primitive. The two
walked together, rather silently. He went with her, not to talk, but to have his arm round her,
and for the physical contact. This eased him, made it easier for him to ignore the Captain; for
he could rest with her held fast against his chest. And she, in some unspoken fashion, was
there for him. They loved each other.
The Captain perceived it, and was mad with irritation. He kept the young man engaged all the
evenings long, and took pleasure in the dark look that came on his face. Occasionally, the
eyes of the two men met, those of the younger sullen and dark, doggedly unalterable, those of
the elder sneering with restless contempt.
The officer tried hard not to admit the passion that had got hold of him. He would not know
that his feeling for his orderly was anything but that of a man incensed by his stupid, perverse
servant. So, keeping quite justified and conventional in his consciousness, he let the other
thing run on. His nerves, however, were suffering. At last he slung the end of a belt in his
servant's face. When he saw the youth start back, the pain-tears in his eyes and the blood on
his mouth, he had felt at once a thrill of deep pleasure and of shame.
But this, he acknowledged to himself, was a thing he had never done before. The fellow was
too exasperating. His own nerves must be going to pieces. He went away for some days with
a woman.
It was a mockery of pleasure. He simply did not want the woman. But he stayed on for his
time. At the end of it, he came back in an agony of irritation, torment, and misery. He rode all
the evening, then came straight in to supper. His orderly was out. The officer sat with his
long, fine hands lying on the table, perfectly still, and all his blood seemed to be corroding.
At last his servant entered. He watched the strong, easy young figure, the fine eyebrows, the
thick black hair. In a week's time the youth had got back his old well-being. The hands of the
222

officer twitched and seemed to be full of mad flame. The young man stood at attention,
unmoving, shut off.
The meal went in silence. But the orderly seemed eager. He made a clatter with the dishes.
"Are you in a hurry" asked the officer, watching the intent, warm face of his servant. The
other did not reply.
"Will you answer my question" said the Captain.
"Yes, sir," replied the orderly, standing with his pile of deep Army plates. The Captain
waited, looked at him, then asked again:
"Are you in a hurry"
"Yes, sir," came the answer, that sent a flash through the listener.
"For what"
"I was going out, sir."
"I want you this evening."
There was a moment's hesitation. The officer had a curious stiffness of countenance.
"Yes, sir," replied the servant, in his throat.
"I want you to-morrow evening also--in fact, you may consider your evenings occupied,
unless I give you leave."
The mouth with the young moustache set close.
"Yes, sir," answered the orderly, loosening his lips for a moment.
He again turned to the door.
"And why have you a piece of pencil in your ear"
The orderly hesitated, then continued on his way without answering. He set the plates in a
pile outside the door, took the stump of pencil from his ear, and put it in his pocket. He had
been copying a verse for his sweetheart's birthday card. He returned to finish clearing the
table. The officer's eyes were dancing, he had a little, eager smile.
"Why have you a piece of pencil in your ear" he asked.
The orderly took his hands full of dishes. His master was standing near the great green stove,
a little smile on his face, his chin thrust forward. When the young soldier saw him his heart
suddenly ran hot. He felt blind. Instead of answering, he turned dazedly to the door. As he
was crouching to set down the dishes, he was pitched forward by a kick from behind. The
pots went in a stream down the stairs, he clung to the pillar of the banisters. And as he was
223

ising he was kicked heavily again, and again, so that he clung sickly to the post for some
moments. His master had gone swiftly into the room and closed the door. The maid-servant
downstairs looked up the staircase and made a mocking face at the crockery disaster.
The officer's heart was plunging. He poured himself a glass of wine, part of which he spilled
on the floor, and gulped the remainder, leaning against the cool, green stove. He heard his
man collecting the dishes from the stairs. Pale, as if intoxicated, he waited. The servant
entered again. The Captain's heart gave a pang, as of pleasure, seeing the young fellow
bewildered and uncertain on his feet, with pain.
"Schöner!" he said.
The soldier was a little slower in coming to attention.
"Yes, sir!"
The youth stood before him, with pathetic young moustache, and fine eyebrows very distinct
on his forehead of dark marble.
"I asked you a question."
"Yes, sir."
The officer's tone bit like acid.
"Why had you a pencil in your ear"
Again the servant's heart ran hot, and he could not breathe. With dark, strained eyes, he
looked at the officer, as if fascinated. And he stood there sturdily planted, unconscious. The
withering smile came into the Captain's eyes, and he lifted his foot.
"I--I forgot it--sir," panted the soldier, his dark eyes fixed on the other man's dancing blue
ones.
"What was it doing there"
He saw the young man's breast heaving as he made an effort for words.
"I had been writing."
"Writing what"
Again the soldier looked up and down. The officer could hear him panting. The smile came
into the blue eyes. The soldier worked his dry throat, but could not speak. Suddenly the smile
lit like a flame on the officer's face, and a kick came heavily against the orderly's thigh. The
youth moved a pace sideways. His face went dead, with two black, staring eyes.
"Well" said the officer.
224

The orderly's mouth had gone dry, and his tongue rubbed in it as on dry brown-paper. He
worked his throat. The officer raised his foot. The servant went stiff.
"Some poetry, sir," came the crackling, unrecognizable sound of his voice.
"Poetry, what poetry" asked the Captain, with a sickly smile.
Again there was the working in the throat. The Captain's heart had suddenly gone down
heavily, and he stood sick and tired.
"For my girl, sir," he heard the dry, inhuman sound.
"Oh!" he said, turning away. "Clear the table."
"Click!" went the soldier's throat; then again, "click!" and then the half-articulate:
"Yes, sir."
The young soldier was gone, looking old, and walking heavily.
The officer, left alone, held himself rigid, to prevent himself from thinking. His instinct
warned him that he must not think. Deep inside him was the intense gratification of his
passion, still working powerfully. Then there was a counter-action, a horrible breaking down
of something inside him, a whole agony of reaction. He stood there for an hour motionless, a
chaos of sensations, but rigid with a will to keep blank his consciousness, to prevent his mind
grasping. And he held himself so until the worst of the stress had passed, when he began to
drink, drank himself to an intoxication, till he slept obliterated. When he woke in the morning
he was shaken to the base of his nature. But he had fought off the realization of what he had
done. He had prevented his mind from taking it in, had suppressed it along with his instincts,
and the conscious man had nothing to do with it. He felt only as after a bout of intoxication,
weak, but the affair itself all dim and not to be recovered. Of the drunkenness of his passion
he successfully refused remembrance. And when his orderly appeared with coffee, the officer
assumed the same self he had had the morning before. He refused the event of the past night--
denied it had ever been--and was successful in his denial. He had not done any such thing--
not he himself. Whatever there might be lay at the door of a stupid, insubordinate servant.
The orderly had gone about in a stupor all the evening. He drank some beer because he was
parched, but not much, the alcohol made his feeling come back, and he could not bear it. He
was dulled, as if nine-tenths of the ordinary man in him were inert. He crawled about
disfigured. Still, when he thought of the kicks, he went sick, and when he thought of the
threat of more kicking, in the room afterwards, his heart went hot and faint, and he panted,
remembering the one that had come. He had been forced to say, "For my girl." He was much
too done even to want to cry. His mouth hung slightly open, like an idiot's. He felt vacant,
and wasted. So, he wandered at his work, painfully, and very slowly and clumsily, fumbling
blindly with the brushes, and finding it difficult, when he sat down, to summon the energy to
move again. His limbs, his jaw, were slack and nerveless. But he was very tired. He got to
bed at last, and slept inert, relaxed, in a sleep that was rather stupor than slumber, a dead
night of stupefaction shot through with gleams of anguish.
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In the morning were the manoeuvres. But he woke even before the bugle sounded. The
painful ache in his chest, the dryness of his throat, the awful steady feeling of misery made
his eyes come awake and dreary at once. He knew, without thinking, what had happened.
And he knew that the day had come again, when he must go on with his round. The last bit of
darkness was being pushed out of the room. He would have to move his inert body and go on.
He was so young, and had known so little trouble, that he was bewildered. He only wished it
would stay night, so that he could lie still, covered up by the darkness. And yet nothing would
prevent the day from coming, nothing would save him from having to get up and saddle the
Captain's horse, and make the Captain's coffee. It was there, inevitable. And then, he thought,
it was impossible. Yet they would not leave him free. He must go and take the coffee to the
Captain. He was too stunned to understand it. He only knew it was inevitable--inevitable,
however long he lay inert.
At last, after heaving at himself, for he seemed to be a mass of inertia, he got up. But he had
to force every one of his movements from behind, with his will. He felt lost, and dazed, and
helpless. Then he clutched hold of the bed, the pain was so keen. And looking at his thighs,
he saw the darker bruises on his swarthy flesh and he knew that, if he pressed one of his
fingers on one of the bruises, he should faint. But he did not want to faint--he did not want
anybody to know. No one should ever know. It was between him and the Captain. There were
only the two people in the world now--himself and the Captain.
Slowly, economically, he got dressed and forced himself to walk. Everything was obscure,
except just what he had his hands on. But he managed to get through his work. The very pain
revived his dull senses. The worst remained yet. He took the tray and went up to the Captain's
room. The officer, pale and heavy, sat at the table. The orderly, as he saluted, felt himself put
out of existence. He stood still for a moment submitting to his own nullification--then he
gathered himself, seemed to regain himself, and then the Captain began to grow vague,
unreal, and the younger soldier's heart beat up. He clung to this situation--that the Captain did
not exist--so that he himself might live. But when he saw his officer's hand tremble as he took
the coffee, he felt everything falling shattered. And he went away, feeling as if he himself
were coming to pieces, disintegrated. And when the Captain was there on horseback, giving
orders, while he himself stood, with rifle and knapsack, sick with pain, he felt as if he must
shut his eyes--as if he must shut his eyes on everything. It was only the long agony of
marching with a parched throat that filled him with one single, sleep-heavy intention: to save
himself.
II
He was getting used even to his parched throat. That the snowy peaks were radiant among the
sky, that the whity-green glacier-river twisted through its pale shoals, in the valley below,
seemed almost supernatural. But he was going mad with fever and thirst. He plodded on
uncomplaining. He did not want to speak, not to anybody. There were two gulls, like flakes
of water and snow, over the river. The scent of green rye soaked in sunshine came like a
sickness. And the march continued, monotonously, almost like a bad sleep.
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At the next farm-house, which stood low and broad near the high road, tubs of water had
been put out. The soldiers clustered round to drink. They took off their helmets, and the
steam mounted from their wet hair. The Captain sat on horseback, watching. He needed to
see his orderly. His helmet threw a dark shadow over his light, fierce eyes, but his moustache
and mouth and chin were distinct in the sunshine. The orderly must move under the presence
of the figure of the horseman. It was not that he was afraid, or cowed. It was as if he was
disembowelled, made empty, like an empty shell. He felt himself as nothing, a shadow
creeping under the sunshine. And, thirsty as he was, he could scarcely drink, feeling the
Captain near him. He would not take off his helmet to wipe his wet hair. He wanted to stay in
shadow, not to be forced into consciousness. Starting, he saw the light heel of the officer
prick the belly of the horse; the Captain cantered away, and he himself could relapse into
vacancy.
Nothing, however, could give him back his living place in the hot, bright morning. He felt
like a gap among it all. Whereas the Captain was prouder, overriding. A hot flash went
through the young servant's body. The Captain was firmer and prouder with life, he himself
was empty as a shadow. Again the flash went through him, dazing him out. But his heart ran
a little firmer.
The company turned up the hill, to make a loop for the return. Below, from among the trees,
the farm-bell clanged. He saw the labourers, mowing barefoot at the thick grass, leave off
their work and go downhill, their scythes hanging over their shoulders, like long, bright claws
curving down behind them. They seemed like dream-people, as if they had no relation to
himself. He felt as in a blackish dream: as if all the other things were there and had form, but
he himself was only a consciousness, a gap that could think and perceive.
The soldiers were tramping silently up the glaring hillside. Gradually his head began to
revolve, slowly, rhythmically. Sometimes it was dark before his eyes, as if he saw this world
through a smoked glass, frail shadows and unreal. It gave him a pain in his head to walk.
The air was too scented, it gave no breath. All the lush greenstuff seemed to be issuing its
sap, till the air was deathly, sickly with the smell of greenness. There was the perfume of
clover, like pure honey and bees. Then there grew a faint acrid tang--they were near the
beeches; and then a queer clattering noise, and a suffocating, hideous smell; they were
passing a flock of sheep, a shepherd in a black smock, holding his crook. Why should the
sheep huddle together under this fierce sun He felt that the shepherd would not see him,
though he could see the shepherd.
At last there was the halt. They stacked rifles in a conical stack, put down their kit in a
scattered circle around it, and dispersed a little, sitting on a small knoll high on the hillside.
The chatter began. The soldiers were steaming with heat, but were lively. He sat still, seeing
the blue mountains rising upon the land, twenty kilometres away. There was a blue fold in the
ranges, then out of that, at the foot, the broad, pale bed of the river, stretches of whity-green
water between pinkish-grey shoals among the dark pine woods. There it was, spread out a
long way off. And it seemed to come downhill, the river. There was a raft being steered, a
mile away. It was a strange country. Nearer, a red-roofed, broad farm with white base and
square dots of windows crouched beside the wall of beech foliage on the wood's edge. There
were long strips of rye and clover and pale green corn. And just at his feet, below the knoll,
was a darkish bog, where globe flowers stood breathless still on their slim stalks. And some
227

of the pale gold bubbles were burst, and a broken fragment hung in the air. He thought he was
going to sleep.
Suddenly something moved into this coloured mirage before his eyes. The Captain, a small,
light-blue and scarlet figure, was trotting evenly between the strips of corn, along the level
brow of the hill. And the man making flag-signals was coming on. Proud and sure moved the
horseman's figure, the quick, bright thing, in which was concentrated all the light of this
morning, which for the rest lay a fragile, shining shadow. Submissive, apathetic, the young
soldier sat and stared. But as the horse slowed to a walk, coming up the last steep path, the
great flash flared over the body and soul of the orderly. He sat waiting. The back of his head
felt as if it were weighted with a heavy piece of fire. He did not want to eat. His hands
trembled slightly as he moved them. Meanwhile the officer on horseback was approaching
slowly and proudly. The tension grew in the orderly's soul. Then again, seeing the Captain
ease himself on the saddle, the flash blazed through him.
The Captain looked at the patch of light blue and scarlet, and dark heads, scattered closely on
the hillside. It pleased him. The command pleased him. And he was feeling proud. His
orderly was among them in common subjection. The officer rose a little on his stirrups to
look. The young soldier sat with averted, dumb face. The Captain relaxed on his seat. His
slim-legged, beautiful horse, brown as a beech nut, walked proudly uphill. The Captain
passed into the zone of the company's atmosphere: a hot smell of men, of sweat, of leather.
He knew it very well. After a word with the lieutenant, he went a few paces higher, and sat
there, a dominant figure, his sweat-marked horse swishing its tail, while he looked down on
his men, on his orderly, a nonentity among the crowd.
The young soldier's heart was like fire in his chest, and he breathed with difficulty. The
officer, looking downhill, saw three of the young soldiers, two pails of water between them,
staggering across a sunny green field. A table had been set up under a tree, and there the slim
lieutenant stood, importantly busy. Then the Captain summoned himself to an act of courage.
He called his orderly.
The flame leapt into the young soldier's throat as he heard the command, and he rose blindly,
stifled. He saluted, standing below the officer. He did not look up. But there was the flicker in
the Captain's voice.
"Go to the inn and fetch me . . ." the officer gave his commands. "Quick!" he added.
At the last word, the heart of the servant leapt with a flash, and he felt the strength come over
his body. But he turned in mechanical obedience, and set off at a heavy run downhill, looking
almost like a bear, his trousers bagging over his military boots. And the officer watched this
blind, plunging run all the way.
But it was only the outside of the orderly's body that was obeying so humbly and
mechanically. Inside had gradually accumulated a core into which all the energy of that
young life was compact and concentrated. He executed his commission, and plodded quickly
back uphill. There was a pain in his head, as he walked, that made him twist his features
unknowingly. But hard there in the centre of his chest was himself, himself, firm, and not to
be plucked to pieces.
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The Captain had gone up into the wood. The orderly plodded through the hot, powerfully
smelling zone of the company's atmosphere. He had a curious mass of energy inside him
now. The Captain was less real than himself. He approached the green entrance to the wood.
There, in the half-shade, he saw the horse standing, the sunshine and the flickering shadow of
leaves dancing over his brown body. There was a clearing where timber had lately been
felled. Here, in the gold-green shade beside the brilliant cup of sunshine, stood two figures,
blue and pink, the bits of pink showing out plainly. The Captain was talking to his lieutenant.
The orderly stood on the edge of the bright clearing, where great trunks of trees, stripped and
glistening, lay stretched like naked, brown-skinned bodies. Chips of wood littered the
trampled floor, like splashed light, and the bases of the felled trees stood here and there, with
their raw, level tops. Beyond was the brilliant, sunlit green of a beech.
"Then I will ride forward," the orderly heard his Captain say. The lieutenant saluted and
strode away. He himself went forward. A hot flash passed through his belly, as he tramped
towards his officer.
The Captain watched the rather heavy figure of the young soldier stumble forward, and his
veins, too, ran hot. This was to be man to man between them. He yielded before the solid,
stumbling figure with bent head. The orderly stooped and put the food on a level-sawn treebase.
The Captain watched the glistening, sun-inflamed, naked hands. He wanted to speak to
the young soldier, but could not. The servant propped a bottle against his thigh, pressed open
the cork, and poured out the beer into the mug. He kept his head bent. The Captain accepted
the mug.
"Hot!" he said, as if amiably.
The flame sprang out of the orderly's heart, nearly suffocating him.
"Yes, sir," he replied, between shut teeth.
And he heard the sound of the Captain's drinking, and he clenched his fists, such a strong
torment came into his wrists. Then came the faint clang of the closing pot-lid. He looked up.
The Captain was watching him. He glanced swiftly away. Then he saw the officer stoop and
take a piece of bread from the tree-base. Again the flash of flame went through the young
soldier, seeing the stiff body stoop beneath him, and his hands jerked. He looked away. He
could feel the officer was nervous. The bread fell as it was being broken. The officer ate the
other piece. The two men stood tense and still, the master laboriously chewing his bread, the
servant staring with averted face, his fist clenched.
Then the young soldier started. The officer had pressed open the lid of the mug again. The
orderly watched the lid of the mug, and the white hand that clenched the handle, as if he were
fascinated. It was raised. The youth followed it with his eyes. And then he saw the thin,
strong throat of the elder man moving up and down as he drank, the strong jaw working. And
the instinct which had been jerking at the young man's wrists suddenly jerked free. He
jumped, feeling as if it were rent in two by a strong flame.
The spur of the officer caught in a tree-root, he went down backwards with a crash, the
middle of his back thudding sickeningly against a sharp-edged tree-base, the pot flying away.
And in a second the orderly, with serious, earnest young face, and underlip between his teeth,
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had got his knee in the officer's chest and was pressing the chin backward over the farther
edge of the tree-stump, pressing, with all his heart behind in a passion of relief, the tension of
his wrists exquisite with relief. And with the base of his palms he shoved at the chin, with all
his might. And it was pleasant, too, to have that chin, that hard jaw already slightly rough
with beard, in his hands. He did not relax one hair's breadth, but, all the force of all his blood
exulting in his thrust, he shoved back the head of the other man, till there was a little "cluck"
and a crunching sensation. Then he felt as if his head went to vapour. Heavy convulsions
shook the body of the officer, frightening and horrifying the young soldier. Yet it pleased
him, too, to repress them. It pleased him to keep his hands pressing back the chin, to feel the
chest of the other man yield in expiration to the weight of his strong, young knees, to feel the
hard twitchings of the prostrate body jerking his own whole frame, which was pressed down
on it.
But it went still. He could look into the nostrils of the other man, the eyes he could scarcely
see. How curiously the mouth was pushed out, exaggerating the full lips, and the moustache
bristling up from them. Then, with a start, he noticed the nostrils gradually filled with blood.
The red brimmed, hesitated, ran over, and went in a thin trickle down the face to the eyes.
It shocked and distressed him. Slowly, he got up. The body twitched and sprawled there,
inert. He stood and looked at it in silence. It was a pity it was broken. It represented more
than the thing which had kicked and bullied him. He was afraid to look at the eyes. They
were hideous now, only the whites showing, and the blood running to them. The face of the
orderly was drawn with horror at the sight. Well, it was so. In his heart he was satisfied. He
had hated the face of the Captain. It was extinguished now. There was a heavy relief in the
orderly's soul. That was as it should be. But he could not bear to see the long, military body
lying broken over the tree-base, the fine fingers crisped. He wanted to hide it away.
Quickly, busily, he gathered it up and pushed it under the felled tree-trunks, which rested
their beautiful, smooth length either end on logs. The face was horrible with blood. He
covered it with the helmet. Then he pushed the limbs straight and decent, and brushed the
dead leaves off the fine cloth of the uniform. So, it lay quite still in the shadow under there. A
little strip of sunshine ran along the breast, from a chink between the logs. The orderly sat by
it for a few moments. Here his own life also ended.
Then, through his daze, he heard the lieutenant, in a loud voice, explaining to the men outside
the wood, that they were to suppose the bridge on the river below was held by the enemy.
Now they were to march to the attack in such and such a manner. The lieutenant had no gift
of expression. The orderly, listening from habit, got muddled. And when the lieutenant began
it all again he ceased to hear.
He knew he must go. He stood up. It surprised him that the leaves were glittering in the sun,
and the chips of wood reflecting white from the ground. For him a change had come over the
world. But for the rest it had not--all seemed the same. Only he had left it. And he could not
go back. It was his duty to return with the beer-pot and the bottle. He could not. He had left
all that. The lieutenant was still hoarsely explaining. He must go, or they would overtake him.
And he could not bear contact with anyone now.
He drew his fingers over his eyes, trying to find out where he was. Then he turned away. He
saw the horse standing in the path. He went up to it and mounted. It hurt him to sit in the
saddle. The pain of keeping his seat occupied him as they cantered through the wood. He
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would not have minded anything, but he could not get away from the sense of being divided
from the others. The path led out of the trees. On the edge of the wood he pulled up and stood
watching. There in the spacious sunshine of the valley soldiers were moving in a little swarm.
Every now and then, a man harrowing on a strip of fallow shouted to his oxen, at the turn.
The village and the white-towered church was small in the sunshine. And he no longer
belonged to it--he sat there, beyond, like a man outside in the dark. He had gone out from
everyday life into the unknown, and he could not, he even did not want to go back.
Turning from the sun-blazing valley, he rode deep into the wood. Tree-trunks, like people
standing grey and still, took no notice as he went. A doe, herself a moving bit of sunshine and
shadow, went running through the flecked shade. There were bright green rents in the foliage.
Then it was all pine wood, dark and cool. And he was sick with pain, he had an intolerable
great pulse in his head, and he was sick. He had never been ill in his life. He felt lost, quite
dazed with all this.
Trying to get down from the horse, he fell, astonished at the pain and his lack of balance. The
horse shifted uneasily. He jerked its bridle and sent it cantering jerkily away. It was his last
connection with the rest of things.
But he only wanted to lie down and not be disturbed. Stumbling through the trees, he came
on a quiet place where beeches and pine trees grew on a slope. Immediately he had lain down
and closed his eyes, his consciousness went racing on without him. A big pulse of sickness
beat in him as if it throbbed through the whole earth. He was burning with dry heat. But he
was too busy, too tearingly active in the incoherent race of delirium to observe.
III
He came to with a start. His mouth was dry and hard, his heart beat heavily, but he had not
the energy to get up. His heart beat heavily. Where was he--the barracks--at home There
was something knocking. And, making an effort, he looked round--trees, and litter of
greenery, and reddish, bright, still pieces of sunshine on the floor. He did not believe he was
himself, he did not believe what he saw. Something was knocking. He made a struggle
towards consciousness, but relapsed. Then he struggled again. And gradually his
surroundings fell into relationship with himself. He knew, and a great pang of fear went
through his heart. Somebody was knocking. He could see the heavy, black rags of a fir tree
overhead. Then everything went black. Yet he did not believe he had closed his eyes. He had
not. Out of the blackness sight slowly emerged again. And someone was knocking. Quickly,
he saw the blood-disfigured face of his Captain, which he hated. And he held himself still
with horror. Yet, deep inside him, he knew that it was so, the Captain should be dead. But the
physical delirium got hold of him. Someone was knocking. He lay perfectly still, as if dead,
with fear. And he went unconscious.
When he opened his eyes again, he started, seeing something creeping swiftly up a tree-trunk.
It was a little bird. And the bird was whistling overhead. Tap-tap-tap--it was the small, quick
bird rapping the tree-trunk with its beak, as if its head were a little round hammer. He
watched it curiously. It shifted sharply, in its creeping fashion. Then, like a mouse, it slid
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down the bare trunk. Its swift creeping sent a flash of revulsion through him. He raised his
head. It felt a great weight. Then, the little bird ran out of the shadow across a still patch of
sunshine, its little head bobbing swiftly, its white legs twinkling brightly for a moment. How
neat it was in its build, so compact, with pieces of white on its wings. There were several of
them. They were so pretty--but they crept like swift, erratic mice, running here and there
among the beech-mast.
He lay down again exhausted, and his consciousness lapsed. He had a horror of the little
creeping birds. All his blood seemed to be darting and creeping in his head. And yet he could
not move.
He came to with a further ache of exhaustion. There was the pain in his head, and the horrible
sickness, and his inability to move. He had never been ill in his life. He did not know where
he was or what he was. Probably he had got sunstroke. Or what else--he had silenced the
Captain for ever--some time ago--oh, a long time ago. There had been blood on his face, and
his eyes had turned upwards. It was all right, somehow. It was peace. But now he had got
beyond himself. He had never been here before. Was it life, or not life He was by himself.
They were in a big, bright place, those others, and he was outside. The town, all the country,
a big bright place of light: and he was outside, here, in the darkened open beyond, where each
thing existed alone. But they would all have to come out there sometime, those others. Little,
and left behind him, they all were. There had been father and mother and sweetheart. What
did they all matter This was the open land.
He sat up. Something scuffled. It was a little, brown squirrel running in lovely, undulating
bounds over the floor, its red tail completing the undulation of its body--and then, as it sat up,
furling and unfurling. He watched it, pleased. It ran on again, friskily, enjoying itself. It flew
wildly at another squirrel, and they were chasing each other, and making little scolding,
chattering noises. The soldier wanted to speak to them. But only a hoarse sound came out of
his throat. The squirrels burst away--they flew up the trees. And then he saw the one peeping
round at him, half-way up a tree-trunk. A start of fear went through him, though, in so far as
he was conscious, he was amused. It still stayed, its little, keen face staring at him halfway up
the tree-trunk, its little ears pricked up, its clawey little hands clinging to the bark, its white
breast reared. He started from it in panic.
Struggling to his feet, he lurched away. He went on walking, walking, looking for something-
-for a drink. His brain felt hot and inflamed for want of water. He stumbled on. Then he did
not know anything. He went unconscious as he walked. Yet he stumbled on, his mouth open.
When, to his dumb wonder, he opened his eyes on the world again, he no longer tried to
remember what it was. There was thick, golden light behind golden-green glitterings, and tall,
grey-purple shafts, and darknesses further off, surrounding him, growing deeper. He was
conscious of a sense of arrival. He was amid the reality, on the real, dark bottom. But there
was the thirst burning in his brain. He felt lighter, not so heavy. He supposed it was newness.
The air was muttering with thunder. He thought he was walking wonderfully swiftly and was
coming straight to relief--or was it to water
Suddenly he stood still with fear. There was a tremendous flare of gold, immense--just a few
dark trunks like bars between him and it. All the young level wheat was burnished gold
glaring on its silky green. A woman, full-skirted, a black cloth on her head for head-dress,
was passing like a block of shadow through the glistening, green corn, into the full glare.
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There was a farm, too, pale blue in shadow, and the timber black. And there was a church
spire, nearly fused away in the gold. The woman moved on, away from him. He had no
language with which to speak to her. She was the bright, solid unreality. She would make a
noise of words that would confuse him, and her eyes would look at him without seeing him.
She was crossing there to the other side. He stood against a tree.
When at last he turned, looking down the long, bare grove whose flat bed was already filling
dark, he saw the mountains in a wonder-light, not far away, and radiant. Behind the soft, grey
ridge of the nearest range the further mountains stood golden and pale grey, the snow all
radiant like pure, soft gold. So still, gleaming in the sky, fashioned pure out of the ore of the
sky, they shone in their silence. He stood and looked at them, his face illuminated. And like
the golden, lustrous gleaming of the snow he felt his own thirst bright in him. He stood and
gazed, leaning against a tree. And then everything slid away into space.
During the night the lightning fluttered perpetually, making the whole sky white. He must
have walked again. The world hung livid round him for moments, fields a level sheen of
grey-green light, trees in dark bulk, and the range of clouds black across a white sky. Then
the darkness fell like a shutter, and the night was whole. A faint flutter of a half-revealed
world, that could not quite leap out of the darkness!--Then there again stood a sweep of pallor
for the land, dark shapes looming, a range of clouds hanging overhead. The world was a
ghostly shadow, thrown for a moment upon the pure darkness, which returned ever whole and
complete.
And the mere delirium of sickness and fever went on inside him--his brain opening and
shutting like the night--then sometimes convulsions of terror from something with great eyes
that stared round a tree--then the long agony of the march, and the sun decomposing his
blood--then the pang of hate for the Captain, followed by a pang of tenderness and ease. But
everything was distorted, born of an ache and resolving into an ache.
In the morning he came definitely awake. Then his brain flamed with the sole horror of
thirstiness! The sun was on his face, the dew was steaming from his wet clothes. Like one
possessed, he got up. There, straight in front of him, blue and cool and tender, the mountains
ranged across the pale edge of the morning sky. He wanted them--he wanted them alone--he
wanted to leave himself and be identified with them. They did not move, they were still soft,
with white, gentle markings of snow. He stood still, mad with suffering, his hands crisping
and clutching. Then he was twisting in a paroxysm on the grass.
He lay still, in a kind of dream of anguish. His thirst seemed to have separated itself from
him, and to stand apart, a single demand. Then the pain he felt was another single self. Then
there was the clog of his body, another separate thing. He was divided among all kinds of
separate beings. There was some strange, agonized connection between them, but they were
drawing further apart. Then they would all split. The sun, drilling down on him, was drilling
through the bond. Then they would all fall, fall through the everlasting lapse of space. Then
again, his consciousness reasserted itself. He roused on to his elbow and stared at the
gleaming mountains. There they ranked, all still and wonderful between earth and heaven. He
stared till his eyes went black, and the mountains, as they stood in their beauty, so clean and
cool, seemed to have it, that which was lost in him.
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IV
When the soldiers found him, three hours later, he was lying with his face over his arm, his
black hair giving off heat under the sun. But he was still alive. Seeing the open, black mouth
the young soldiers dropped him in horror.
He died in the hospital at night, without having seen again.
The doctors saw the bruises on his legs, behind, and were silent.
The bodies of the two men lay together, side by side, in the mortuary, the one white and
slender, but laid rigidly at rest, the other looking as if every moment it must rouse into life
again, so young and unused, from a slumber.
234

THE THORN IN THE FLESH – DH Lawrence
A wind was running, so that occasionally the poplars whitened as if a flame flew up them.
The sky was broken and blue among moving clouds. Patches of sunshine lay on the level
fields, and shadows on the rye and the vineyards. In the distance, very blue, the cathedral
bristled against the sky, and the houses of the city of Metz clustered vaguely below, like a
hill.
I
Among the fields by the lime trees stood the barracks, upon bare, dry ground, a collection of
round-roofed huts of corrugated iron, where the soldiers' nasturtiums climbed brilliantly.
There was a tract of vegetable garden at the side, with the soldiers' yellowish lettuces in rows,
and at the back the big, hard drilling-yard surrounded by a wire fence.
At this time in the afternoon, the huts were deserted, all the beds pushed up, the soldiers were
lounging about under the lime trees waiting for the call to drill. Bachmann sat on a bench in
the shade that smelled sickly with blossom. Pale green, wrecked lime flowers were scattered
on the ground. He was writing his weekly post card to his mother. He was a fair, long, limber
youth, good looking. He sat very still indeed, trying to write his post card. His blue uniform,
sagging on him as he sat bent over the card, disfigured his youthful shape. His sunburnt hand
waited motionless for the words to come. "Dear mother"--was all he had written. Then he
scribbled mechanically: "Many thanks for your letter with what you sent. Everything is all
right with me. We are just off to drill on the fortifications--" Here he broke off and sat
suspended, oblivious of everything, held in some definite suspense. He looked again at the
card. But he could write no more. Out of the knot of his consciousness no word would come.
He signed himself, and looked up, as a man looks to see if anyone has noticed him in his
privacy.
There was a self-conscious strain in his blue eyes, and a pallor about his mouth, where the
young, fair moustache glistened. He was almost girlish in his good looks and his grace. But
he had something of military consciousness, as if he believed in the discipline for himself,
and found satisfaction in delivering himself to his duty. There was also a trace of youthful
swagger and dare-devilry about his mouth and his limber body, but this was in suppression
now.
He put the post card in the pocket of his tunic, and went to join a group of his comrades who
were lounging in the shade, laughing and talking grossly. To-day he was out of it. He only
stood near to them for the warmth of the association. In his own consciousness something
held him down.
Presently they were summoned to ranks. The sergeant came out to take command. He was a
strongly built, rather heavy man of forty. His head was thrust forward, sunk a little between
his powerful shoulders, and the strong jaw was pushed out aggressively. But the eyes were
smouldering, the face hung slack and sodden with drink.
He gave his orders in brutal, barking shouts, and the little company moved forward, out of the
wire-fenced yard to the open road, marching rhythmically, raising the dust. Bachmann, one of
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the inner file of four deep, marched in the airless ranks, half suffocated with heat and dust
and enclosure. Through the moving of his comrades' bodies, he could see the small vines
dusty by the roadside, the poppies among the tares fluttering and blown to pieces, the distant
spaces of sky and fields all free with air and sunshine. But he was bound in a very dark
enclosure of anxiety within himself.
He marched with his usual ease, being healthy and well adjusted. But his body went on by
itself. His spirit was clenched apart. And ever the few soldiers drew nearer and nearer to the
town, ever the consciousness of the youth became more gripped and separate, his body
worked by a kind of mechanical intelligence, a mere presence of mind.
They diverged from the high road and passed in single file down a path among trees. All was
silent and green and mysterious, with shadow of foliage and long, green, undisturbed grass.
Then they came out in the sunshine on a moat of water, which wound silently between the
long, flowery grass, at the foot of the earthworks, that rose in front in terraces walled smooth
on the face, but all soft with long grass at the top. Marguerite daisies and lady's-slipper
glimmered white and gold in the lush grass, preserved here in the intense peace of the
fortifications. Thickets of trees stood round about. Occasionally a puff of mysterious wind
made the flowers and the long grass that crested the earthworks above bow and shake as with
signals of oncoming alarm.
The group of soldiers stood at the end of the moat, in their light blue and scarlet uniforms,
very bright. The sergeant was giving them instructions, and his shout came sharp and
alarming in the intense, untouched stillness of the place. They listened, finding it difficult to
make the effort of understanding.
Then it was over, and the men were moving to make preparations. On the other side of the
moat the ramparts rose smooth and clear in the sun, sloping slightly back. Along the summit
grass grew and tall daisies stood ledged high, like magic, against the dark green of the treetops
behind. The noise of the town, the running of tram-cars, was heard distinctly, but it
seemed not to penetrate this still place.
The water of the moat was motionless. In silence the practice began. One of the soldiers took
a scaling ladder, and passing along the narrow ledge at the foot of the earthworks, with the
water of the moat just behind him, tried to get a fixture on the slightly sloping wall-face.
There he stood, small and isolated, at the foot of the wall, trying to get his ladder settled. At
last it held, and the clumsy, groping figure in the baggy blue uniform began to clamber up.
The rest of the soldiers stood and watched. Occasionally the sergeant barked a command.
Slowly the clumsy blue figure clambered higher up the wall-face. Bachmann stood with his
bowels turned to water. The figure of the climbing soldier scrambled out on to the terrace up
above, and moved, blue and distinct, among the bright green grass. The officer shouted from
below. The soldier tramped along, fixed the ladder in another spot, and carefully lowered
himself on to the rungs. Bachmann watched the blind foot groping in space for the ladder,
and he felt the world fall away beneath him. The figure of the soldier clung cringing against
the face of the wall, cleaving, groping downwards like some unsure insect working its way
lower and lower, fearing every movement. At last, sweating and with a strained face, the
figure had landed safely and turned to the group of soldiers. But still it had a stiffness and a
blank, mechanical look, was something less than human.
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Bachmann stood there heavy and condemned, waiting for his own turn and betrayal. Some of
the men went up easily enough, and without fear. That only showed it could be done lightly,
and made Bachmann's case more bitter. If only he could do it lightly, like that.
His turn came. He knew intuitively that nobody knew his condition. The officer just saw him
as a mechanical thing. He tried to keep it up, to carry it through on the face of things. His
inside gripped tight, as yet under control, he took the ladder and went along under the wall.
He placed his ladder with quick success, and wild, quivering hope possessed him. Then
blindly he began to climb. But the ladder was not very firm, and at every hitch a great, sick,
melting feeling took hold of him. He clung on fast. If only he could keep that grip on himself,
he would get through. He knew this, in agony. What he could not understand was the blind
gush of white-hot fear, that came with great force whenever the ladder swerved, and which
almost melted his belly and all his joints, and left him powerless. If once it melted all his
joints and his belly, he was done. He clung desperately to himself. He knew the fear, he knew
what it did when it came, he knew he had only to keep a firm hold. He knew all this. Yet,
when the ladder swerved, and his foot missed, there was the great blast of fear blowing on his
heart and bowels, and he was melting weaker and weaker, in a horror of fear and lack of
control, melting to fall.
Yet he groped slowly higher and higher, always staring upwards with desperate face, and
always conscious of the space below. But all of him, body and soul, was growing hot to
fusion point. He would have to let go for very relief's sake. Suddenly his heart began to lurch.
It gave a great, sickly swoop, rose, and again plunged in a swoop of horror. He lay against the
wall inert as if dead, inert, at peace, save for one deep core of anxiety, which knew that it was
not all over, that he was still high in space against the wall. But the chief effort of will was
gone.
There came into his consciousness a small, foreign sensation. He woke up a little. What was
it Then slowly it penetrated him. His water had run down his leg. He lay there, clinging, still
with shame, half conscious of the echo of the sergeant's voice thundering from below. He
waited, in depths of shame beginning to recover himself. He had been shamed so deeply.
Then he could go on, for his fear for himself was conquered. His shame was known and
published. He must go on.
Slowly he began to grope for the rung above, when a great shock shook through him. His
wrists were grasped from above, he was being hauled out of himself up, up to the safe
ground. Like a sack he was dragged over the edge of the earthworks by the large hands, and
landed there on his knees, grovelling in the grass to recover command of himself, to rise up
on his feet.
Shame, blind, deep shame and ignominy overthrew his spirit and left it writhing. He stood
there shrunk over himself, trying to obliterate himself.
Then the presence of the officer who had hauled him up made itself felt upon him. He heard
the panting of the elder man, and then the voice came down on his veins like a fierce whip.
He shrank in tension of shame.
"Put up your head--eyes front," shouted the enraged sergeant, and mechanically the soldier
obeyed the command, forced to look into the eyes of the sergeant. The brutal, hanging face of
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the officer violated the youth. He hardened himself with all his might from seeing it. The
tearing noise of the sergeant's voice continued to lacerate his body.
Suddenly he set back his head, rigid, and his heart leapt to burst. The face had suddenly thrust
itself close, all distorted and showing the teeth, the eyes smouldering into him. The breath of
the barking words was on his nose and mouth. He stepped aside in revulsion. With a scream
the face was upon him again. He raised his arm, involuntarily, in self-defence. A shock of
horror went through him, as he felt his forearm hit the face of the officer a brutal blow. The
latter staggered, swerved back, and with a curious cry, reeled backwards over the ramparts,
his hands clutching the air. There was a second of silence, then a crash to water.
Bachmann, rigid, looked out of his inner silence upon the scene. Soldiers were running.
"You'd better clear," said one young, excited voice to him. And with immediate instinctive
decision he started to walk away from the spot. He went down the tree-hidden path to the
high road where the trams ran to and from the town. In his heart was a sense of vindication,
of escape. He was leaving it all, the military world, the shame. He was walking away from it.
Officers on horseback rode sauntering down the street, soldiers passed along the pavement.
Coming to the bridge, Bachmann crossed over to the town that heaped before him, rising
from the flat, picturesque French houses down below at the water's edge, up a jumble of roofs
and chasms of streets, to the lovely dark cathedral with its myriad pinnacles making points at
the sky.
He felt for the moment quite at peace, relieved from a great strain. So he turned along by the
river to the public gardens. Beautiful were the heaped, purple lilac trees upon the green grass,
and wonderful the walls of the horse-chestnut trees, lighted like an altar with white flowers
on every ledge. Officers went by, elegant and all coloured, women and girls sauntered in the
chequered shade. Beautiful it was, he walked in a vision, free.
II
But where was he going He began to come out of his trance of delight and liberty. Deep
within him he felt the steady burning of shame in the flesh. As yet he could not bear to think
of it. But there it was, submerged beneath his attention, the raw, steady-burning shame.
It behoved him to be intelligent. As yet he dared not remember what he had done. He only
knew the need to get away, away from everything he had been in contact with.
But how A great pang of fear went through him. He could not bear his shamed flesh to be
put again between the hands of authority. Already the hands had been laid upon him, brutally
upon his nakedness, ripping open his shame and making him maimed, crippled in his own
control.
Fear became an anguish. Almost blindly he was turning in the direction of the barracks. He
could not take the responsibility of himself. He must give himself up to someone. Then his
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heart, obstinate in hope, became obsessed with the idea of his sweetheart. He would make
himself her responsibility.
Blenching as he took courage, he mounted the small, quick-hurrying tram that ran out of the
town in the direction of the barracks. He sat motionless and composed, static.
He got out at the terminus and went down the road. A wind was still running. He could hear
the faint whisper of the rye, and the stronger swish as a sudden gust was upon it. No one was
about. Feeling detached and impersonal, he went down a field-path between the low vines.
Many little vine trees rose up in spires, holding out tender pink shoots, waving their tendrils.
He saw them distinctly and wondered over them. In a field a little way off, men and women
were taking up the hay. The bullock-waggon stood by on the path, the men in their blue
shirts, the women with white cloths over their heads carried hay in their arms to the cart, all
brilliant and distinct upon the shorn, glowing green acres. He felt himself looking out of
darkness on to the glamorous, brilliant beauty of the world around him, outside him.
The Baron's house, where Emilie was maidservant, stood square and mellow among trees and
garden and fields. It was an old French grange. The barracks was quite near. Bachmann
walked, drawn by a single purpose, towards the courtyard. He entered the spacious, shadowy,
sun-swept place. The dog, seeing a soldier, only jumped and whined for greeting. The pump
stood peacefully in a corner, under a lime tree, in the shade.
The kitchen door was open. He hesitated, then walked in, speaking shyly and smiling
involuntarily. The two women started, but with pleasure. Emilie was preparing the tray for
afternoon coffee. She stood beyond the table, drawn up, startled, and challenging, and glad.
She had the proud, timid eyes of some wild animal, some proud animal. Her black hair was
closely banded, her grey eyes watched steadily. She wore a peasant dress of blue cotton
sprigged with little red roses, that buttoned tight over her strong maiden breasts.
At the table sat another young woman, the nursery governess, who was picking cherries from
a huge heap, and dropping them into a bowl. She was young, pretty, freckled.
"Good day!" she said pleasantly. "The unexpected."
Emilie did not speak. The flush came in her dark cheek. She still stood watching, between
fear and a desire to escape, and on the other hand joy that kept her in his presence.
"Yes," he said, bashful and strained, while the eyes of the two women were upon him. "I've
got myself in a mess this time."
"What" asked the nursery governess, dropping her hands in her lap. Emilie stood rigid.
Bachmann could not raise his head. He looked sideways at the glistening, ruddy cherries. He
could not recover the normal world.
"I knocked Sergeant Huber over the fortifications down into the moat," he said. "It was an
accident--but--"
And he grasped at the cherries, and began to eat them, unknowing, hearing only Emilie's little
exclamation.
239

"You knocked him over the fortifications!" echoed Fräulein Hesse in horror. "How"
Spitting the cherry-stones into his hand, mechanically, absorbedly, he told them.
"Ach!" exclaimed Emilie sharply.
"And how did you get here" asked Fräulein Hesse.
"I ran off," he said.
There was a dead silence. He stood, putting himself at the mercy of the women. There came a
hissing from the stove, and a stronger smell of coffee. Emilie turned swiftly away. He saw
her flat, straight back and her strong loins, as she bent over the stove.
"But what are you going to do" said Fräulein Hesse, aghast.
"I don't know," he said, grasping at more cherries. He had come to an end.
"You'd better go to the barracks," she said. "We'll get the Herr Baron to come and see about
it."
Emilie was swiftly and quietly preparing the tray. She picked it up, and stood with the
glittering china and silver before her, impassive, waiting for his reply. Bachmann remained
with his head dropped, pale and obstinate. He could not bear to go back.
"I'm going to try to get into France," he said.
"Yes, but they'll catch you," said Fräulein Hesse.
Emilie watched with steady, watchful grey eyes.
"I can have a try, if I could hide till to-night," he said.
Both women knew what he wanted. And they all knew it was no good. Emilie picked up the
tray, and went out. Bachmann stood with his head dropped. Within himself he felt the dross
of shame and incapacity.
"You'd never get away," said the governess.
"I can try," he said.
To-day he could not put himself between the hands of the military. Let them do as they liked
with him to-morrow, if he escaped to-day.
They were silent. He ate cherries. The colour flushed bright into the cheek of the young
governess.
Emilie returned to prepare another tray
"He could hide in your room," the governess said to her.
240

The girl drew herself away. She could not bear the intrusion.
"That is all I can think of that is safe from the children," said Fräulein Hesse.
Emilie gave no answer. Bachmann stood waiting for the two women. Emilie did not want the
close contact with him.
"You could sleep with me," Fräulein Hesse said to her.
Emilie lifted her eyes and looked at the young man, direct, clear, reserving herself.
"Do you want that" she asked, her strong virginity proof against him.
"Yes--yes--" he said uncertainly, destroyed by shame.
She put back her head.
"Yes," she murmured to herself.
Quickly she filled the tray, and went out.
"But you can't walk over the frontier in a night," said Fräulein Hesse.
"I can cycle," he said.
Emilie returned, a restraint, a neutrality, in her bearing.
"I'll see if it's all right," said the governess.
In a moment or two Bachmann was following Emilie through the square hall, where hung
large maps on the walls. He noticed a child's blue coat with brass buttons on the peg, and it
reminded him of Emilie walking holding the hand of the youngest child, whilst he watched,
sitting under the lime tree. Already this was a long way off. That was a sort of freedom he
had lost, changed for a new, immediate anxiety.
They went quickly, fearfully up the stairs and down a long corridor. Emilie opened her door,
and he entered, ashamed, into her room.
"I must go down," she murmured, and she departed, closing the door softly.
It was a small, bare, neat room. There was a little dish for holy-water, a picture of the Sacred
Heart, a crucifix, and a prie-Dieu. The small bed lay white and untouched, the wash-hand
bowl of red earth stood on a bare table, there was a little mirror and a small chest of drawers.
That was all.
Feeling safe, in sanctuary, he went to the window, looking over the courtyard at the
shimmering, afternoon country. He was going to leave this land, this life. Already he was in
the unknown.
241

He drew away into the room. The curious simplicity and severity of the little Roman Catholic
bedroom was foreign but restoring to him. He looked at the crucifix. It was a long, lean,
peasant Christ carved by a peasant in the Black Forest. For the first time in his life,
Bachmann saw the figure as a human thing. It represented a man hanging there in helpless
torture. He stared at it, closely, as if for new knowledge.
Within his own flesh burned and smouldered the restless shame. He could not gather himself
together. There was a gap in his soul. The shame within him seemed to displace his strength
and his manhood.
He sat down on his chair. The shame, the roused feeling of exposure acted on his brain, made
him heavy, unutterably heavy.
Mechanically, his wits all gone, he took off his boots, his belt, his tunic, put them aside, and
lay down, heavy, and fell into a kind of drugged sleep.
Emilie came in a little while, and looked at him. But he was sunk in sleep. She saw him lying
there inert, and terribly still, and she was afraid. His shirt was unfastened at the throat. She
saw his pure white flesh, very clean and beautiful. And he slept inert. His legs, in the blue
uniform trousers, his feet in the coarse stockings, lay foreign on her bed. She went away.
III
She was uneasy, perturbed to her last fibre. She wanted to remain clear, with no touch on her.
A wild instinct made her shrink away from any hands which might be laid on her.
She was a foundling, probably of some gipsy race, brought up in a Roman Catholic Rescue
Home. A naïve, paganly religious being, she was attached to the Baroness, with whom she
had served for seven years, since she was fourteen.
She came into contact with no one, unless it were with Ida Hesse, the governess. Ida was a
calculating, good-natured, not very straight-forward flirt. She was the daughter of a poor
country doctor. Having gradually come into connection with Emilie, more an alliance than an
attachment, she put no distinction of grade between the two of them. They worked together,
sang together, walked together, and went together to the rooms of Franz Brand, Ida's
sweetheart. There the three talked and laughed together, or the women listened to Franz, who
was a forester, playing on his violin.
In all this alliance there was no personal intimacy between the young women. Emilie was
naturally secluded in herself, of a reserved, native race. Ida used her as a kind of weight to
balance her own flighty movement. But the quick, shifty governess, occupied always in her
dealings with admirers, did all she could to move the violent nature of Emilie towards some
connection with men.
But the dark girl, primitive yet sensitive to a high degree, was fiercely virgin. Her blood
flamed with rage when the common soldiers made the long, sucking, kissing noise behind her
242

as she passed. She hated them for their almost jeering offers. She was well protected by the
Baroness.
And her contempt of the common men in general was ineffable. But she loved the Baroness,
and she revered the Baron, and she was at her ease when she was doing something for the
service of a gentleman. Her whole nature was at peace in the service of real masters or
mistresses. For her, a gentleman had some mystic quality that left her free and proud in
service. The common soldiers were brutes, merely nothing. Her desire was to serve.
She held herself aloof. When, on Sunday afternoon, she had looked through the windows of
the Reichshalle in passing, and had seen the soldiers dancing with the common girls, a cold
revulsion and anger had possessed her. She could not bear to see the soldiers taking off their
belts and pulling open their tunics, dancing with their shirts showing through the open,
sagging tunic, their movements gross, their faces transfigured and sweaty, their coarse hands
holding their coarse girls under the arm-pits, drawing the female up to their breasts. She hated
to see them clutched breast to breast, the legs of the men moving grossly in the dance.
At evening, when she had been in the garden, and heard on the other side of the hedge the
sexual inarticulate cries of the girls in the embraces of the soldiers, her anger had been too
much for her, and she had cried, loud and cold:
"What are you doing there, in the hedge"
She would have had them whipped.
But Bachmann was not quite a common soldier. Fräulein Hesse had found out about him, and
had drawn him and Emilie together. For he was a handsome, blond youth, erect and walking
with a kind of pride, unconscious yet clear. Moreover, he came of a rich farming stock, rich
for many generations. His father was dead, his mother controlled the moneys for the time
being. But if Bachmann wanted a hundred pounds at any moment, he could have them. By
trade he, with one of his brothers, was a waggon-builder. The family had the farming, smithy,
and waggon-building of their village. They worked because that was the form of life they
knew. If they had chosen, they could have lived independent upon their means.
In this way, he was a gentleman in sensibility, though his intellect was not developed. He
could afford to pay freely for things. He had, moreover, his native, fine breeding. Emilie
wavered uncertainly before him. So he became her sweetheart, and she hungered after him.
But she was virgin, and shy, and needed to be in subjection, because she was primitive and
had no grasp on civilized forms of living, nor on civilized purposes.
IV
At six o'clock came the inquiry of the soldiers: Had anything been seen of Bachmann
Fräulein Hesse answered, pleased to be playing a rôle:
"No, I've not seen him since Sunday--have you, Emilie"
243

"No, I haven't seen him," said Emilie, and her awkwardness was construed as bashfulness.
Ida Hesse, stimulated, asked questions, and played her part.
"But it hasn't killed Sergeant Huber" she cried in consternation.
"No. He fell into the water. But it gave him a bad shock, and smashed his foot on the side of
the moat. He's in hospital. It's a bad look-out for Bachmann."
Emilie, implicated and captive, stood looking on. She was no longer free, working with all
this regulated system which she could not understand and which was almost god-like to her.
She was put out of her place. Bachmann was in her room, she was no longer the faithful in
service serving with religious surety.
Her situation was intolerable to her. All evening long the burden was upon her, she could not
live. The children must be fed and put to sleep. The Baron and Baroness were going out, she
must give them light refreshment. The man-servant was coming in to supper after returning
with the carriage. And all the while she had the insupportable feeling of being out of the
order, self-responsible, bewildered. The control of her life should come from those above her,
and she should move within that control. But now she was out of it, uncontrolled and
troubled. More than that, the man, the lover, Bachmann, who was he, what was he He alone
of all men contained for her the unknown quantity which terrified her beyond her service. Oh,
she had wanted him as a distant sweetheart, not close, like this, casting her out of her world.
When the Baron and Baroness had departed, and the young manservant had gone out to enjoy
himself, she went upstairs to Bachmann. He had wakened up, and sat dimly in the room. Out
in the open he heard the soldiers, his comrades, singing the sentimental songs of the nightfall,
the drone of the concertina rising in accompaniment.
"Wenn ich zu mei . . . nem Kinde geh' . . .
In seinem Au . . . g die Mutter seh'. . . ."
But he himself was removed from it now. Only the sentimental cry of young, unsatisfied
desire in the soldiers' singing penetrated his blood and stirred him subtly. He let his head
hang; he had become gradually roused: and he waited in concentration, in another world.
The moment she entered the room where the man sat alone, waiting intensely, the thrill
passed through her, she died in terror, and after the death, a great flame gushed up,
obliterating her. He sat in trousers and shirt on the side of the bed. He looked up as she came
in, and she shrank from his face. She could not bear it. Yet she entered near to him.
"Do you want anything to eat" she said.
"Yes," he answered, and as she stood in the twilight of the room with him, he could only hear
his heart beat heavily. He saw her apron just level with his face. She stood silent, a little
distance off, as if she would be there for ever. He suffered.
244

As if in a spell she waited, standing motionless and looming there, he sat rather crouching on
the side of the bed. A second will in him was powerful and dominating. She drew gradually
nearer to him, coming up slowly, as if unconscious. His heart beat up swiftly. He was going
to move.
As she came quite close, almost invisibly he lifted his arms and put them round her waist,
drawing her with his will and desire. He buried his face into her apron, into the terrible
softness of her belly. And he was a flame of passion intense about her. He had forgotten.
Shame and memory were gone in a whole, furious flame of passion.
She was quite helpless. Her hands leapt, fluttered, and closed over his head, pressing it deeper
into her belly, vibrating as she did so. And his arms tightened on her, his hands spread over
her loins, warm as flame on her loveliness. It was intense anguish of bliss for her, and she lost
consciousness.
When she recovered, she lay translated in the peace of satisfaction.
It was what she had had no inkling of, never known could be. She was strong with eternal
gratitude. And he was there with her. Instinctively with an instinct of reverence and gratitude,
her arms tightened in a little embrace upon him who held her thoroughly embraced.
And he was restored and completed, close to her. That little, twitching, momentary clasp of
acknowledgment that she gave him in her satisfaction, roused his pride unconquerable. They
loved each other, and all was whole. She loved him, he had taken her, she was given to him.
It was right. He was given to her, and they were one, complete.
Warm, with a glow in their hearts and faces, they rose again, modest, but transfigured with
happiness.
"I will get you something to eat," she said, and in joy and security of service again, she left
him, making a curious little homage of departure. He sat on the side of the bed, escaped,
liberated, wondering, and happy.
V
Soon she came again with the tray, followed by Fräulein Hesse. The two women watched
him eat, watched the pride and wonder of his being, as he sat there blond and naïf again.
Emilie felt rich and complete. Ida was a lesser thing than herself.
"And what are you going to do" asked Fräulein Hesse, jealous.
"I must get away," he said.
But words had no meaning for him. What did it matter He had the inner satisfaction and
liberty.
245

"But you'll want a bicycle," said Ida Hesse.
"Yes," he said.
Emilie sat silent, removed and yet with him, connected with him in passion. She looked from
this talk of bicycles and escape.
They discussed plans. But in two of them was the one will, that Bachmann should stay with
Emilie. Ida Hesse was an outsider.
It was arranged, however, that Ida's lover should put out his bicycle, leave it at the hut where
he sometimes watched. Bachmann should fetch it in the night, and ride into France. The
hearts of all three beat hot in suspense, driven to thought. They sat in a fire of agitation.
Then Bachmann would get away to America, and Emilie would come and join him. They
would be in a fine land then. The tale burned up again.
Emilie and Ida had to go round to Franz Brand's lodging. They departed with slight leavetaking.
Bachmann sat in the dark, hearing the bugle for retreat sound out of the night. Then he
remembered his post card to his mother. He slipped out after Emilie, gave it her to post. His
manner was careless and victorious, hers shining and trustful. He slipped back to shelter.
There he sat on the side of the bed, thinking. Again he went over the events of the afternoon,
remembering his own anguish of apprehension because he had known he could not climb the
wall without fainting with fear. Still, a flush of shame came alight in him at the memory. But
he said to himself: "What does it matter--I can't help it, well then I can't. If I go up a height, I
get absolutely weak, and can't help myself." Again memory came over him, and a gush of
shame, like fire. But he sat and endured it. It had to be endured, admitted, and accepted. "I'm
not a coward, for all that," he continued. "I'm not afraid of danger. If I'm made that way, that
heights melt me and make me let go my water"--it was torture for him to pluck at this truth--
"if I'm made like that, I shall have to abide by it, that's all. It isn't all of me." He thought of
Emilie, and was satisfied. "What I am, I am; and let it be enough," he thought.
Having accepted his own defect, he sat thinking, waiting for Emilie, to tell her. She came at
length, saying that Franz could not arrange about his bicycle this night. It was broken.
Bachmann would have to stay over another day.
They were both happy. Emilie, confused before Ida, who was excited and prurient, came
again to the young man. She was stiff and dignified with an agony of unusedness. But he took
her between his hands, and uncovered her, and enjoyed almost like madness her helpless,
virgin body that suffered so strongly, and that took its joy so deeply. While the moisture of
torment and modesty was still in her eyes, she clasped him closer, and closer, to the victory
and the deep satisfaction of both of them. And they slept together, he in repose still satisfied
and peaceful, and she lying close in her static reality.
VI
246

In the morning, when the bugle sounded from the barracks they rose and looked out of the
window. She loved his body that was proud and blond and able to take command. And he
loved her body that was soft and eternal. They looked at the faint grey vapour of summer
steaming off from the greenness and ripeness of the fields. There was no town anywhere,
their look ended in the haze of the summer morning. Their bodies rested together, their minds
tranquil. Then a little anxiety stirred in both of them from the sound of the bugle. She was
called back to her old position, to realize the world of authority she did not understand but
had wanted to serve. But this call died away again from her. She had all.
She went downstairs to her work, curiously changed. She was in a new world of her own, that
she had never even imagined, and which was the land of promise for all that. In this she
moved and had her being. And she extended it to her duties. She was curiously happy and
absorbed. She had not to strive out of herself to do her work. The doing came from within her
without call or command. It was a delicious outflow, like sunshine, the activity that flowed
from her and put her tasks to rights.
Bachmann sat busily thinking. He would have to get all his plans ready. He must write to his
mother, and she must send him money to Paris. He would go to Paris, and from thence,
quickly, to America. It had to be done. He must make all preparations. The dangerous part
was the getting into France. He thrilled in anticipation. During the day he would need a timetable
of the trains going to Paris--he would need to think. It gave him delicious pleasure,
using all his wits. It seemed such an adventure.
This one day, and he would escape then into freedom. What an agony of need he had for
absolute, imperious freedom. He had won to his own being, in himself and Emilie, he had
drawn the stigma from his shame, he was beginning to be himself. And now he wanted madly
to be free to go on. A home, his work, and absolute freedom to move and to be, in her, with
her, this was his passionate desire. He thought in a kind of ecstasy, living an hour of painful
intensity.
Suddenly he heard voices, and a tramping of feet. His heart gave a great leap, then went still.
He was taken. He had known all along. A complete silence filled his body and soul, a silence
like death, a suspension of life and sound. He stood motionless in the bedroom, in perfect
suspension.
Emilie was busy passing swiftly about the kitchen preparing the children's breakfasts when
she heard the tramp of feet and the voice of the Baron. The latter had come in from the
garden, and was wearing an old green linen suit. He was a man of middle stature, quick,
finely made, and of whimsical charm. His right hand had been shot in the Franco-Prussian
war, and now, as always when he was much agitated, he shook it down at his side, as if it
hurt. He was talking rapidly to a young, stiff Ober-leutnant. Two private soldiers stood
bearishly in the doorway.
Emilie, shocked out of herself, stood pale and erect, recoiling.
"Yes, if you think so, we can look," the Baron was hastily and irascibly saying.
"Emilie," he said, turning to the girl, "did you put a post card to the mother of this Bachmann
in the box last evening"
247

Emilie stood erect and did not answer.
"Yes" said the Baron sharply.
"Yes, Herr Baron," replied Emilie, neutral.
The Baron's wounded hand shook rapidly in exasperation. The lieutenant drew himself up
still more stiffly. He was right.
"And do you know anything of the fellow" asked the Baron, looking at her with his blazing,
greyish-golden eyes. The girl looked back at him steadily, dumb, but her whole soul naked
before him. For two seconds he looked at her in silence. Then in silence, ashamed and
furious, he turned away.
"Go up!" he said, with his fierce, peremptory command, to the young officer.
The lieutenant gave his order, in military cold confidence, to the soldiers. They all tramped
across the hall. Emilie stood motionless, her life suspended.
The Baron marched swiftly upstairs and down the corridor, the lieutenant and the common
soldiers followed. The Baron flung open the door of Emilie's room and looked at Bachmann,
who stood watching, standing in shirt and trousers beside the bed, fronting the door. He was
perfectly still. His eyes met the furious, blazing look of the Baron. The latter shook his
wounded hand, and then went still. He looked into the eyes of the soldier, steadily. He saw
the same naked soul exposed, as if he looked really into the man. And the man was helpless,
the more helpless for his singular nakedness.
"Ha!" he exclaimed impatiently, turning to the approaching lieutenant.
The latter appeared in the doorway. Quickly his eyes travelled over the bare-footed youth. He
recognized him as his object. He gave the brief command to dress.
Bachmann turned round for his clothes. He was very still, silent in himself. He was in an
abstract, motionless world. That the two gentlemen and the two soldiers stood watching him,
he scarcely realized. They could not see him.
Soon he was ready. He stood at attention. But only the shell of his body was at attention. A
curious silence, a blankness, like something eternal, possessed him. He remained true to
himself.
The lieutenant gave the order to march. The little procession went down the stairs with
careful, respectful tread, and passed through the hall to the kitchen. There Emilie stood with
her face uplifted, motionless and expressionless. Bachmann did not look at her. They knew
each other. They were themselves. Then the little file of men passed out into the courtyard.
The Baron stood in the doorway watching the four figures in uniform pass through the
chequered shadow under the lime trees. Bachmann was walking neutralized, as if he were not
there. The lieutenant went brittle and long, the two soldiers lumbered beside. They passed out
into the sunny morning, growing smaller, going towards the barracks.
248

The Baron turned into the kitchen. Emilie was cutting bread.
"So he stayed the night here" he said.
The girl looked at him, scarcely seeing. She was too much herself. The Baron saw the dark,
naked soul of her body in her unseeing eyes.
"What were you going to do" he asked.
"He was going to America," she replied, in a still voice.
"Pah! You should have sent him straight back," fired the Baron.
Emilie stood at his bidding, untouched.
"He's done for now," he said.
But he could not bear the dark, deep nakedness of her eyes, that scarcely changed under this
suffering.
"Nothing but a fool," he repeated, going away in agitation, and preparing himself for what he
could do.
249

ABANDONED – Guy de Maupassant
"I really think you must be mad, my dear, to go for a country walk in such weather as this.
You have had some very strange notions for the last two months. You drag me to the seaside
in spite of myself, when you have never once had such a whim during all the forty-four years
that we have been married. You chose Fecamp, which is a very dull town, without consulting
me in the matter, and now you are seized with such a rage for walking, you who hardly ever
stir out on foot, that you want to take a country walk on the hottest day of the year. Ask
d'Apreval to go with you, as he is ready to gratify all your whims. As for me, I am going back
to have a nap."
Madame de Cadour turned to her old friend and said:
"Will you come with me, Monsieur d'Apreval"
He bowed with a smile, and with all the gallantry of former years:
"I will go wherever you go," he replied.
"Very well, then, go and get a sunstroke," Monsieur de Cadour said; and he went back to the
Hotel des Bains to lie down for an hour or two.
As soon as they were alone, the old lady and her old companion set off, and she said to him in
a low voice, squeezing his hand:
"At last! at last!"
"You are mad," he said in a whisper. "I assure you that you are mad. Think of the risk you are
running. If that man—"
She started.
"Oh! Henri, do not say that man, when you are speaking of him."
"Very well," he said abruptly, "if our son guesses anything, if he has any suspicions, he will
have you, he will have us both in his power. You have got on without seeing him for the last
forty years. What is the matter with you to-day"
They had been going up the long street that leads from the sea to the town, and now they
turned to the right, to go to Etretat. The white road stretched in front of him, then under a
blaze of brilliant sunshine, so they went on slowly in the burning heat. She had taken her old
friend's arm, and was looking straight in front of her, with a fixed and haunted gaze, and at
last she said:
"And so you have not seen him again, either"
"No, never."
250

"Is it possible"
"My dear friend, do not let us begin that discussion again. I have a wife and children and you
have a husband, so we both of us have much to fear from other people's opinion."
She did not reply; she was thinking of her long past youth and of many sad things that had
occurred. How well she recalled all the details of their early friendship, his smiles, the way he
used to linger, in order to watch her until she was indoors. What happy days they were, the
only really delicious days she had ever enjoyed, and how quickly they were over!
And then—her discovery—of the penalty she paid! What anguish!
Of that journey to the South, that long journey, her sufferings, her constant terror, that
secluded life in the small, solitary house on the shores of the Mediterranean, at the bottom of
a garden, which she did not venture to leave. How well she remembered those long days
which she spent lying under an orange tree, looking up at the round, red fruit, amid the green
leaves. How she used to long to go out, as far as the sea, whose fresh breezes came to her
over the wall, and whose small waves she could hear lapping on the beach. She dreamed of
its immense blue expanse sparkling under the sun, with the white sails of the small vessels,
and a mountain on the horizon. But she did not dare to go outside the gate. Suppose anybody
had recognized her!
And those days of waiting, those last days of misery and expectation! The impending
suffering, and then that terrible night! What misery she had endured, and what a night it was!
How she had groaned and screamed! She could still see the pale face of her lover, who kissed
her hand every moment, and the clean-shaven face of the doctor and the nurse's white cap.
And what she felt when she heard the child's feeble cries, that wail, that first effort of a
human's voice!
And the next day! the next day! the only day of her life on which she had seen and kissed her
son; for, from that time, she had never even caught a glimpse of him.
And what a long, void existence hers had been since then, with the thought of that child
always, always floating before her. She had never seen her son, that little creature that had
been part of herself, even once since then; they had taken him from her, carried him away,
and had hidden him. All she knew was that he had been brought up by some peasants in
Normandy, that he had become a peasant himself, had married well, and that his father,
whose name he did not know, had settled a handsome sum of money on him.
How often during the last forty years had she wished to go and see him and to embrace him!
She could not imagine to herself that he had grown! She always thought of that small human
atom which she had held in her arms and pressed to her bosom for a day.
How often she had said to M. d'Apreval: "I cannot bear it any longer; I must go and see him."
But he had always stopped her and kept her from going. She would be unable to restrain and
to master herself; their son would guess it and take advantage of her, blackmail her; she
would be lost.
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"What is he like" she said.
"I do not know. I have not seen him again, either."
"Is it possible To have a son and not to know him; to be afraid of him and to reject him as if
he were a disgrace! It is horrible."
They went along the dusty road, overcome by the scorching sun, and continually ascending
that interminable hill.
"One might take it for a punishment," she continued; "I have never had another child, and I
could no longer resist the longing to see him, which has possessed me for forty years. You
men cannot understand that. You must remember that I shall not live much longer, and
suppose I should never see him, never have seen him! . . . Is it possible How could I wait so
long I have thought about him every day since, and what a terrible existence mine has been!
I have never awakened, never, do you understand, without my first thoughts being of him, of
my child. How is he Oh, how guilty I feel toward him! Ought one to fear what the world
may say in a case like this I ought to have left everything to go after him, to bring him up
and to show my love for him. I should certainly have been much happier, but I did not dare, I
was a coward. How I have suffered! Oh, how those poor, abandoned children must hate their
mothers!"
She stopped suddenly, for she was choked by her sobs. The whole valley was deserted and
silent in the dazzling light and the overwhelming heat, and only the grasshoppers uttered their
shrill, continuous chirp among the sparse yellow grass on both sides of the road.
"Sit down a little," he said.
She allowed herself to be led to the side of the ditch and sank down with her face in her
hands. Her white hair, which hung in curls on both sides of her face, had become tangled. She
wept, overcome by profound grief, while he stood facing her, uneasy and not knowing what
to say, and he merely murmured: "Come, take courage."
She got up.
"I will," she said, and wiping her eyes, she began to walk again with the uncertain step of an
elderly woman.
A little farther on the road passed beneath a clump of trees, which hid a few houses, and they
could distinguish the vibrating and regular blows of a blacksmith's hammer on the anvil; and
presently they saw a wagon standing on the right side of the road in front of a low cottage,
and two men shoeing a horse under a shed.
Monsieur d'Apreval went up to them.
"Where is Pierre Benedict's farm" he asked.
"Take the road to the left, close to the inn, and then go straight on; it is the third house past
Poret's. There is a small spruce fir close to the gate; you cannot make a mistake."
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They turned to the left. She was walking very slowly now, her legs threatened to give way,
and her heart was beating so violently that she felt as if she should suffocate, while at every
step she murmured, as if in prayer:
"Oh! Heaven! Heaven!"
Monsieur d'Apreval, who was also nervous and rather pale, said to her somewhat gruffly:
"If you cannot manage to control your feelings, you will betray yourself at once. Do try and
restrain yourself."
"How can I" she replied. "My child! When I think that I am going to see my child."
They were going along one of those narrow country lanes between farmyards, that are
concealed beneath a double row of beech trees at either side of the ditches, and suddenly they
found themselves in front of a gate, beside which there was a young spruce fir.
"This is it," he said.
She stopped suddenly and looked about her. The courtyard, which was planted with apple
trees, was large and extended as far as the small thatched dwelling house. On the opposite
side were the stable, the barn, the cow house and the poultry house, while the gig, the wagon
and the manure cart were under a slated outhouse. Four calves were grazing under the shade
of the trees and black hens were wandering all about the enclosure.
All was perfectly still; the house door was open, but nobody was to be seen, and so they went
in, when immediately a large black dog came out of a barrel that was standing under a pear
tree, and began to bark furiously.
There were four bee-hives on boards against the wall of the house.
Monsieur d'Apreval stood outside and called out:
"Is anybody at home"
Then a child appeared, a little girl of about ten, dressed in a chemise and a linen, petticoat,
with dirty, bare legs and a timid and cunning look. She remained standing in the doorway, as
if to prevent any one going in.
"What do you want" she asked.
"Is your father in"
"No."
"Where is he"
"I don't know."
"And your mother"
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"Gone after the cows."
"Will she be back soon"
"I don't know."
Then suddenly the lady, as if she feared that her companion might force her to return, said
quickly:
"I shall not go without having seen him."
"We will wait for him, my dear friend."
As they turned away, they saw a peasant woman coming toward the house, carrying two tin
pails, which appeared to be heavy and which glistened brightly in the sunlight.
She limped with her right leg, and in her brown knitted jacket, that was faded by the sun and
washed out by the rain, she looked like a poor, wretched, dirty servant.
"Here is mamma," the child said.
When she got close to the house, she looked at the strangers angrily and suspiciously, and
then she went in, as if she had not seen them. She looked old and had a hard, yellow,
wrinkled face, one of those wooden faces that country people so often have.
Monsieur d'Apreval called her back.
"I beg your pardon, madame, but we came in to know whether you could sell us two glasses
of milk."
She was grumbling when she reappeared in the door, after putting down her pails.
"I don't sell milk," she replied.
"We are very thirsty," he said, "and madame is very tired. Can we not get something to
drink"
The peasant woman gave them an uneasy and cunning glance and then she made up her
mind.
"As you are here, I will give you some," she said, going into the house, and almost
immediately the child came out and brought two chairs, which she placed under an apple tree,
and then the mother, in turn, brought out two bowls of foaming milk, which she gave to the
visitors. She did not return to the house, however, but remained standing near them, as if to
watch them and to find out for what purpose they had come there.
"You have come from Fecamp" she said.
"Yes," Monsieur d'Apreval replied, "we are staying at Fecamp for the summer."
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And then, after a short silence, he continued:
"Have you any fowls you could sell us every week"
The woman hesitated for a moment and then replied:
"Yes, I think I have. I suppose you want young ones"
"Yes, of course."
"'What do you pay for them in the market"
D'Apreval, who had not the least idea, turned to his companion:
"What are you paying for poultry in Fecamp, my dear lady"
"Four francs and four francs fifty centimes," she said, her eyes full of tears, while the farmer's
wife, who was looking at her askance, asked in much surprise:
"Is the lady ill, as she is crying"
He did not know what to say, and replied with some hesitation:
"No—no—but she lost her watch as we came along, a very handsome watch, and that
troubles her. If anybody should find it, please let us know."
Mother Benedict did not reply, as she thought it a very equivocal sort of answer, but suddenly
she exclaimed:
"Oh, here is my husband!"
She was the only one who had seen him, as she was facing the gate. D'Apreval started and
Madame de Cadour nearly fell as she turned round suddenly on her chair.
A man bent nearly double, and out of breath, stood there, ten-yards from them, dragging a
cow at the end of a rope. Without taking any notice of the visitors, he said:
"Confound it! What a brute!"
And he went past them and disappeared in the cow house.
Her tears had dried quickly as she sat there startled, without a word and with the one thought
in her mind, that this was her son, and D'Apreval, whom the same thought had struck very
unpleasantly, said in an agitated voice:
"Is this Monsieur Benedict"
"Who told you his name" the wife asked, still rather suspiciously.
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"The blacksmith at the corner of the highroad," he replied, and then they were all silent, with
their eyes fixed on the door of the cow house, which formed a sort of black hole in the wall of
the building. Nothing could be seen inside, but they heard a vague noise, movements and
footsteps and the sound of hoofs, which were deadened by the straw on the floor, and soon
the man reappeared in the door, wiping his forehead, and came toward the house with long,
slow strides. He passed the strangers without seeming to notice them and said to his wife:
"Go and draw me a jug of cider; I am very thirsty."
Then he went back into the house, while his wife went into the cellar and left the two
Parisians alone.
"Let us go, let us go, Henri," Madame de Cadour said, nearly distracted with grief, and so
d'Apreval took her by the arm, helped her to rise, and sustaining her with all his strength, for
he felt that she was nearly fainting, he led her out, after throwing five francs on one of the
chairs.
As soon as they were outside the gate, she began to sob and said, shaking with grief:
"Oh! oh! is that what you have made of him"
He was very pale and replied coldly:
"I did what I could. His farm is worth eighty thousand francs, and that is more than most of
the sons of the middle classes have."
They returned slowly, without speaking a word. She was still crying; the tears ran down her
cheeks continually for a time, but by degrees they stopped, and they went back to Fecamp,
where they found Monsieur de Cadour waiting dinner for them. As soon as he saw them, he
began to laugh and exclaimed:
"So my wife has had a sunstroke, and I am very glad of it. I really think she has lost her head
for some time past!"
Neither of them replied, and when the husband asked them, rubbing his hands:
"Well, I hope that, at least, you have had a pleasant walk"
Monsieur d'Apreval replied:
"A delightful walk, I assure you; perfectly delightful."
256

BOULE DE SUIF - Guy de Mauppasant
For several days in succession fragments of a defeated army had passed through the town.
They were mere disorganized bands, not disciplined forces. The men wore long, dirty beards
and tattered uniforms; they advanced in listless fashion, without a flag, without a leader. All
seemed exhausted, worn out, incapable of thought or resolve, marching onward merely by
force of habit, and dropping to the ground with fatigue the moment they halted. One saw, in
particular, many enlisted men, peaceful citizens, men who lived quietly on their income,
bending beneath the weight of their rifles; and little active volunteers, easily frightened but
full of enthusiasm, as eager to attack as they were ready to take to flight; and amid these, a
sprinkling of red-breeched soldiers, the pitiful remnant of a division cut down in a great
battle; somber artillerymen, side by side with nondescript foot-soldiers; and, here and there,
the gleaming helmet of a heavy-footed dragoon who had difficulty in keeping up with the
quicker pace of the soldiers of the line. Legions of irregulars with high-sounding names
"Avengers of Defeat," "Citizens of the Tomb," "Brethren in Death"—passed in their turn,
looking like banditti. Their leaders, former drapers or grain merchants, or tallow or soap
chandlers—warriors by force of circumstances, officers by reason of their mustachios or their
money—covered with weapons, flannel and gold lace, spoke in an impressive manner,
discussed plans of campaign, and behaved as though they alone bore the fortunes of dying
France on their braggart shoulders; though, in truth, they frequently were afraid of their own
men—scoundrels often brave beyond measure, but pillagers and debauchees.
Rumor had it that the Prussians were about to enter Rouen.
The members of the National Guard, who for the past two months had been reconnoitering
with the utmost caution in the neighboring woods, occasionally shooting their own sentinels,
and making ready for fight whenever a rabbit rustled in the undergrowth, had now returned to
their homes. Their arms, their uniforms, all the death-dealing paraphernalia with which they
had terrified all the milestones along the highroad for eight miles round, had suddenly and
marvellously disappeared.
The last of the French soldiers had just crossed the Seine on their way to Pont-Audemer,
through Saint-Sever and Bourg-Achard, and in their rear the vanquished general, powerless to
do aught with the forlorn remnants of his army, himself dismayed at the final overthrow of a
nation accustomed to victory and disastrously beaten despite its legendary bravery, walked
between two orderlies.
Then a profound calm, a shuddering, silent dread, settled on the city. Many a round-paunched
citizen, emasculated by years devoted to business, anxiously awaited the conquerors,
trembling lest his roasting-jacks or kitchen knives should be looked upon as weapons.
Life seemed to have stopped short; the shops were shut, the streets deserted. Now and then an
inhabitant, awed by the silence, glided swiftly by in the shadow of the walls. The anguish of
suspense made men even desire the arrival of the enemy.
In the afternoon of the day following the departure of the French troops, a number of uhlans,
coming no one knew whence, passed rapidly through the town. A little later on, a black mass
descended St. Catherine's Hill, while two other invading bodies appeared respectively on the
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Darnetal and the Boisguillaume roads. The advance guards of the three corps arrived at
precisely the same moment at the Square of the Hotel de Ville, and the German army poured
through all the adjacent streets, its battalions making the pavement ring with their firm,
measured tread.
Orders shouted in an unknown, guttural tongue rose to the windows of the seemingly dead,
deserted houses; while behind the fast-closed shutters eager eyes peered forth at the victorsmasters
now of the city, its fortunes, and its lives, by "right of war." The inhabitants, in their
darkened rooms, were possessed by that terror which follows in the wake of cataclysms, of
deadly upheavals of the earth, against which all human skill and strength are vain. For the
same thing happens whenever the established order of things is upset, when security no
longer exists, when all those rights usually protected by the law of man or of Nature are at the
mercy of unreasoning, savage force. The earthquake crushing a whole nation under falling
roofs; the flood let loose, and engulfing in its swirling depths the corpses of drowned
peasants, along with dead oxen and beams torn from shattered houses; or the army, covered
with glory, murdering those who defend themselves, making prisoners of the rest, pillaging in
the name of the Sword, and giving thanks to God to the thunder of cannon—all these are
appalling scourges, which destroy all belief in eternal justice, all that confidence we have
been taught to feel in the protection of Heaven and the reason of man.
Small detachments of soldiers knocked at each door, and then disappeared within the houses;
for the vanquished saw they would have to be civil to their conquerors.
At the end of a short time, once the first terror had subsided, calm was again restored. In
many houses the Prussian officer ate at the same table with the family. He was often wellbred,
and, out of politeness, expressed sympathy with France and repugnance at being
compelled to take part in the war. This sentiment was received with gratitude; besides, his
protection might be needful some day or other. By the exercise of tact the number of men
quartered in one's house might be reduced; and why should one provoke the hostility of a
person on whom one's whole welfare depended Such conduct would savor less of bravery
than of fool-hardiness. And foolhardiness is no longer a failing of the citizens of Rouen as it
was in the days when their city earned renown by its heroic defenses. Last of all-final
argument based on the national politeness—the folk of Rouen said to one another that it was
only right to be civil in one's own house, provided there was no public exhibition of
familiarity with the foreigner. Out of doors, therefore, citizen and soldier did not know each
other; but in the house both chatted freely, and each evening the German remained a little
longer warming himself at the hospitable hearth.
Even the town itself resumed by degrees its ordinary aspect. The French seldom walked
abroad, but the streets swarmed with Prussian soldiers. Moreover, the officers of the Blue
Hussars, who arrogantly dragged their instruments of death along the pavements, seemed to
hold the simple townsmen in but little more contempt than did the French cavalry officers
who had drunk at the same cafes the year before.
But there was something in the air, a something strange and subtle, an intolerable foreign
atmosphere like a penetrating odor—the odor of invasion. It permeated dwellings and places
of public resort, changed the taste of food, made one imagine one's self in far-distant lands,
amid dangerous, barbaric tribes.
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The conquerors exacted money, much money. The inhabitants paid what was asked; they
were rich. But, the wealthier a Norman tradesman becomes, the more he suffers at having to
part with anything that belongs to him, at having to see any portion of his substance pass into
the hands of another.
Nevertheless, within six or seven miles of the town, along the course of the river as it flows
onward to Croisset, Dieppedalle and Biessart, boat-men and fishermen often hauled to the
surface of the water the body of a German, bloated in his uniform, killed by a blow from
knife or club, his head crushed by a stone, or perchance pushed from some bridge into the
stream below. The mud of the river-bed swallowed up these obscure acts of vengeance—
savage, yet legitimate; these unrecorded deeds of bravery; these silent attacks fraught with
greater danger than battles fought in broad day, and surrounded, moreover, with no halo of
romance. For hatred of the foreigner ever arms a few intrepid souls, ready to die for an idea.
At last, as the invaders, though subjecting the town to the strictest discipline, had not
committed any of the deeds of horror with which they had been credited while on their
triumphal march, the people grew bolder, and the necessities of business again animated the
breasts of the local merchants. Some of these had important commercial interests at Havre —
occupied at present by the French army—and wished to attempt to reach that port by
overland route to Dieppe, taking the boat from there.
Through the influence of the German officers whose acquaintance they had made, they
obtained a permit to leave town from the general in command.
A large four-horse coach having, therefore, been engaged for the journey, and ten passengers
having given in their names to the proprietor, they decided to start on a certain Tuesday
morning before daybreak, to avoid attracting a crowd.
The ground had been frozen hard for some time-past, and about three o'clock on Monday
afternoon—large black clouds from the north shed their burden of snow uninterruptedly all
through that evening and night.
At half-past four in the morning the travellers met in the courtyard of the Hotel de
Normandie, where they were to take their seats in the coach.
They were still half asleep, and shivering with cold under their wraps. They could see one
another but indistinctly in the darkness, and the mountain of heavy winter wraps in which
each was swathed made them look like a gathering of obese priests in their long cassocks.
But two men recognized each other, a third accosted them, and the three began to talk. "I am
bringing my wife," said one. "So am I." "And I, too." The first speaker added: "We shall not
return to Rouen, and if the Prussians approach Havre we will cross to England." All three, it
turned out, had made the same plans, being of similar disposition and temperament.
Still the horses were not harnessed. A small lantern carried by a stable-boy emerged now and
then from one dark doorway to disappear immediately in another. The stamping of horses'
hoofs, deadened by the dung and straw of the stable, was heard from time to time, and from
inside the building issued a man's voice, talking to the animals and swearing at them. A faint
tinkle of bells showed that the harness was being got ready; this tinkle soon developed into a
continuous jingling, louder or softer according to the movements of the horse, sometimes
259

stopping altogether, then breaking out in a sudden peal accompanied by a pawing of the
ground by an iron-shod hoof.
The door suddenly closed. All noise ceased.
The frozen townsmen were silent; they remained motionless, stiff with cold.
A thick curtain of glistening white flakes fell ceaselessly to the ground; it obliterated all
outlines, enveloped all objects in an icy mantle of foam; nothing was to be heard throughout
the length and breadth of the silent, winter-bound city save the vague, nameless rustle of
falling snow—a sensation rather than a sound—the gentle mingling of light atoms which
seemed to fill all space, to cover the whole world.
The man reappeared with his lantern, leading by a rope a melancholy-looking horse,
evidently being led out against his inclination. The hostler placed him beside the pole,
fastened the traces, and spent some time in walking round him to make sure that the harness
was all right; for he could use only one hand, the other being engaged in holding the lantern.
As he was about to fetch the second horse he noticed the motionless group of travellers,
already white with snow, and said to them: "Why don't you get inside the coach You'd be
under shelter, at least."
This did not seem to have occurred to them, and they at once took his advice. The three men
seated their wives at the far end of the coach, then got in themselves; lastly the other vague,
snow-shrouded forms clambered to the remaining places without a word.
The floor was covered with straw, into which the feet sank. The ladies at the far end, having
brought with them little copper foot-warmers heated by means of a kind of chemical fuel,
proceeded to light these, and spent some time in expatiating in low tones on their advantages,
saying over and over again things which they had all known for a long time.
At last, six horses instead of four having been harnessed to the diligence, on account of the
heavy roads, a voice outside asked: "Is every one there" To which a voice from the interior
replied: "Yes," and they set out.
The vehicle moved slowly, slowly, at a snail's pace; the wheels sank into the snow; the entire
body of the coach creaked and groaned; the horses slipped, puffed, steamed, and the
coachman's long whip cracked incessantly, flying hither and thither, coiling up, then flinging
out its length like a slender serpent, as it lashed some rounded flank, which instantly grew
tense as it strained in further effort.
But the day grew apace. Those light flakes which one traveller, a native of Rouen, had
compared to a rain of cotton fell no longer. A murky light filtered through dark, heavy
clouds, which made the country more dazzlingly white by contrast, a whiteness broken
sometimes by a row of tall trees spangled with hoarfrost, or by a cottage roof hooded in
snow.
Within the coach the passengers eyed one another curiously in the dim light of dawn.
Right at the back, in the best seats of all, Monsieur and Madame Loiseau, wholesale wine
merchants of the Rue Grand-Pont, slumbered opposite each other. Formerly clerk to a
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merchant who had failed in business, Loiseau had bought his master's interest, and made a
fortune for himself. He sold very bad wine at a very low price to the retail-dealers in the
country, and had the reputation, among his friends and acquaintances, of being a shrewd
rascal a true Norman, full of quips and wiles. So well established was his character as a cheat
that, in the mouths of the citizens of Rouen, the very name of Loiseau became a byword for
sharp practice.
Above and beyond this, Loiseau was noted for his practical jokes of every description—his
tricks, good or ill-natured; and no one could mention his name without adding at once: "He's
an extraordinary man—Loiseau." He was undersized and potbellied, had a florid face with
grayish whiskers.
His wife-tall, strong, determined, with a loud voice and decided manner —represented the
spirit of order and arithmetic in the business house which Loiseau enlivened by his jovial
activity.
Beside them, dignified in bearing, belonging to a superior caste, sat Monsieur Carre-
Lamadon, a man of considerable importance, a king in the cotton trade, proprietor of three
spinning-mills, officer of the Legion of Honor, and member of the General Council. During
the whole time the Empire was in the ascendancy he remained the chief of the well-disposed
Opposition, merely in order to command a higher value for his devotion when he should rally
to the cause which he meanwhile opposed with "courteous weapons," to use his own
expression.
Madame Carre-Lamadon, much younger than her husband, was the consolation of all the
officers of good family quartered at Rouen. Pretty, slender, graceful, she sat opposite her
husband, curled up in her furs, and gazing mournfully at the sorry interior of the coach.
Her neighbors, the Comte and Comtesse Hubert de Breville, bore one of the noblest and most
ancient names in Normandy. The count, a nobleman advanced in years and of aristocratic
bearing, strove to enhance by every artifice of the toilet, his natural resemblance to King
Henry IV, who, according to a legend of which the family were inordinately proud, had been
the favored lover of a De Breville lady, and father of her child —the frail one's husband
having, in recognition of this fact, been made a count and governor of a province.
A colleague of Monsieur Carre-Lamadon in the General Council, Count Hubert represented
the Orleanist party in his department. The story of his marriage with the daughter of a small
shipowner at Nantes had always remained more or less of a mystery. But as the countess had
an air of unmistakable breeding, entertained faultlessly, and was even supposed to have been
loved by a son of Louis-Philippe, the nobility vied with one another in doing her honor, and
her drawing-room remained the most select in the whole countryside—the only one which
retained the old spirit of gallantry, and to which access was not easy.
The fortune of the Brevilles, all in real estate, amounted, it was said, to five hundred thousand
francs a year.
These six people occupied the farther end of the coach, and represented Society—with an
income—the strong, established society of good people with religion and principle.
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It happened by chance that all the women were seated on the same side; and the countess had,
moreover, as neighbors two nuns, who spent the time in fingering their long rosaries and
murmuring paternosters and aves. One of them was old, and so deeply pitted with smallpox
that she looked for all the world as if she had received a charge of shot full in the face. The
other, of sickly appearance, had a pretty but wasted countenance, and a narrow, consumptive
chest, sapped by that devouring faith which is the making of martyrs and visionaries.
A man and woman, sitting opposite the two nuns, attracted all eyes.
The man—a well-known character—was Cornudet, the democrat, the terror of all respectable
people. For the past twenty years his big red beard had been on terms of intimate
acquaintance with the tankards of all the republican cafes. With the help of his comrades and
brethren he had dissipated a respectable fortune left him by his father, an old-established
confectioner, and he now impatiently awaited the Republic, that he might at last be rewarded
with the post he had earned by his revolutionary orgies. On the fourth of September—
possibly as the result of a practical joke—he was led to believe that he had been appointed
prefect; but when he attempted to take up the duties of the position the clerks in charge of the
office refused to recognize his authority, and he was compelled in consequence to retire. A
good sort of fellow in other respects, inoffensive and obliging, he had thrown himself
zealously into the work of making an organized defence of the town. He had had pits dug in
the level country, young forest trees felled, and traps set on all the roads; then at the approach
of the enemy, thoroughly satisfied with his preparations, he had hastily returned to the town.
He thought he might now do more good at Havre, where new intrenchments would soon be
necessary.
The woman, who belonged to the courtesan class, was celebrated for an embonpoint unusual
for her age, which had earned for her the sobriquet of "Boule de Suif" (Tallow Ball). Short
and round, fat as a pig, with puffy fingers constricted at the joints, looking like rows of short
sausages; with a shiny, tightly-stretched skin and an enormous bust filling out the bodice of
her dress, she was yet attractive and much sought after, owing to her fresh and pleasing
appearance. Her face was like a crimson apple, a peony-bud just bursting into bloom; she had
two magnificent dark eyes, fringed with thick, heavy lashes, which cast a shadow into their
depths; her mouth was small, ripe, kissable, and was furnished with the tiniest of white teeth.
As soon as she was recognized the respectable matrons of the party began to whisper among
themselves, and the words "hussy" and "public scandal" were uttered so loudly that Boule de
Suif raised her head. She forthwith cast such a challenging, bold look at her neighbors that a
sudden silence fell on the company, and all lowered their eyes, with the exception of Loiseau,
who watched her with evident interest.
But conversation was soon resumed among the three ladies, whom the presence of this girl
had suddenly drawn together in the bonds of friendship—one might almost say in those of
intimacy. They decided that they ought to combine, as it were, in their dignity as wives in
face of this shameless hussy; for legitimized love always despises its easygoing brother.
The three men, also, brought together by a certain conservative instinct awakened by the
presence of Cornudet, spoke of money matters in a tone expressive of contempt for the poor.
Count Hubert related the losses he had sustained at the hands of the Prussians, spoke of the
cattle which had been stolen from him, the crops which had been ruined, with the easy
manner of a nobleman who was also a tenfold millionaire, and whom such reverses would
262

scarcely inconvenience for a single year. Monsieur Carre-Lamadon, a man of wide
experience in the cotton industry, had taken care to send six hundred thousand francs to
England as provision against the rainy day he was always anticipating. As for Loiseau, he had
managed to sell to the French commissariat department all the wines he had in stock, so that
the state now owed him a considerable sum, which he hoped to receive at Havre.
And all three eyed one another in friendly, well-disposed fashion. Although of varying social
status, they were united in the brotherhood of money—in that vast freemasonry made up of
those who possess, who can jingle gold wherever they choose to put their hands into their
breeches' pockets.
The coach went along so slowly that at ten o'clock in the morning it had not covered twelve
miles. Three times the men of the party got out and climbed the hills on foot. The passengers
were becoming uneasy, for they had counted on lunching at Totes, and it seemed now as if
they would hardly arrive there before nightfall. Every one was eagerly looking out for an inn
by the roadside, when, suddenly, the coach foundered in a snowdrift, and it took two hours to
extricate it.
As appetites increased, their spirits fell; no inn, no wine shop could be discovered, the
approach of the Prussians and the transit of the starving French troops having frightened
away all business.
The men sought food in the farmhouses beside the road, but could not find so much as a crust
of bread; for the suspicious peasant invariably hid his stores for fear of being pillaged by the
soldiers, who, being entirely without food, would take violent possession of everything they
found.
About one o'clock Loiseau announced that he positively had a big hollow in his stomach.
They had all been suffering in the same way for some time, and the increasing gnawings of
hunger had put an end to all conversation.
Now and then some one yawned, another followed his example, and each in turn, according
to his character, breeding and social position, yawned either quietly or noisily, placing his
hand before the gaping void whence issued breath condensed into vapor.
Several times Boule de Suif stooped, as if searching for something under her petticoats. She
would hesitate a moment, look at her neighbors, and then quietly sit upright again. All faces
were pale and drawn. Loiseau declared he would give a thousand francs for a knuckle of ham.
His wife made an involuntary and quickly checked gesture of protest. It always hurt her to
hear of money being squandered, and she could not even understand jokes on such a subject.
"As a matter of fact, I don't feel well," said the count. "Why did I not think of bringing
provisions" Each one reproached himself in similar fashion.
Cornudet, however, had a bottle of rum, which he offered to his neighbors. They all coldly
refused except Loiseau, who took a sip, and returned the bottle with thanks, saying: "That's
good stuff; it warms one up, and cheats the appetite." The alcohol put him in good humor,
and he proposed they should do as the sailors did in the song: eat the fattest of the passengers.
This indirect allusion to Boule de Suif shocked the respectable members of the party. No one
replied; only Cornudet smiled. The two good sisters had ceased to mumble their rosary, and,
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with hands enfolded in their wide sleeves, sat motionless, their eyes steadfastly cast down,
doubtless offering up as a sacrifice to Heaven the suffering it had sent them.
At last, at three o'clock, as they were in the midst of an apparently limitless plain, with not a
single village in sight, Boule de Suif stooped quickly, and drew from underneath the seat a
large basket covered with a white napkin.
From this she extracted first of all a small earthenware plate and a silver drinking cup, then an
enormous dish containing two whole chickens cut into joints and imbedded in jelly. The
basket was seen to contain other good things: pies, fruit, dainties of all sorts-provisions, in
fine, for a three days' journey, rendering their owner independent of wayside inns. The necks
of four bottles protruded from among the food. She took a chicken wing, and began to eat it
daintily, together with one of those rolls called in Normandy "Regence."
All looks were directed toward her. An odor of food filled the air, causing nostrils to dilate,
mouths to water, and jaws to contract painfully. The scorn of the ladies for this disreputable
female grew positively ferocious; they would have liked to kill her, or throw, her and her
drinking cup, her basket, and her provisions, out of the coach into the snow of the road
below.
But Loiseau's gaze was fixed greedily on the dish of chicken. He said:
"Well, well, this lady had more forethought than the rest of us. Some people think of
everything."
She looked up at him.
"Would you like some, sir It is hard to go on fasting all day."
He bowed.
"Upon my soul, I can't refuse; I cannot hold out another minute. All is fair in war time, is it
not, madame" And, casting a glance on those around, he added:
"At times like this it is very pleasant to meet with obliging people."
He spread a newspaper over his knees to avoid soiling his trousers, and, with a pocketknife he
always carried, helped himself to a chicken leg coated with jelly, which he thereupon
proceeded to devour.
Then Boule le Suif, in low, humble tones, invited the nuns to partake of her repast. They both
accepted the offer unhesitatingly, and after a few stammered words of thanks began to eat
quickly, without raising their eyes. Neither did Cornudet refuse his neighbor's offer, and, in
combination with the nuns, a sort of table was formed by opening out the newspaper over the
four pairs of knees.
Mouths kept opening and shutting, ferociously masticating and devouring the food. Loiseau,
in his corner, was hard at work, and in low tones urged his wife to follow his example. She
held out for a long time, but overstrained Nature gave way at last. Her husband, assuming his
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politest manner, asked their "charming companion" if he might be allowed to offer Madame
Loiseau a small helping.
"Why, certainly, sir," she replied, with an amiable smile, holding out the dish.
When the first bottle of claret was opened some embarrassment was caused by the fact that
there was only one drinking cup, but this was passed from one to another, after being wiped.
Cornudet alone, doubtless in a spirit of gallantry, raised to his own lips that part of the rim
which was still moist from those of his fair neighbor.
Then, surrounded by people who were eating, and well-nigh suffocated by the odor of food,
the Comte and Comtesse de Breville and Monsieur and Madame Carre-Lamadon endured
that hateful form of torture which has perpetuated the name of Tantalus. All at once the
manufacturer's young wife heaved a sigh which made every one turn and look at her; she was
white as the snow without; her eyes closed, her head fell forward; she had fainted. Her
husband, beside himself, implored the help of his neighbors. No one seemed to know what to
do until the elder of the two nuns, raising the patient's head, placed Boule de Suif's drinking
cup to her lips, and made her swallow a few drops of wine. The pretty invalid moved, opened
her eyes, smiled, and declared in a feeble voice that she was all right again. But, to prevent a
recurrence of the catastrophe, the nun made her drink a cupful of claret, adding: "It's just
hunger —that's what is wrong with you."
Then Boule de Suif, blushing and embarrassed, stammered, looking at the four passengers
who were still fasting:
"'Mon Dieu', if I might offer these ladies and gentlemen——"
She stopped short, fearing a snub. But Loiseau continued:
"Hang it all, in such a case as this we are all brothers and sisters and ought to assist each
other. Come, come, ladies, don't stand on ceremony, for goodness' sake! Do we even know
whether we shall find a house in which to pass the night At our present rate of going we
sha'n't be at Totes till midday to-morrow."
They hesitated, no one daring to be the first to accept. But the count settled the question. He
turned toward the abashed girl, and in his most distinguished manner said:
"We accept gratefully, madame."
As usual, it was only the first step that cost. This Rubicon once crossed, they set to work with
a will. The basket was emptied. It still contained a pate de foie gras, a lark pie, a piece of
smoked tongue, Crassane pears, Pont-Leveque gingerbread, fancy cakes, and a cup full of
pickled gherkins and onions—Boule de Suif, like all women, being very fond of indigestible
things.
They could not eat this girl's provisions without speaking to her. So they began to talk, stiffly
at first; then, as she seemed by no means forward, with greater freedom. Mesdames de
Breville and Carre-Lamadon, who were accomplished women of the world, were gracious
and tactful. The countess especially displayed that amiable condescension characteristic of
great ladies whom no contact with baser mortals can sully, and was absolutely charming. But
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the sturdy Madame Loiseau, who had the soul of a gendarme, continued morose, speaking
little and eating much.
Conversation naturally turned on the war. Terrible stories were told about the Prussians,
deeds of bravery were recounted of the French; and all these people who were fleeing
themselves were ready to pay homage to the courage of their compatriots. Personal
experiences soon followed, and Bottle le Suif related with genuine emotion, and with that
warmth of language not uncommon in women of her class and temperament, how it came
about that she had left Rouen.
"I thought at first that I should be able to stay," she said. "My house was well stocked with
provisions, and it seemed better to put up with feeding a few soldiers than to banish myself
goodness knows where. But when I saw these Prussians it was too much for me! My blood
boiled with rage; I wept the whole day for very shame. Oh, if only I had been a man! I looked
at them from my window—the fat swine, with their pointed helmets!—and my maid held my
hands to keep me from throwing my furniture down on them. Then some of them were
quartered on me; I flew at the throat of the first one who entered. They are just as easy to
strangle as other men! And I'd have been the death of that one if I hadn't been dragged away
from him by my hair. I had to hide after that. And as soon as I could get an opportunity I left
the place, and here I am."
She was warmly congratulated. She rose in the estimation of her companions, who had not
been so brave; and Cornudet listened to her with the approving and benevolent smile of an
apostle, the smile a priest might wear in listening to a devotee praising God; for long-bearded
democrats of his type have a monopoly of patriotism, just as priests have a monopoly of
religion. He held forth in turn, with dogmatic self-assurance, in the style of the proclamations
daily pasted on the walls of the town, winding up with a specimen of stump oratory in which
he reviled "that besotted fool of a Louis-Napoleon."
But Boule de Suif was indignant, for she was an ardent Bonapartist. She turned as red as a
cherry, and stammered in her wrath: "I'd just like to have seen you in his place—you and
your sort! There would have been a nice mix-up. Oh, yes! It was you who betrayed that man.
It would be impossible to live in France if we were governed by such rascals as you!"
Cornudet, unmoved by this tirade, still smiled a superior, contemptuous smile; and one felt
that high words were impending, when the count interposed, and, not without difficulty,
succeeded in calming the exasperated woman, saying that all sincere opinions ought to be
respected. But the countess and the manufacturer's wife, imbued with the unreasoning hatred
of the upper classes for the Republic, and instinct, moreover, with the affection felt by all
women for the pomp and circumstance of despotic government, were drawn, in spite of
themselves, toward this dignified young woman, whose opinions coincided so closely with
their own.
The basket was empty. The ten people had finished its contents without difficulty amid
general regret that it did not hold more. Conversation went on a little longer, though it
flagged somewhat after the passengers had finished eating.
Night fell, the darkness grew deeper and deeper, and the cold made Boule de Suif shiver, in
spite of her plumpness. So Madame de Breville offered her her foot-warmer, the fuel of
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which had been several times renewed since the morning, and she accepted the offer at once,
for her feet were icy cold. Mesdames Carre-Lamadon and Loiseau gave theirs to the nuns.
The driver lighted his lanterns. They cast a bright gleam on a cloud of vapor which hovered
over the sweating flanks of the horses, and on the roadside snow, which seemed to unroll as
they went along in the changing light of the lamps.
All was now indistinguishable in the coach; but suddenly a movement occurred in the corner
occupied by Boule de Suif and Cornudet; and Loiseau, peering into the gloom, fancied he
saw the big, bearded democrat move hastily to one side, as if he had received a well-directed,
though noiseless, blow in the dark.
Tiny lights glimmered ahead. It was Totes. The coach had been on the road eleven hours,
which, with the three hours allotted the horses in four periods for feeding and breathing,
made fourteen. It entered the town, and stopped before the Hotel du Commerce.
The coach door opened; a well-known noise made all the travellers start; it was the clanging
of a scabbard, on the pavement; then a voice called out something in German.
Although the coach had come to a standstill, no one got out; it looked as if they were afraid of
being murdered the moment they left their seats. Thereupon the driver appeared, holding in
his hand one of his lanterns, which cast a sudden glow on the interior of the coach, lighting
up the double row of startled faces, mouths agape, and eyes wide open in surprise and terror.
Beside the driver stood in the full light a German officer, a tall young man, fair and slender,
tightly encased in his uniform like a woman in her corset, his flat shiny cap, tilted to one side
of his head, making him look like an English hotel runner. His exaggerated mustache, long
and straight and tapering to a point at either end in a single blond hair that could hardly be
seen, seemed to weigh down the corners of his mouth and give a droop to his lips.
In Alsatian French he requested the travellers to alight, saying stiffly:
"Kindly get down, ladies and gentlemen."
The two nuns were the first to obey, manifesting the docility of holy women accustomed to
submission on every occasion. Next appeared the count and countess, followed by the
manufacturer and his wife, after whom came Loiseau, pushing his larger and better half
before him.
"Good-day, sir," he said to the officer as he put his foot to the ground, acting on an impulse
born of prudence rather than of politeness. The other, insolent like all in authority, merely
stared without replying.
Boule de Suif and Cornudet, though near the door, were the last to alight, grave and dignified
before the enemy. The stout girl tried to control herself and appear calm; the democrat
stroked his long russet beard with a somewhat trembling hand. Both strove to maintain their
dignity, knowing well that at such a time each individual is always looked upon as more or
less typical of his nation; and, also, resenting the complaisant attitude of their companions,
Boule de Suif tried to wear a bolder front than her neighbors, the virtuous women, while he,
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feeling that it was incumbent on him to set a good example, kept up the attitude of resistance
which he had first assumed when he undertook to mine the high roads round Rouen.
They entered the spacious kitchen of the inn, and the German, having demanded the passports
signed by the general in command, in which were mentioned the name, description and
profession of each traveller, inspected them all minutely, comparing their appearance with the
written particulars.
Then he said brusquely: "All right," and turned on his heel.
They breathed freely, All were still hungry; so supper was ordered. Half an hour was required
for its preparation, and while two servants were apparently engaged in getting it ready the
travellers went to look at their rooms. These all opened off a long corridor, at the end of
which was a glazed door with a number on it.
They were just about to take their seats at table when the innkeeper appeared in person. He
was a former horse dealer—a large, asthmatic individual, always wheezing, coughing, and
clearing his throat. Follenvie was his patronymic.
He called:
"Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset"
Boule de Suif started, and turned round.
"That is my name."
"Mademoiselle, the Prussian officer wishes to speak to you immediately."
"To me"
"Yes; if you are Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset."
She hesitated, reflected a moment, and then declared roundly:
"That may be; but I'm not going."
They moved restlessly around her; every one wondered and speculated as to the cause of this
order. The count approached:
"You are wrong, madame, for your refusal may bring trouble not only on yourself but also on
all your companions. It never pays to resist those in authority. Your compliance with this
request cannot possibly be fraught with any danger; it has probably been made because some
formality or other was forgotten."
All added their voices to that of the count; Boule de Suif was begged, urged, lectured, and at
last convinced; every one was afraid of the complications which might result from headstrong
action on her part. She said finally:
"I am doing it for your sakes, remember that!"
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The countess took her hand.
"And we are grateful to you."
She left the room. All waited for her return before commencing the meal. Each was distressed
that he or she had not been sent for rather than this impulsive, quick-tempered girl, and each
mentally rehearsed platitudes in case of being summoned also.
But at the end of ten minutes she reappeared breathing hard, crimson with indignation.
"Oh! the scoundrel! the scoundrel!" she stammered.
All were anxious to know what had happened; but she declined to enlighten them, and when
the count pressed the point, she silenced him with much dignity, saying:
"No; the matter has nothing to do with you, and I cannot speak of it."
Then they took their places round a high soup tureen, from which issued an odor of cabbage.
In spite of this coincidence, the supper was cheerful. The cider was good; the Loiseaus and
the nuns drank it from motives of economy. The others ordered wine; Cornudet demanded
beer. He had his own fashion of uncorking the bottle and making the beer foam, gazing at it
as he inclined his glass and then raised it to a position between the lamp and his eye that he
might judge of its color. When he drank, his great beard, which matched the color of his
favorite beverage, seemed to tremble with affection; his eyes positively squinted in the
endeavor not to lose sight of the beloved glass, and he looked for all the world as if he were
fulfilling the only function for which he was born. He seemed to have established in his mind
an affinity between the two great passions of his life—pale ale and revolution—and assuredly
he could not taste the one without dreaming of the other.
Monsieur and Madame Follenvie dined at the end of the table. The man, wheezing like a
broken-down locomotive, was too short-winded to talk when he was eating. But the wife was
not silent a moment; she told how the Prussians had impressed her on their arrival, what they
did, what they said; execrating them in the first place because they cost her money, and in the
second because she had two sons in the army. She addressed herself principally to the
countess, flattered at the opportunity of talking to a lady of quality.
Then she lowered her voice, and began to broach delicate subjects. Her husband interrupted
her from time to time, saying:
"You would do well to hold your tongue, Madame Follenvie."
But she took no notice of him, and went on:
"Yes, madame, these Germans do nothing but eat potatoes and pork, and then pork and
potatoes. And don't imagine for a moment that they are clean! No, indeed! And if only you
saw them drilling for hours, indeed for days, together; they all collect in a field, then they do
nothing but march backward and forward, and wheel this way and that. If only they would
cultivate the land, or remain at home and work on their high roads! Really, madame, these
soldiers are of no earthly use! Poor people have to feed and keep them, only in order that they
may learn how to kill! True, I am only an old woman with no education, but when I see them
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wearing themselves out marching about from morning till night, I say to myself: When there
are people who make discoveries that are of use to people, why should others take so much
trouble to do harm Really, now, isn't it a terrible thing to kill people, whether they are
Prussians, or English, or Poles, or French If we revenge ourselves on any one who injures us
we do wrong, and are punished for it; but when our sons are shot down like partridges, that is
all right, and decorations are given to the man who kills the most. No, indeed, I shall never be
able to understand it."
Cornudet raised his voice:
"War is a barbarous proceeding when we attack a peaceful neighbor, but it is a sacred duty
when undertaken in defence of one's country."
The old woman looked down:
"Yes; it's another matter when one acts in self-defence; but would it not be better to kill all
the kings, seeing that they make war just to amuse themselves"
Cornudet's eyes kindled.
"Bravo, citizens!" he said.
Monsieur Carre-Lamadon was reflecting profoundly. Although an ardent admirer of great
generals, the peasant woman's sturdy common sense made him reflect on the wealth which
might accrue to a country by the employment of so many idle hands now maintained at a
great expense, of so much unproductive force, if they were employed in those great industrial
enterprises which it will take centuries to complete.
But Loiseau, leaving his seat, went over to the innkeeper and began chatting in a low voice.
The big man chuckled, coughed, sputtered; his enormous carcass shook with merriment at the
pleasantries of the other; and he ended by buying six casks of claret from Loiseau to be
delivered in spring, after the departure of the Prussians.
The moment supper was over every one went to bed, worn out with fatigue.
But Loiseau, who had been making his observations on the sly, sent his wife to bed, and
amused himself by placing first his ear, and then his eye, to the bedroom keyhole, in order to
discover what he called "the mysteries of the corridor."
At the end of about an hour he heard a rustling, peeped out quickly, and caught sight of Boule
de Suif, looking more rotund than ever in a dressing-gown of blue cashmere trimmed with
white lace. She held a candle in her hand, and directed her steps to the numbered door at the
end of the corridor. But one of the side doors was partly opened, and when, at the end of a
few minutes, she returned, Cornudet, in his shirt-sleeves, followed her. They spoke in low
tones, then stopped short. Boule de Suif seemed to be stoutly denying him admission to her
room. Unfortunately, Loiseau could not at first hear what they said; but toward the end of the
conversation they raised their voices, and he caught a few words. Cornudet was loudly
insistent.
"How silly you are! What does it matter to you" he said.
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She seemed indignant, and replied:
"No, my good man, there are times when one does not do that sort of thing; besides, in this
place it would be shameful."
Apparently he did not understand, and asked the reason. Then she lost her temper and her
caution, and, raising her voice still higher, said:
"Why Can't you understand why When there are Prussians in the house! Perhaps even in
the very next room!"
He was silent. The patriotic shame of this wanton, who would not suffer herself to be
caressed in the neighborhood of the enemy, must have roused his dormant dignity, for after
bestowing on her a simple kiss he crept softly back to his room. Loiseau, much edified,
capered round the bedroom before taking his place beside his slumbering spouse.
Then silence reigned throughout the house. But soon there arose from some remote part—it
might easily have been either cellar or attic—a stertorous, monotonous, regular snoring, a
dull, prolonged rumbling, varied by tremors like those of a boiler under pressure of steam.
Monsieur Follenvie had gone to sleep.
As they had decided on starting at eight o'clock the next morning, every one was in the
kitchen at that hour; but the coach, its roof covered with snow, stood by itself in the middle of
the yard, without either horses or driver. They sought the latter in the stables, coach-houses
and barns —but in vain. So the men of the party resolved to scour the country for him, and
sallied forth. They found them selves in the square, with the church at the farther side, and to
right and left low-roofed houses where there were some Prussian soldiers. The first soldier
they saw was peeling potatoes. The second, farther on, was washing out a barber's shop. An
other, bearded to the eyes, was fondling a crying infant, and dandling it on his knees to quiet
it; and the stout peasant women, whose men-folk were for the most part at the war, were, by
means of signs, telling their obedient conquerors what work they were to do: chop wood,
prepare soup, grind coffee; one of them even was doing the washing for his hostess, an infirm
old grandmother.
The count, astonished at what he saw, questioned the beadle who was coming out of the
presbytery. The old man answered:
"Oh, those men are not at all a bad sort; they are not Prussians, I am told; they come from
somewhere farther off, I don't exactly know where. And they have all left wives and children
behind them; they are not fond of war either, you may be sure! I am sure they are mourning
for the men where they come from, just as we do here; and the war causes them just as much
unhappiness as it does us. As a matter of fact, things are not so very bad here just now,
because the soldiers do no harm, and work just as if they were in their own homes. You see,
sir, poor folk always help one another; it is the great ones of this world who make war."
Cornudet indignant at the friendly understanding established between conquerors and
conquered, withdrew, preferring to shut himself up in the inn.
"They are repeopling the country," jested Loiseau.
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"They are undoing the harm they have done," said Monsieur Carre-Lamadon gravely.
But they could not find the coach driver. At last he was discovered in the village cafe,
fraternizing cordially with the officer's orderly.
"Were you not told to harness the horses at eight o'clock" demanded the count.
"Oh, yes; but I've had different orders since."
"What orders"
"Not to harness at all."
"Who gave you such orders"
"Why, the Prussian officer."
"But why"
"I don't know. Go and ask him. I am forbidden to harness the horses, so I don't harness
them—that's all."
"Did he tell you so himself"
"No, sir; the innkeeper gave me the order from him."
"When"
"Last evening, just as I was going to bed."
The three men returned in a very uneasy frame of mind.
They asked for Monsieur Follenvie, but the servant replied that on account of his asthma he
never got up before ten o'clock. They were strictly forbidden to rouse him earlier, except in
case of fire.
They wished to see the officer, but that also was impossible, although he lodged in the inn.
Monsieur Follenvie alone was authorized to interview him on civil matters. So they waited.
The women returned to their rooms, and occupied themselves with trivial matters.
Cornudet settled down beside the tall kitchen fireplace, before a blazing fire. He had a small
table and a jug of beer placed beside him, and he smoked his pipe—a pipe which enjoyed
among democrats a consideration almost equal to his own, as though it had served its country
in serving Cornudet. It was a fine meerschaum, admirably colored to a black the shade of its
owner's teeth, but sweet-smelling, gracefully curved, at home in its master's hand, and
completing his physiognomy. And Cornudet sat motionless, his eyes fixed now on the
dancing flames, now on the froth which crowned his beer; and after each draught he passed
his long, thin fingers with an air of satisfaction through his long, greasy hair, as he sucked the
foam from his mustache.
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Loiseau, under pretence of stretching his legs, went out to see if he could sell wine to the
country dealers. The count and the manufacturer began to talk politics. They forecast the
future of France. One believed in the Orleans dynasty, the other in an unknown savior—a
hero who should rise up in the last extremity: a Du Guesclin, perhaps a Joan of Arc or
another Napoleon the First Ah! if only the Prince Imperial were not so young! Cornudet,
listening to them, smiled like a man who holds the keys of destiny in his hands. His pipe
perfumed the whole kitchen.
As the clock struck ten, Monsieur Follenvie appeared. He was immediately surrounded and
questioned, but could only repeat, three or four times in succession, and without variation, the
words:
"The officer said to me, just like this: 'Monsieur Follenvie, you will forbid them to harness up
the coach for those travellers to-morrow. They are not to start without an order from me. You
hear That is sufficient.'"
Then they asked to see the officer. The count sent him his card, on which Monsieur Carre-
Lamadon also inscribed his name and titles. The Prussian sent word that the two men would
be admitted to see him after his luncheon—that is to say, about one o'clock.
The ladies reappeared, and they all ate a little, in spite of their anxiety. Boule de Suif
appeared ill and very much worried.
They were finishing their coffee when the orderly came to fetch the gentlemen.
Loiseau joined the other two; but when they tried to get Cornudet to accompany them, by
way of adding greater solemnity to the occasion, he declared proudly that he would never
have anything to do with the Germans, and, resuming his seat in the chimney corner, he
called for another jug of beer.
The three men went upstairs, and were ushered into the best room in the inn, where the
officer received them lolling at his ease in an armchair, his feet on the mantelpiece, smoking
a long porcelain pipe, and enveloped in a gorgeous dressing-gown, doubtless stolen from the
deserted dwelling of some citizen destitute of taste in dress. He neither rose, greeted them,
nor even glanced in their direction. He afforded a fine example of that insolence of bearing
which seems natural to the victorious soldier.
After the lapse of a few moments he said in his halting French:
"What do you want"
"We wish to start on our journey," said the count.
"No."
"May I ask the reason of your refusal"
"Because I don't choose."
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"I would respectfully call your attention, monsieur, to the fact that your general in command
gave us a permit to proceed to Dieppe; and I do not think we have done anything to deserve
this harshness at your hands."
"I don't choose—that's all. You may go."
They bowed, and retired.
The afternoon was wretched. They could not understand the caprice of this German, and the
strangest ideas came into their heads. They all congregated in the kitchen, and talked the
subject to death, imagining all kinds of unlikely things. Perhaps they were to be kept as
hostages —but for what reason or to be extradited as prisoners of war or possibly they were
to be held for ransom They were panic-stricken at this last supposition. The richest among
them were the most alarmed, seeing themselves forced to empty bags of gold into the insolent
soldier's hands in order to buy back their lives. They racked their brains for plausible lies
whereby they might conceal the fact that they were rich, and pass themselves off as poor—
very poor. Loiseau took off his watch chain, and put it in his pocket. The approach of night
increased their apprehension. The lamp was lighted, and as it wanted yet two hours to dinner
Madame Loiseau proposed a game of trente et un. It would distract their thoughts. The rest
agreed, and Cornudet himself joined the party, first putting out his pipe for politeness' sake.
The count shuffled the cards—dealt—and Boule de Suif had thirty-one to start with; soon the
interest of the game assuaged the anxiety of the players. But Cornudet noticed that Loiseau
and his wife were in league to cheat.
They were about to sit down to dinner when Monsieur Follenvie appeared, and in his grating
voice announced:
"The Prussian officer sends to ask Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset if she has changed her
mind yet."
Boule de Suif stood still, pale as death. Then, suddenly turning crimson with anger, she
gasped out:
"Kindly tell that scoundrel, that cur, that carrion of a Prussian, that I will never consent—you
understand—never, never, never!"
The fat innkeeper left the room. Then Boule de Suif was surrounded, questioned, entreated on
all sides to reveal the mystery of her visit to the officer. She refused at first; but her wrath
soon got the better of her.
"What does he want He wants to make me his mistress!" she cried.
No one was shocked at the word, so great was the general indignation. Cornudet broke his jug
as he banged it down on the table. A loud outcry arose against this base soldier. All were
furious. They drew together in common resistance against the foe, as if some part of the
sacrifice exacted of Boule de Suif had been demanded of each. The count declared, with
supreme disgust, that those people behaved like ancient barbarians. The women, above all,
manifested a lively and tender sympathy for Boule de Suif. The nuns, who appeared only at
meals, cast down their eyes, and said nothing.
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They dined, however, as soon as the first indignant outburst had subsided; but they spoke
little and thought much.
The ladies went to bed early; and the men, having lighted their pipes, proposed a game of
ecarte, in which Monsieur Follenvie was invited to join, the travellers hoping to question him
skillfully as to the best means of vanquishing the officer's obduracy. But he thought of
nothing but his cards, would listen to nothing, reply to nothing, and repeated, time after time:
"Attend to the game, gentlemen! attend to the game!" So absorbed was his attention that he
even forgot to expectorate. The consequence was that his chest gave forth rumbling sounds
like those of an organ. His wheezing lungs struck every note of the asthmatic scale, from
deep, hollow tones to a shrill, hoarse piping resembling that of a young cock trying to crow.
He refused to go to bed when his wife, overcome with sleep, came to fetch him. So she went
off alone, for she was an early bird, always up with the sun; while he was addicted to late
hours, ever ready to spend the night with friends. He merely said: "Put my egg-nogg by the
fire," and went on with the game. When the other men saw that nothing was to be got out of
him they declared it was time to retire, and each sought his bed.
They rose fairly early the next morning, with a vague hope of being allowed to start, a greater
desire than ever to do so, and a terror at having to spend another day in this wretched little
inn.
Alas! the horses remained in the stable, the driver was invisible. They spent their time, for
want of something better to do, in wandering round the coach.
Luncheon was a gloomy affair; and there was a general coolness toward Boule de Suif, for
night, which brings counsel, had somewhat modified the judgment of her companions. In the
cold light of the morning they almost bore a grudge against the girl for not having secretly
sought out the Prussian, that the rest of the party might receive a joyful surprise when they
awoke. What more simple
Besides, who would have been the wiser She might have saved appearances by telling the
officer that she had taken pity on their distress. Such a step would be of so little consequence
to her.
But no one as yet confessed to such thoughts.
In the afternoon, seeing that they were all bored to death, the count proposed a walk in the
neighborhood of the village. Each one wrapped himself up well, and the little party set out,
leaving behind only Cornudet, who preferred to sit over the fire, and the two nuns, who were
in the habit of spending their day in the church or at the presbytery.
The cold, which grew more intense each day, almost froze the noses and ears of the
pedestrians, their feet began to pain them so that each step was a penance, and when they
reached the open country it looked so mournful and depressing in its limitless mantle of white
that they all hastily retraced their steps, with bodies benumbed and hearts heavy.
The four women walked in front, and the three men followed a little in their rear.
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Loiseau, who saw perfectly well how matters stood, asked suddenly "if that trollop were
going to keep them waiting much longer in this Godforsaken spot." The count, always
courteous, replied that they could not exact so painful a sacrifice from any woman, and that
the first move must come from herself. Monsieur Carre-Lamadon remarked that if the
French, as they talked of doing, made a counter attack by way of Dieppe, their encounter with
the enemy must inevitably take place at Totes. This reflection made the other two anxious.
"Supposing we escape on foot" said Loiseau.
The count shrugged his shoulders.
"How can you think of such a thing, in this snow And with our wives Besides, we should
be pursued at once, overtaken in ten minutes, and brought back as prisoners at the mercy of
the soldiery."
This was true enough; they were silent.
The ladies talked of dress, but a certain constraint seemed to prevail among them.
Suddenly, at the end of the street, the officer appeared. His tall, wasp-like, uniformed figure
was outlined against the snow which bounded the horizon, and he walked, knees apart, with
that motion peculiar to soldiers, who are always anxious not to soil their carefully polished
boots.
He bowed as he passed the ladies, then glanced scornfully at the men, who had sufficient
dignity not to raise their hats, though Loiseau made a movement to do so.
Boule de Suif flushed crimson to the ears, and the three married women felt unutterably
humiliated at being met thus by the soldier in company with the girl whom he had treated
with such scant ceremony.
Then they began to talk about him, his figure, and his face. Madame Carre-Lamadon, who
had known many officers and judged them as a connoisseur, thought him not at all badlooking;
she even regretted that he was not a Frenchman, because in that case he would have
made a very handsome hussar, with whom all the women would assuredly have fallen in
love.
When they were once more within doors they did not know what to do with themselves.
Sharp words even were exchanged apropos of the merest trifles. The silent dinner was
quickly over, and each one went to bed early in the hope of sleeping, and thus killing time.
They came down next morning with tired faces and irritable tempers; the women scarcely
spoke to Boule de Suif.
A church bell summoned the faithful to a baptism. Boule de Suif had a child being brought up
by peasants at Yvetot. She did not see him once a year, and never thought of him; but the idea
of the child who was about to be baptized induced a sudden wave of tenderness for her own,
and she insisted on being present at the ceremony.
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As soon as she had gone out, the rest of the company looked at one another and then drew
their chairs together; for they realized that they must decide on some course of action.
Loiseau had an inspiration: he proposed that they should ask the officer to detain Boule de
Suif only, and to let the rest depart on their way.
Monsieur Follenvie was intrusted with this commission, but he returned to them almost
immediately. The German, who knew human nature, had shown him the door. He intended to
keep all the travellers until his condition had been complied with.
Whereupon Madame Loiseau's vulgar temperament broke bounds.
"We're not going to die of old age here!" she cried. "Since it's that vixen's trade to behave so
with men I don't see that she has any right to refuse one more than another. I may as well tell
you she took any lovers she could get at Rouen—even coachmen! Yes, indeed, madame—the
coachman at the prefecture! I know it for a fact, for he buys his wine of us. And now that it is
a question of getting us out of a difficulty she puts on virtuous airs, the drab! For my part, I
think this officer has behaved very well. Why, there were three others of us, any one of whom
he would undoubtedly have preferred. But no, he contents himself with the girl who is
common property. He respects married women. Just think. He is master here. He had only to
say: 'I wish it!' and he might have taken us by force, with the help of his soldiers."
The two other women shuddered; the eyes of pretty Madame Carre-Lamadon glistened, and
she grew pale, as if the officer were indeed in the act of laying violent hands on her.
The men, who had been discussing the subject among themselves, drew near. Loiseau, in a
state of furious resentment, was for delivering up "that miserable woman," bound hand and
foot, into the enemy's power. But the count, descended from three generations of
ambassadors, and endowed, moreover, with the lineaments of a diplomat, was in favor of
more tactful measures.
"We must persuade her," he said.
Then they laid their plans.
The women drew together; they lowered their voices, and the discussion became general,
each giving his or her opinion. But the conversation was not in the least coarse. The ladies, in
particular, were adepts at delicate phrases and charming subtleties of expression to describe
the most improper things. A stranger would have understood none of their allusions, so
guarded was the language they employed. But, seeing that the thin veneer of modesty with
which every woman of the world is furnished goes but a very little way below the surface,
they began rather to enjoy this unedifying episode, and at bottom were hugely delighted —
feeling themselves in their element, furthering the schemes of lawless love with the gusto of a
gourmand cook who prepares supper for another.
Their gaiety returned of itself, so amusing at last did the whole business seem to them. The
count uttered several rather risky witticisms, but so tactfully were they said that his audience
could not help smiling. Loiseau in turn made some considerably broader jokes, but no one
took offence; and the thought expressed with such brutal directness by his wife was
uppermost in the minds of all: "Since it's the girl's trade, why should she refuse this man more
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than another" Dainty Madame Carre-Lamadon seemed to think even that in Boule de Suif's
place she would be less inclined to refuse him than another.
The blockade was as carefully arranged as if they were investing a fortress. Each agreed on
the role which he or she was to play, the arguments to be used, the maneuvers to be executed.
They decided on the plan of campaign, the stratagems they were to employ, and the surprise
attacks which were to reduce this human citadel and force it to receive the enemy within its
walls.
But Cornudet remained apart from the rest, taking no share in the plot.
So absorbed was the attention of all that Boule de Suif's entrance was almost unnoticed. But
the count whispered a gentle "Hush!" which made the others look up. She was there. They
suddenly stopped talking, and a vague embarrassment prevented them for a few moments
from addressing her. But the countess, more practiced than the others in the wiles of the
drawing-room, asked her:
"Was the baptism interesting"
The girl, still under the stress of emotion, told what she had seen and heard, described the
faces, the attitudes of those present, and even the appearance of the church. She concluded
with the words:
"It does one good to pray sometimes."
Until lunch time the ladies contented themselves with being pleasant to her, so as to increase
her confidence and make her amenable to their advice.
As soon as they took their seats at table the attack began. First they opened a vague
conversation on the subject of self-sacrifice. Ancient examples were quoted: Judith and
Holofernes; then, irrationally enough, Lucrece and Sextus; Cleopatra and the hostile generals
whom she reduced to abject slavery by a surrender of her charms. Next was recounted an
extraordinary story, born of the imagination of these ignorant millionaires, which told how
the matrons of Rome seduced Hannibal, his lieutenants, and all his mercenaries at Capua.
They held up to admiration all those women who from time to time have arrested the
victorious progress of conquerors, made of their bodies a field of battle, a means of ruling, a
weapon; who have vanquished by their heroic caresses hideous or detested beings, and
sacrificed their chastity to vengeance and devotion.
All was said with due restraint and regard for propriety, the effect heightened now and then
by an outburst of forced enthusiasm calculated to excite emulation.
A listener would have thought at last that the one role of woman on earth was a perpetual
sacrifice of her person, a continual abandonment of herself to the caprices of a hostile
soldiery.
The two nuns seemed to hear nothing, and to be lost in thought. Boule de Suif also was silent.
During the whole afternoon she was left to her reflections. But instead of calling her
"madame" as they had done hitherto, her companions addressed her simply as
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"mademoiselle," without exactly knowing why, but as if desirous of making her descend a
step in the esteem she had won, and forcing her to realize her degraded position.
Just as soup was served, Monsieur Follenvie reappeared, repeating his phrase of the evening
before:
"The Prussian officer sends to ask if Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset has changed her mind."
Boule de Suif answered briefly:
"No, monsieur."
But at dinner the coalition weakened. Loiseau made three unfortunate remarks. Each was
cudgeling his brains for further examples of self-sacrifice, and could find none, when the
countess, possibly without ulterior motive, and moved simply by a vague desire to do homage
to religion, began to question the elder of the two nuns on the most striking facts in the lives
of the saints. Now, it fell out that many of these had committed acts which would be crimes
in our eyes, but the Church readily pardons such deeds when they are accomplished for the
glory of God or the good of mankind. This was a powerful argument, and the countess made
the most of it. Then, whether by reason of a tacit understanding, a thinly veiled act of
complaisance such as those who wear the ecclesiastical habit excel in, or whether merely as
the result of sheer stupidity—a stupidity admirably adapted to further their designs—the old
nun rendered formidable aid to the conspirator. They had thought her timid; she proved
herself bold, talkative, bigoted. She was not troubled by the ins and outs of casuistry; her
doctrines were as iron bars; her faith knew no doubt; her conscience no scruples. She looked
on Abraham's sacrifice as natural enough, for she herself would not have hesitated to kill both
father and mother if she had received a divine order to that effect; and nothing, in her
opinion, could displease our Lord, provided the motive were praiseworthy. The countess,
putting to good use the consecrated authority of her unexpected ally, led her on to make a
lengthy and edifying paraphrase of that axiom enunciated by a certain school of moralists:
"The end justifies the means."
"Then, sister," she asked, "you think God accepts all methods, and pardons the act when the
motive is pure"
"Undoubtedly, madame. An action reprehensible in itself often derives merit from the
thought which inspires it."
And in this wise they talked on, fathoming the wishes of God, predicting His judgments,
describing Him as interested in matters which assuredly concern Him but little.
All was said with the utmost care and discretion, but every word uttered by the holy woman
in her nun's garb weakened the indignant resistance of the courtesan. Then the conversation
drifted somewhat, and the nun began to talk of the convents of her order, of her Superior, of
herself, and of her fragile little neighbor, Sister St. Nicephore. They had been sent for from
Havre to nurse the hundreds of soldiers who were in hospitals, stricken with smallpox. She
described these wretched invalids and their malady. And, while they themselves were
detained on their way by the caprices of the Prussian officer, scores of Frenchmen might be
dying, whom they would otherwise have saved! For the nursing of soldiers was the old nun's
specialty; she had been in the Crimea, in Italy, in Austria; and as she told the story of her
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campaigns she revealed herself as one of those holy sisters of the fife and drum who seem
designed by nature to follow camps, to snatch the wounded from amid the strife of battle, and
to quell with a word, more effectually than any general, the rough and insubordinate
troopers—a masterful woman, her seamed and pitted face itself an image of the devastations
of war.
No one spoke when she had finished for fear of spoiling the excellent effect of her words.
As soon as the meal was over the travellers retired to their rooms, whence they emerged the
following day at a late hour of the morning.
Luncheon passed off quietly. The seed sown the preceding evening was being given time to
germinate and bring forth fruit.
In the afternoon the countess proposed a walk; then the count, as had been arranged
beforehand, took Boule de Suif's arm, and walked with her at some distance behind the rest.
He began talking to her in that familiar, paternal, slightly contemptuous tone which men of
his class adopt in speaking to women like her, calling her "my dear child," and talking down
to her from the height of his exalted social position and stainless reputation. He came straight
to the point.
"So you prefer to leave us here, exposed like yourself to all the violence which would follow
on a repulse of the Prussian troops, rather than consent to surrender yourself, as you have
done so many times in your life"
The girl did not reply.
He tried kindness, argument, sentiment. He still bore himself as count, even while adopting,
when desirable, an attitude of gallantry, and making pretty—nay, even tender—speeches. He
exalted the service she would render them, spoke of their gratitude; then, suddenly, using the
familiar "thou":
"And you know, my dear, he could boast then of having made a conquest of a pretty girl such
as he won't often find in his own country."
Boule de Suif did not answer, and joined the rest of the party.
As soon as they returned she went to her room, and was seen no more. The general anxiety
was at its height. What would she do If she still resisted, how awkward for them all!
The dinner hour struck; they waited for her in vain. At last Monsieur Follenvie entered,
announcing that Mademoiselle Rousset was not well, and that they might sit down to table.
They all pricked up their ears. The count drew near the innkeeper, and whispered:
"Is it all right"
"Yes."
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Out of regard for propriety he said nothing to his companions, but merely nodded slightly
toward them. A great sigh of relief went up from all breasts; every face was lighted up with
joy.
"By Gad!" shouted Loiseau, "I'll stand champagne all round if there's any to be found in this
place." And great was Madame Loiseau's dismay when the proprietor came back with four
bottles in his hands. They had all suddenly become talkative and merry; a lively joy filled all
hearts. The count seemed to perceive for the first time that Madame Carre-Lamadon was
charming; the manufacturer paid compliments to the countess. The conversation was
animated, sprightly, witty, and, although many of the jokes were in the worst possible taste,
all the company were amused by them, and none offended—indignation being dependent,
like other emotions, on surroundings. And the mental atmosphere had gradually become
filled with gross imaginings and unclean thoughts.
At dessert even the women indulged in discreetly worded allusions. Their glances were full
of meaning; they had drunk much. The count, who even in his moments of relaxation
preserved a dignified demeanor, hit on a much-appreciated comparison of the condition of
things with the termination of a winter spent in the icy solitude of the North Pole and the joy
of shipwrecked mariners who at last perceive a southward track opening out before their
eyes.
Loiseau, fairly in his element, rose to his feet, holding aloft a glass of champagne.
"I drink to our deliverance!" he shouted.
All stood up, and greeted the toast with acclamation. Even the two good sisters yielded to the
solicitations of the ladies, and consented to moisten their lips with the foaming wine, which
they had never before tasted. They declared it was like effervescent lemonade, but with a
pleasanter flavor.
"It is a pity," said Loiseau, "that we have no piano; we might have had a quadrille."
Cornudet had not spoken a word or made a movement; he seemed plunged in serious thought,
and now and then tugged furiously at his great beard, as if trying to add still further to its
length. At last, toward midnight, when they were about to separate, Loiseau, whose gait was
far from steady, suddenly slapped him on the back, saying thickly:
"You're not jolly to-night; why are you so silent, old man"
Cornudet threw back his head, cast one swift and scornful glance over the assemblage, and
answered:
"I tell you all, you have done an infamous thing!"
He rose, reached the door, and repeating: "Infamous!" disappeared.
A chill fell on all. Loiseau himself looked foolish and disconcerted for a moment, but soon
recovered his aplomb, and, writhing with laughter, exclaimed:
"Really, you are all too green for anything!"
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Pressed for an explanation, he related the "mysteries of the corridor," whereat his listeners
were hugely amused. The ladies could hardly contain their delight. The count and Monsieur
Carre-Lamadon laughed till they cried. They could scarcely believe their ears.
"What! you are sure He wanted——"
"I tell you I saw it with my own eyes."
"And she refused"
"Because the Prussian was in the next room!"
"Surely you are mistaken"
"I swear I'm telling you the truth."
The count was choking with laughter. The manufacturer held his sides. Loiseau continued:
"So you may well imagine he doesn't think this evening's business at all amusing."
And all three began to laugh again, choking, coughing, almost ill with merriment.
Then they separated. But Madame Loiseau, who was nothing if not spiteful, remarked to her
husband as they were on the way to bed that "that stuck-up little minx of a Carre-Lamadon
had laughed on the wrong side of her mouth all the evening."
"You know," she said, "when women run after uniforms it's all the same to them whether the
men who wear them are French or Prussian. It's perfectly sickening!"
The next morning the snow showed dazzling white tinder a clear winter sun. The coach,
ready at last, waited before the door; while a flock of white pigeons, with pink eyes spotted in
the centres with black, puffed out their white feathers and walked sedately between the legs
of the six horses, picking at the steaming manure.
The driver, wrapped in his sheepskin coat, was smoking a pipe on the box, and all the
passengers, radiant with delight at their approaching departure, were putting up provisions for
the remainder of the journey.
They were waiting only for Boule de Suif. At last she appeared.
She seemed rather shamefaced and embarrassed, and advanced with timid step toward her
companions, who with one accord turned aside as if they had not seen her. The count, with
much dignity, took his wife by the arm, and removed her from the unclean contact.
The girl stood still, stupefied with astonishment; then, plucking up courage, accosted the
manufacturer's wife with a humble "Good-morning, madame," to which the other replied
merely with a slight and insolent nod, accompanied by a look of outraged virtue. Every one
suddenly appeared extremely busy, and kept as far from Boule de Suif as if tier skirts had
been infected with some deadly disease. Then they hurried to the coach, followed by the
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despised courtesan, who, arriving last of all, silently took the place she had occupied during
the first part of the journey.
The rest seemed neither to see nor to know her—all save Madame Loiseau, who, glancing
contemptuously in her direction, remarked, half aloud, to her husband:
"What a mercy I am not sitting beside that creature!"
The lumbering vehicle started on its way, and the journey began afresh.
At first no one spoke. Boule de Suif dared not even raise her eyes. She felt at once indignant
with her neighbors, and humiliated at having yielded to the Prussian into whose arms they
had so hypocritically cast her.
But the countess, turning toward Madame Carre-Lamadon, soon broke the painful silence:
"I think you know Madame d'Etrelles"
"Yes; she is a friend of mine."
"Such a charming woman!"
"Delightful! Exceptionally talented, and an artist to the finger tips. She sings marvellously
and draws to perfection."
The manufacturer was chatting with the count, and amid the clatter of the window-panes a
word of their conversation was now and then distinguishable: "Shares—maturity—
premium—time-limit."
Loiseau, who had abstracted from the inn the timeworn pack of cards, thick with the grease of
five years' contact with half-wiped-off tables, started a game of bezique with his wife.
The good sisters, taking up simultaneously the long rosaries hanging from their waists, made
the sign of the cross, and began to mutter in unison interminable prayers, their lips moving
ever more and more swiftly, as if they sought which should outdistance the other in the race
of orisons; from time to time they kissed a medal, and crossed themselves anew, then
resumed their rapid and unintelligible murmur.
Cornudet sat still, lost in thought.
Ah the end of three hours Loiseau gathered up the cards, and remarked that he was hungry.
His wife thereupon produced a parcel tied with string, from which she extracted a piece of
cold veal. This she cut into neat, thin slices, and both began to eat.
"We may as well do the same," said the countess. The rest agreed, and she unpacked the
provisions which had been prepared for herself, the count, and the Carre-Lamadons. In one of
those oval dishes, the lids of which are decorated with an earthenware hare, by way of
showing that a game pie lies within, was a succulent delicacy consisting of the brown flesh of
the game larded with streaks of bacon and flavored with other meats chopped fine. A solid
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wedge of Gruyere cheese, which had been wrapped in a newspaper, bore the imprint: "Items
of News," on its rich, oily surface.
The two good sisters brought to light a hunk of sausage smelling strongly of garlic; and
Cornudet, plunging both hands at once into the capacious pockets of his loose overcoat,
produced from one four hard-boiled eggs and from the other a crust of bread. He removed the
shells, threw them into the straw beneath his feet, and began to devour the eggs, letting
morsels of the bright yellow yolk fall in his mighty beard, where they looked like stars.
Boule de Suif, in the haste and confusion of her departure, had not thought of anything, and,
stifling with rage, she watched all these people placidly eating. At first, ill-suppressed wrath
shook her whole person, and she opened her lips to shriek the truth at them, to overwhelm
them with a volley of insults; but she could not utter a word, so choked was she with
indignation.
No one looked at her, no one thought of her. She felt herself swallowed up in the scorn of
these virtuous creatures, who had first sacrificed, then rejected her as a thing useless and
unclean. Then she remembered her big basket full of the good things they had so greedily
devoured: the two chickens coated in jelly, the pies, the pears, the four bottles of claret; and
her fury broke forth like a cord that is overstrained, and she was on the verge of tears. She
made terrible efforts at self-control, drew herself up, swallowed the sobs which choked her;
but the tears rose nevertheless, shone at the brink of her eyelids, and soon two heavy drops
coursed slowly down her cheeks. Others followed more quickly, like water filtering from a
rock, and fell, one after another, on her rounded bosom. She sat upright, with a fixed
expression, her face pale and rigid, hoping desperately that no one saw her give way.
But the countess noticed that she was weeping, and with a sign drew her husband's attention
to the fact. He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "Well, what of it It's not my fault."
Madame Loiseau chuckled triumphantly, and murmured:
"She's weeping for shame."
The two nuns had betaken themselves once more to their prayers, first wrapping the
remainder of their sausage in paper:
Then Cornudet, who was digesting his eggs, stretched his long legs under the opposite seat,
threw himself back, folded his arms, smiled like a man who had just thought of a good joke,
and began to whistle the Marseillaise.
The faces of his neighbors clouded; the popular air evidently did not find favor with them;
they grew nervous and irritable, and seemed ready to howl as a dog does at the sound of a
barrel-organ. Cornudet saw the discomfort he was creating, and whistled the louder;
sometimes he even hummed the words:
Amour sacre de la patrie,
Conduis, soutiens, nos bras vengeurs,
Liberte, liberte cherie,
Combats avec tes defenseurs!
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The coach progressed more swiftly, the snow being harder now; and all the way to Dieppe,
during the long, dreary hours of the journey, first in the gathering dusk, then in the thick
darkness, raising his voice above the rumbling of the vehicle, Cornudet continued with fierce
obstinacy his vengeful and monotonous whistling, forcing his weary and exasperated-hearers
to follow the song from end to end, to recall every word of every line, as each was repeated
over and over again with untiring persistency.
And Boule de Suif still wept, and sometimes a sob she could not restrain was heard in the
darkness between two verses of the song.
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MADEMOISELLE FIFI – Guy de Maupassant
Major Graf Von Farlsberg, the Prussian commandant, was reading his newspaper as he lay
back in a great easy-chair, with his booted feet on the beautiful marble mantelpiece where his
spurs had made two holes, which had grown deeper every day during the three months that he
had been in the chateau of Uville.
A cup of coffee was smoking on a small inlaid table, which was stained with liqueur, burned
by cigars, notched by the penknife of the victorious officer, who occasionally would stop
while sharpening a pencil, to jot down figures, or to make a drawing on it, just as it took his
fancy.
When he had read his letters and the German newspapers, which his orderly had brought him,
he got up, and after throwing three or four enormous pieces of green wood on the fire, for
these gentlemen were gradually cutting down the park in order to keep themselves warm, he
went to the window. The rain was descending in torrents, a regular Normandy rain, which
looked as if it were being poured out by some furious person, a slanting rain, opaque as a
curtain, which formed a kind of wall with diagonal stripes, and which deluged everything, a
rain such as one frequently experiences in the neighborhood of Rouen, which is the wateringpot
of France.
For a long time the officer looked at the sodden turf and at the swollen Andelle beyond it,
which was overflowing its banks; he was drumming a waltz with his fingers on the windowpanes,
when a noise made him turn round. It was his second in command, Captain Baron van
Kelweinstein.
The major was a giant, with broad shoulders and a long, fan-like beard, which hung down
like a curtain to his chest. His whole solemn person suggested the idea of a military peacock,
a peacock who was carrying his tail spread out on his breast. He had cold, gentle blue eyes,
and a scar from a swordcut, which he had received in the war with Austria; he was said to be
an honorable man, as well as a brave officer.
The captain, a short, red-faced man, was tightly belted in at the waist, his red hair was
cropped quite close to his head, and in certain lights he almost looked as if he had been
rubbed over with phosphorus. He had lost two front teeth one night, though he could not quite
remember how, and this sometimes made him speak unintelligibly, and he had a bald patch
on top of his head surrounded by a fringe of curly, bright golden hair, which made him look
like a monk.
The commandant shook hands with him and drank his cup of coffee (the sixth that morning),
while he listened to his subordinate's report of what had occurred; and then they both went to
the window and declared that it was a very unpleasant outlook. The major, who was a quiet
man, with a wife at home, could accommodate himself to everything; but the captain, who led
a fast life, who was in the habit of frequenting low resorts, and enjoying women's society,
was angry at having to be shut up for three months in that wretched hole.
There was a knock at the door, and when the commandant said, "Come in," one of the
orderlies appeared, and by his mere presence announced that breakfast was ready. In the
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dining-room they met three other officers of lower rank—a lieutenant, Otto von Grossling,
and two sub-lieutenants, Fritz Scheuneberg and Baron von Eyrick, a very short, fair-haired
man, who was proud and brutal toward men, harsh toward prisoners and as explosive as
gunpowder.
Since he had been in France his comrades had called him nothing but Mademoiselle Fifi.
They had given him that nickname on account of his dandified style and small waist, which
looked as if he wore corsets; of his pale face, on which his budding mustache scarcely
showed, and on account of the habit he had acquired of employing the French expression, 'Fi,
fi donc', which he pronounced with a slight whistle when he wished to express his sovereign
contempt for persons or things.
The dining-room of the chateau was a magnificent long room, whose fine old mirrors, that
were cracked by pistol bullets, and whose Flemish tapestry, which was cut to ribbons, and
hanging in rags in places from sword-cuts, told too well what Mademoiselle Fifi's occupation
was during his spare time.
There were three family portraits on the walls a steel-clad knight, a cardinal and a judge, who
were all smoking long porcelain pipes, which had been inserted into holes in the canvas,
while a lady in a long, pointed waist proudly exhibited a pair of enormous mustaches, drawn
with charcoal. The officers ate their breakfast almost in silence in that mutilated room, which
looked dull in the rain and melancholy in its dilapidated condition, although its old oak floor
had become as solid as the stone floor of an inn.
When they had finished eating and were smoking and drinking, they began, as usual, to
berate the dull life they were leading. The bottles of brandy and of liqueur passed from hand
to hand, and all sat back in their chairs and took repeated sips from their glasses, scarcely
removing from their mouths the long, curved stems, which terminated in china bowls, painted
in a manner to delight a Hottentot.
As soon as their glasses were empty they filled them again, with a gesture of resigned
weariness, but Mademoiselle Fifi emptied his every minute, and a soldier immediately gave
him another. They were enveloped in a cloud of strong tobacco smoke, and seemed to be
sunk in a state of drowsy, stupid intoxication, that condition of stupid intoxication of men
who have nothing to do, when suddenly the baron sat up and said: "Heavens! This cannot go
on; we must think of something to do." And on hearing this, Lieutenant Otto and Sublieutenant
Fritz, who preeminently possessed the serious, heavy German countenance, said:
"What, captain"
He thought for a few moments and then replied: "What Why, we must get up some
entertainment, if the commandant will allow us." "What sort of an entertainment, captain"
the major asked, taking his pipe out of his mouth. "I will arrange all that, commandant," the
baron said. "I will send Le Devoir to Rouen, and he will bring back some ladies. I know
where they can be found, We will have supper here, as all the materials are at hand and; at
least, we shall have a jolly evening."
Graf von Farlsberg shrugged his shoulders with a smile: "You must surely be mad, my
friend."
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But all the other officers had risen and surrounded their chief, saying: "Let the captain have
his way, commandant; it is terribly dull here." And the major ended by yielding. "Very well,"
he replied, and the baron immediately sent for Le Devoir. He was an old non-commissioned
officer, who had never been seen to smile, but who carried out all the orders of his superiors
to the letter, no matter what they might be. He stood there, with an impassive face, while he
received the baron's instructions, and then went out, and five minutes later a large military
wagon, covered with tarpaulin, galloped off as fast as four horses could draw it in the pouring
rain. The officers all seemed to awaken from their lethargy, their looks brightened, and they
began to talk.
Although it was raining as hard as ever, the major declared that it was not so dark, and
Lieutenant von Grossling said with conviction that the sky was clearing up, while
Mademoiselle Fifi did not seem to be able to keep still. He got up and sat down again, and his
bright eyes seemed to be looking for something to destroy. Suddenly, looking at the lady with
the mustaches, the young fellow pulled out his revolver and said: "You shall not see it." And
without leaving his seat he aimed, and with two successive bullets cut out both the eyes of the
portrait.
"Let us make a mine!" he then exclaimed, and the conversation was suddenly interrupted, as
if they had found some fresh and powerful subject of interest. The mine was his invention, his
method of destruction, and his favorite amusement.
When he left the chateau, the lawful owner, Comte Fernand d'Amoys d'Uville, had not had
time to carry away or to hide anything except the plate, which had been stowed away in a
hole made in one of the walls. As he was very rich and had good taste, the large drawingroom,
which opened into the dining-room, looked like a gallery in a museum, before his
precipitate flight.
Expensive oil paintings, water colors and drawings hung against the walls, while on the
tables, on the hanging shelves and in elegant glass cupboards there were a thousand
ornaments: small vases, statuettes, groups of Dresden china and grotesque Chinese figures,
old ivory and Venetian glass, which filled the large room with their costly and fantastic array.
Scarcely anything was left now; not that the things had been stolen, for the major would not
have allowed that, but Mademoiselle Fifi would every now and then have a mine, and on
those occasions all the officers thoroughly enjoyed themselves for five minutes. The little
marquis went into the drawing-room to get what he wanted, and he brought back a small,
delicate china teapot, which he filled with gunpowder, and carefully introduced a piece of
punk through the spout. This he lighted and took his infernal machine into the next room, but
he came back immediately and shut the door. The Germans all stood expectant, their faces
full of childish, smiling curiosity, and as soon as the explosion had shaken the chateau, they
all rushed in at once.
Mademoiselle Fifi, who got in first, clapped his hands in delight at the sight of a terra-cotta
Venus, whose head had been blown off, and each picked up pieces of porcelain and
wondered at the strange shape of the fragments, while the major was looking with a paternal
eye at the large drawing-room, which had been wrecked after the fashion of a Nero, and was
strewn with the fragments of works of art. He went out first and said with a smile: "That was
a great success this time."
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But there was such a cloud of smoke in the dining-room, mingled with the tobacco smoke,
that they could not breathe, so the commandant opened the window, and all the officers, who
had returned for a last glass of cognac, went up to it.
The moist air blew into the room, bringing with it a sort of powdery spray, which sprinkled
their beards. They looked at the tall trees which were dripping with rain, at the broad valley
which was covered with mist, and at the church spire in the distance, which rose up like a
gray point in the beating rain.
The bells had not rung since their arrival. That was the only resistance which the invaders had
met with in the neighborhood. The parish priest had not refused to take in and to feed the
Prussian soldiers; he had several times even drunk a bottle of beer or claret with the hostile
commandant, who often employed him as a benevolent intermediary; but it was no use to ask
him for a single stroke of the bells; he would sooner have allowed himself to be shot. That
was his way of protesting against the invasion, a peaceful and silent protest, the only one, he
said, which was suitable to a priest, who was a man of mildness, and not of blood; and every
one, for twenty-five miles round, praised Abbe Chantavoine's firmness and heroism in
venturing to proclaim the public mourning by the obstinate silence of his church bells.
The whole village, enthusiastic at his resistance, was ready to back up their pastor and to risk
anything, for they looked upon that silent protest as the safeguard of the national honor. It
seemed to the peasants that thus they deserved better of their country than Belfort and
Strassburg, that they had set an equally valuable example, and that the name of their little
village would become immortalized by that; but, with that exception, they refused their
Prussian conquerors nothing.
The commandant and his officers laughed among themselves at this inoffensive courage, and
as the people in the whole country round showed themselves obliging and compliant toward
them, they willingly tolerated their silent patriotism. Little Baron Wilhelm alone would have
liked to have forced them to ring the bells. He was very angry at his superior's politic
compliance with the priest's scruples, and every day begged the commandant to allow him to
sound "ding-dong, ding-dong," just once, only just once, just by way of a joke. And he asked
it in the coaxing, tender voice of some loved woman who is bent on obtaining her wish, but
the commandant would not yield, and to console himself, Mademoiselle Fifi made a mine in
the Chateau d'Uville.
The five men stood there together for five minutes, breathing in the moist air, and at last
Lieutenant Fritz said with a laugh: "The ladies will certainly not have fine weather for their
drive." Then they separated, each to his duty, while the captain had plenty to do in arranging
for the dinner.
When they met again toward evening they began to laugh at seeing each other as spick and
span and smart as on the day of a grand review. The commandant's hair did not look so gray
as it was in the morning, and the captain had shaved, leaving only his mustache, which made
him look as if he had a streak of fire under his nose.
In spite of the rain, they left the window open, and one of them went to listen from time to
time; and at a quarter past six the baron said he heard a rumbling in the distance. They all
rushed down, and presently the wagon drove up at a gallop with its four horses steaming and
blowing, and splashed with mud to their girths. Five women dismounted, five handsome girls
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whom a comrade of the captain, to whom Le Devoir had presented his card, had selected with
care.
They had not required much pressing, as they had got to know the Prussians in the three
months during which they had had to do with them, and so they resigned themselves to the
men as they did to the state of affairs.
They went at once into the dining-room, which looked still more dismal in its dilapidated
condition when it was lighted up; while the table covered with choice dishes, the beautiful
china and glass, and the plate, which had been found in the hole in the wall where its owner
had hidden it, gave it the appearance of a bandits' inn, where they were supping after
committing a robbery in the place. The captain was radiant, and put his arm round the women
as if he were familiar with them; and when the three young men wanted to appropriate one
each, he opposed them authoritatively, reserving to himself the right to apportion them justly,
according to their several ranks, so as not to offend the higher powers. Therefore, to avoid all
discussion, jarring, and suspicion of partiality, he placed them all in a row according to
height, and addressing the tallest, he said in a voice of command:
"What is your name" "Pamela," she replied, raising her voice. And then he said: "Number
One, called Pamela, is adjudged to the commandant." Then, having kissed Blondina, the
second, as a sign of proprietorship, he proffered stout Amanda to Lieutenant Otto; Eva, "the
Tomato," to Sub-lieutenant Fritz, and Rachel, the shortest of them all, a very young, dark girl,
with eyes as black as ink, a Jewess, whose snub nose proved the rule which allots hooked
noses to all her race, to the youngest officer, frail Count Wilhelm d'Eyrick.
They were all pretty and plump, without any distinctive features, and all had a similarity of
complexion and figure.
The three young men wished to carry off their prizes immediately, under the pretext that they
might wish to freshen their toilets; but the captain wisely opposed this, for he said they were
quite fit to sit down to dinner, and his experience in such matters carried the day. There were
only many kisses, expectant kisses.
Suddenly Rachel choked, and began to cough until the tears came into her eyes, while smoke
came through her nostrils. Under pretence of kissing her, the count had blown a whiff of
tobacco into her mouth. She did not fly into a rage and did not say a word, but she looked at
her tormentor with latent hatred in her dark eyes.
They sat down to dinner. The commandant seemed delighted; he made Pamela sit on his
right, and Blondina on his left, and said, as he unfolded his table napkin: "That was a
delightful idea of yours, captain."
Lieutenants Otto and Fritz, who were as polite as if they had been with fashionable ladies,
rather intimidated their guests, but Baron von Kelweinstein beamed, made obscene remarks
and seemed on fire with his crown of red hair. He paid the women compliments in French of
the Rhine, and sputtered out gallant remarks, only fit for a low pothouse, from between his
two broken teeth.
They did not understand him, however, and their intelligence did not seem to be awakened
until he uttered foul words and broad expressions, which were mangled by his accent. Then
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they all began to laugh at once like crazy women and fell against each other, repeating the
words, which the baron then began to say all wrong, in order that he might have the pleasure
of hearing them say dirty things. They gave him as much of that stuff as he wanted, for they
were drunk after the first bottle of wine, and resuming their usual habits and manners, they
kissed the officers to right and left of them, pinched their arms, uttered wild cries, drank out
of every glass and sang French couplets and bits of German songs which they had picked up
in their daily intercourse with the enemy.
Soon the men themselves became very unrestrained, shouted and broke the plates and dishes,
while the soldiers behind them waited on them stolidly. The commandant was the only one
who kept any restraint upon himself.
Mademoiselle Fifi had taken Rachel on his knee, and, getting excited, at one moment he
kissed the little black curls on her neck and at another he pinched her furiously and made her
scream, for he was seized by a species of ferocity, and tormented by his desire to hurt her. He
often held her close to him and pressed a long kiss on the Jewess' rosy mouth until she lost
her breath, and at last he bit her until a stream of blood ran down her chin and on to her
bodice.
For the second time she looked him full in the face, and as she bathed the wound, she said:
"You will have to pay for, that!" But he merely laughed a hard laugh and said: "I will pay."
At dessert champagne was served, and the commandant rose, and in the same voice in which
he would have drunk to the health of the Empress Augusta, he drank: "To our ladies!" And a
series of toasts began, toasts worthy of the lowest soldiers and of drunkards, mingled with
obscene jokes, which were made still more brutal by their ignorance of the language. They
got up, one after the other, trying to say something witty, forcing themselves to be funny, and
the women, who were so drunk that they almost fell off their chairs, with vacant looks and
clammy tongues applauded madly each time.
The captain, who no doubt wished to impart an appearance of gallantry to the orgy, raised his
glass again and said: "To our victories over hearts." and, thereupon Lieutenant Otto, who was
a species of bear from the Black Forest, jumped up, inflamed and saturated with drink, and
suddenly seized by an access of alcoholic patriotism, he cried: "To our victories over
France!"
Drunk as they were, the women were silent, but Rachel turned round, trembling, and said:
"See here, I know some Frenchmen in whose presence you would not dare say that." But the
little count, still holding her on his knee, began to laugh, for the wine had made him very
merry, and said: "Ha! ha! ha! I have never met any of them myself. As soon as we show
ourselves, they run away!" The girl, who was in a terrible rage, shouted into his face: "You
are lying, you dirty scoundrel!"
For a moment he looked at her steadily with his bright eyes upon her, as he had looked at the
portrait before he destroyed it with bullets from his revolver, and then he began to laugh:
"Ah! yes, talk about them, my dear! Should we be here now if they were brave" And, getting
excited, he exclaimed: "We are the masters! France belongs to us!" She made one spring
from his knee and threw herself into her chair, while he arose, held out his glass over the
table and repeated: "France and the French, the woods, the fields and the houses of France
belong to us!"
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The others, who were quite drunk, and who were suddenly seized by military enthusiasm, the
enthusiasm of brutes, seized their glasses, and shouting, "Long live Prussia!" they emptied
them at a draught.
The girls did not protest, for they were reduced to silence and were afraid. Even Rachel did
not say a word, as she had no reply to make. Then the little marquis put his champagne glass,
which had just been refilled, on the head of the Jewess and exclaimed: "All the women in
France belong to us also!"
At that she got up so quickly that the glass upset, spilling the amber-colored wine on her
black hair as if to baptize her, and broke into a hundred fragments, as it fell to the floor. Her
lips trembling, she defied the looks of the officer, who was still laughing, and stammered out
in a voice choked with rage:
"That—that—that—is not true—for you shall not have the women of France!"
He sat down again so as to laugh at his ease; and, trying to speak with the Parisian accent, he
said: "She is good, very good! Then why did you come here, my dear" She was
thunderstruck and made no reply for a moment, for in her agitation she did not understand
him at first, but as soon as she grasped his meaning she said to him indignantly and
vehemently: "I! I! I am not a woman, I am only a strumpet, and that is all that Prussians
want."
Almost before she had finished he slapped her full in the face; but as he was raising his hand
again, as if to strike her, she seized a small dessert knife with a silver blade from the table
and, almost mad with rage, stabbed him right in the hollow of his neck. Something that he
was going to say was cut short in his throat, and he sat there with his mouth half open and a
terrible look in his eyes.
All the officers shouted in horror and leaped up tumultuously; but, throwing her chair
between the legs of Lieutenant Otto, who fell down at full length, she ran to the window,
opened it before they could seize her and jumped out into the night and the pouring rain.
In two minutes Mademoiselle Fifi was dead, and Fritz and Otto drew their swords and wanted
to kill the women, who threw themselves at their feet and clung to their knees. With some
difficulty the major stopped the slaughter and had the four terrified girls locked up in a room
under the care of two soldiers, and then he organized the pursuit of the fugitive as carefully as
if he were about to engage in a skirmish, feeling quite sure that she would be caught.
The table, which had been cleared immediately, now served as a bed on which to lay out the
lieutenant, and the four officers stood at the windows, rigid and sobered with the stern faces
of soldiers on duty, and tried to pierce through the darkness of the night amid the steady
torrent of rain. Suddenly a shot was heard and then another, a long way off; and for four
hours they heard from time to time near or distant reports and rallying cries, strange words of
challenge, uttered in guttural voices.
In the morning they all returned. Two soldiers had been killed and three others wounded by
their comrades in the ardor of that chase and in the confusion of that nocturnal pursuit, but
they had not caught Rachel.
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Then the inhabitants of the district were terrorized, the houses were turned topsy-turvy, the
country was scoured and beaten up, over and over again, but the Jewess did not seem to have
left a single trace of her passage behind her.
When the general was told of it he gave orders to hush up the affair, so as not to set a bad
example to the army, but he severely censured the commandant, who in turn punished his
inferiors. The general had said: "One does not go to war in order to amuse one's self and to
caress prostitutes." Graf von Farlsberg, in his exasperation, made up his mind to have his
revenge on the district, but as he required a pretext for showing severity, he sent for the priest
and ordered him to have the bell tolled at the funeral of Baron von Eyrick.
Contrary to all expectation, the priest showed himself humble and most respectful, and when
Mademoiselle Fifi's body left the Chateau d'Uville on its way to the cemetery, carried by
soldiers, preceded, surrounded and followed by soldiers who marched with loaded rifles, for
the first time the bell sounded its funeral knell in a lively manner, as if a friendly hand were
caressing it. At night it rang again, and the next day, and every day; it rang as much as any
one could desire. Sometimes even it would start at night and sound gently through the
darkness, seized with a strange joy, awakened one could not tell why. All the peasants in the
neighborhood declared that it was bewitched, and nobody except the priest and the sacristan
would now go near the church tower. And they went because a poor girl was living there in
grief and solitude and provided for secretly by those two men.
She remained there until the German troops departed, and then one evening the priest
borrowed the baker's cart and himself drove his prisoner to Rouen. When they got there he
embraced her, and she quickly went back on foot to the establishment from which she had
come, where the proprietress, who thought that she was dead, was very glad to see her.
A short time afterward a patriot who had no prejudices, and who liked her because of her
bold deed, and who afterward loved her for herself, married her and made her a lady quite as
good as many others.
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THE DIAMOND NECKLACE – Guy de Maupassant
The girl was one of those pretty and charming young creatures who sometimes are born, as if
by a slip of fate, into a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no way of being
known, understood, loved, married by any rich and distinguished man; so she let herself be
married to a little clerk of the Ministry of Public Instruction.
She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she was unhappy as if she had
really fallen from a higher station; since with women there is neither caste nor rank, for
beauty, grace and charm take the place of family and birth. Natural ingenuity, instinct for
what is elegant, a supple mind are their sole hierarchy, and often make of women of the
people the equals of the very greatest ladies.
Mathilde suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born to enjoy all delicacies and all luxuries. She
was distressed at the poverty of her dwelling, at the bareness of the walls, at the shabby
chairs, the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of her rank
would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made her angry. The sight of the
little Breton peasant who did her humble housework aroused in her despairing regrets and
bewildering dreams. She thought of silent antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry,
illumined by tall bronze candelabra, and of two great footmen in knee breeches who sleep in
the big armchairs, made drowsy by the oppressive heat of the stove. She thought of long
reception halls hung with ancient silk, of the dainty cabinets containing priceless curiosities
and of the little coquettish perfumed reception rooms made for chatting at five o'clock with
intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women envy and whose
attention they all desire.
When she sat down to dinner, before the round table covered with a tablecloth in use three
days, opposite her husband, who uncovered the soup tureen and declared with a delighted air,
"Ah, the good soup! I don't know anything better than that," she thought of dainty dinners, of
shining silverware, of tapestry that peopled the walls with ancient personages and with
strange birds flying in the midst of a fairy forest; and she thought of delicious dishes served
on marvellous plates and of the whispered gallantries to which you listen with a sphinxlike
smile while you are eating the pink meat of a trout or the wings of a quail.
She had no gowns, no jewels, nothing. And she loved nothing but that. She felt made for that.
She would have liked so much to please, to be envied, to be charming, to be sought after.
She had a friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, who was rich, and whom she did not
like to go to see any more because she felt so sad when she came home.
But one evening her husband reached home with a triumphant air and holding a large
envelope in his hand.
"There," said he, "there is something for you."
She tore the paper quickly and drew out a printed card which bore these words:
The Minister of Public Instruction and Madame Georges Ramponneau
request the honor of M. and Madame Loisel's company at the palace of
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the Ministry on Monday evening, January 18th.
Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she threw the invitation on the table
crossly, muttering:
"What do you wish me to do with that"
"Why, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You never go out, and this is such a fine
opportunity. I had great trouble to get it. Every one wants to go; it is very select, and they are
not giving many invitations to clerks. The whole official world will be there."
She looked at him with an irritated glance and said impatiently:
"And what do you wish me to put on my back"
He had not thought of that. He stammered:
"Why, the gown you go to the theatre in. It looks very well to me."
He stopped, distracted, seeing that his wife was weeping. Two great tears ran slowly from the
corners of her eyes toward the corners of her mouth.
"What's the matter What's the matter" he answered.
By a violent effort she conquered her grief and replied in a calm voice, while she wiped her
wet cheeks:
"Nothing. Only I have no gown, and, therefore, I can't go to this ball. Give your card to some
colleague whose wife is better equipped than I am."
He was in despair. He resumed:
"Come, let us see, Mathilde. How much would it cost, a suitable gown, which you could use
on other occasions—something very simple"
She reflected several seconds, making her calculations and wondering also what sum she
could ask without drawing on herself an immediate refusal and a frightened exclamation from
the economical clerk.
Finally she replied hesitating:
"I don't know exactly, but I think I could manage it with four hundred francs."
He grew a little pale, because he was laying aside just that amount to buy a gun and treat
himself to a little shooting next summer on the plain of Nanterre, with several friends who
went to shoot larks there of a Sunday.
But he said:
"Very well. I will give you four hundred francs. And try to have a pretty gown."
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The day of the ball drew near and Madame Loisel seemed sad, uneasy, anxious. Her frock
was ready, however. Her husband said to her one evening:
"What is the matter Come, you have seemed very queer these last three days."
And she answered:
"It annoys me not to have a single piece of jewelry, not a single ornament, nothing to put on.
I shall look poverty-stricken. I would almost rather not go at all."
"You might wear natural flowers," said her husband. "They're very stylish at this time of
year. For ten francs you can get two or three magnificent roses."
She was not convinced.
"No; there's nothing more humiliating than to look poor among other women who are rich."
"How stupid you are!" her husband cried. "Go look up your friend, Madame Forestier, and
ask her to lend you some jewels. You're intimate enough with her to do that."
She uttered a cry of joy:
"True! I never thought of it."
The next day she went to her friend and told her of her distress.
Madame Forestier went to a wardrobe with a mirror, took out a large jewel box, brought it
back, opened it and said to Madame Loisel:
"Choose, my dear."
She saw first some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian gold cross set with
precious stones, of admirable workmanship. She tried on the ornaments before the mirror,
hesitated and could not make up her mind to part with them, to give them back. She kept
asking:
"Haven't you any more"
"Why, yes. Look further; I don't know what you like."
Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin box, a superb diamond necklace, and her heart
throbbed with an immoderate desire. Her hands trembled as she took it. She fastened it round
her throat, outside her high-necked waist, and was lost in ecstasy at her reflection in the
mirror.
Then she asked, hesitating, filled with anxious doubt:
"Will you lend me this, only this"
"Why, yes, certainly."
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She threw her arms round her friend's neck, kissed her passionately, then fled with her
treasure.
The night of the ball arrived. Madame Loisel was a great success. She was prettier than any
other woman present, elegant, graceful, smiling and wild with joy. All the men looked at her,
asked her name, sought to be introduced. All the attaches of the Cabinet wished to waltz with
her. She was remarked by the minister himself.
She danced with rapture, with passion, intoxicated by pleasure, forgetting all in the triumph
of her beauty, in the glory of her success, in a sort of cloud of happiness comprised of all this
homage, admiration, these awakened desires and of that sense of triumph which is so sweet to
woman's heart.
She left the ball about four o'clock in the morning. Her husband had been sleeping since
midnight in a little deserted anteroom with three other gentlemen whose wives were enjoying
the ball.
He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought, the modest wraps of common life, the
poverty of which contrasted with the elegance of the ball dress. She felt this and wished to
escape so as not to be remarked by the other women, who were enveloping themselves in
costly furs.
Loisel held her back, saying: "Wait a bit. You will catch cold outside. I will call a cab."
But she did not listen to him and rapidly descended the stairs. When they reached the street
they could not find a carriage and began to look for one, shouting after the cabmen passing at
a distance.
They went toward the Seine in despair, shivering with cold. At last they found on the quay
one of those ancient night cabs which, as though they were ashamed to show their shabbiness
during the day, are never seen round Paris until after dark.
It took them to their dwelling in the Rue des Martyrs, and sadly they mounted the stairs to
their flat. All was ended for her. As to him, he reflected that he must be at the ministry at ten
o'clock that morning.
She removed her wraps before the glass so as to see herself once more in all her glory. But
suddenly she uttered a cry. She no longer had the necklace around her neck!
"What is the matter with you" demanded her husband, already half undressed.
She turned distractedly toward him.
"I have—I have—I've lost Madame Forestier's necklace," she cried.
He stood up, bewildered.
"What!—how Impossible!"
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They looked among the folds of her skirt, of her cloak, in her pockets, everywhere, but did
not find it.
"You're sure you had it on when you left the ball" he asked.
"Yes, I felt it in the vestibule of the minister's house."
"But if you had lost it in the street we should have heard it fall. It must be in the cab."
"Yes, probably. Did you take his number"
"No. And you—didn't you notice it"
"No."
They looked, thunderstruck, at each other. At last Loisel put on his clothes.
"I shall go back on foot," said he, "over the whole route, to see whether I can find it."
He went out. She sat waiting on a chair in her ball dress, without strength to go to bed,
overwhelmed, without any fire, without a thought.
Her husband returned about seven o'clock. He had found nothing.
He went to police headquarters, to the newspaper offices to offer a reward; he went to the cab
companies—everywhere, in fact, whither he was urged by the least spark of hope.
She waited all day, in the same condition of mad fear before this terrible calamity.
Loisel returned at night with a hollow, pale face. He had discovered nothing.
"You must write to your friend," said he, "that you have broken the clasp of her necklace and
that you are having it mended. That will give us time to turn round."
She wrote at his dictation.
At the end of a week they had lost all hope. Loisel, who had aged five years, declared:
"We must consider how to replace that ornament."
The next day they took the box that had contained it and went to the jeweler whose name was
found within. He consulted his books.
"It was not I, madame, who sold that necklace; I must simply have furnished the case."
Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for a necklace like the other, trying to
recall it, both sick with chagrin and grief.
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They found, in a shop at the Palais Royal, a string of diamonds that seemed to them exactly
like the one they had lost. It was worth forty thousand francs. They could have it for thirtysix.
So they begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days yet. And they made a bargain that he
should buy it back for thirty-four thousand francs, in case they should find the lost necklace
before the end of February.
Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which his father had left him. He would borrow
the rest.
He did borrow, asking a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another, five louis here, three
louis there. He gave notes, took up ruinous obligations, dealt with usurers and all the race of
lenders. He compromised all the rest of his life, risked signing a note without even knowing
whether he could meet it; and, frightened by the trouble yet to come, by the black misery that
was about to fall upon him, by the prospect of all the physical privations and moral tortures
that he was to suffer, he went to get the new necklace, laying upon the jeweler's counter
thirty-six thousand francs.
When Madame Loisel took back the necklace Madame Forestier said to her with a chilly
manner:
"You should have returned it sooner; I might have needed it."
She did not open the case, as her friend had so much feared. If she had detected the
substitution, what would she have thought, what would she have said Would she not have
taken Madame Loisel for a thief
Thereafter Madame Loisel knew the horrible existence of the needy. She bore her part,
however, with sudden heroism. That dreadful debt must be paid. She would pay it. They
dismissed their servant; they changed their lodgings; they rented a garret under the roof.
She came to know what heavy housework meant and the odious cares of the kitchen. She
washed the dishes, using her dainty fingers and rosy nails on greasy pots and pans. She
washed the soiled linen, the shirts and the dishcloths, which she dried upon a line; she carried
the slops down to the street every morning and carried up the water, stopping for breath at
every landing. And dressed like a woman of the people, she went to the fruiterer, the grocer,
the butcher, a basket on her arm, bargaining, meeting with impertinence, defending her
miserable money, sou by sou.
Every month they had to meet some notes, renew others, obtain more time.
Her husband worked evenings, making up a tradesman's accounts, and late at night he often
copied manuscript for five sous a page.
This life lasted ten years.
At the end of ten years they had paid everything, everything, with the rates of usury and the
accumulations of the compound interest.
299

Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become the woman of impoverished households—
strong and hard and rough. With frowsy hair, skirts askew and red hands, she talked loud
while washing the floor with great swishes of water. But sometimes, when her husband was
at the office, she sat down near the window and she thought of that gay evening of long ago,
of that ball where she had been so beautiful and so admired.
What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace Who knows who knows How
strange and changeful is life! How small a thing is needed to make or ruin us!
But one Sunday, having gone to take a walk in the Champs Elysees to refresh herself after the
labors of the week, she suddenly perceived a woman who was leading a child. It was
Madame Forestier, still young, still beautiful, still charming.
Madame Loisel felt moved. Should she speak to her Yes, certainly. And now that she had
paid, she would tell her all about it. Why not
She went up.
"Good-day, Jeanne."
The other, astonished to be familiarly addressed by this plain good-wife, did not recognize
her at all and stammered:
"But—madame!—I do not know—You must have mistaken."
"No. I am Mathilde Loisel."
Her friend uttered a cry.
"Oh, my poor Mathilde! How you are changed!"
"Yes, I have had a pretty hard life, since I last saw you, and great poverty—and that because
of you!"
"Of me! How so"
"Do you remember that diamond necklace you lent me to wear at the ministerial ball"
"Yes. Well"
"Well, I lost it."
"What do you mean You brought it back."
"I brought you back another exactly like it. And it has taken us ten years to pay for it. You
can understand that it was not easy for us, for us who had nothing. At last it is ended, and I
am very glad."
Madame Forestier had stopped.
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"You say that you bought a necklace of diamonds to replace mine"
"Yes. You never noticed it, then! They were very similar."
And she smiled with a joy that was at once proud and ingenuous.
Madame Forestier, deeply moved, took her hands.
"Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why, my necklace was paste! It was worth at most only five
hundred francs!"
301

TWO FRIENDS – Guy de Maupassant
Besieged Paris was in the throes of famine. Even the sparrows on the roofs and the rats in the
sewers were growing scarce. People were eating anything they could get.
As Monsieur Morissot, watchmaker by profession and idler for the nonce, was strolling along
the boulevard one bright January morning, his hands in his trousers pockets and stomach
empty, he suddenly came face to face with an acquaintance—Monsieur Sauvage, a fishing
chum.
Before the war broke out Morissot had been in the habit, every Sunday morning, of setting
forth with a bamboo rod in his hand and a tin box on his back. He took the Argenteuil train,
got out at Colombes, and walked thence to the Ile Marante. The moment he arrived at this
place of his dreams he began fishing, and fished till nightfall.
Every Sunday he met in this very spot Monsieur Sauvage, a stout, jolly, little man, a draper in
the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, and also an ardent fisherman. They often spent half the day
side by side, rod in hand and feet dangling over the water, and a warm friendship had sprung
up between the two.
Some days they did not speak; at other times they chatted; but they understood each other
perfectly without the aid of words, having similar tastes and feelings.
In the spring, about ten o'clock in the morning, when the early sun caused a light mist to float
on the water and gently warmed the backs of the two enthusiastic anglers, Morissot would
occasionally remark to his neighbor:
"My, but it's pleasant here."
To which the other would reply:
"I can't imagine anything better!"
And these few words sufficed to make them understand and appreciate each other.
In the autumn, toward the close of day, when the setting sun shed a blood-red glow over the
western sky, and the reflection of the crimson clouds tinged the whole river with red, brought
a glow to the faces of the two friends, and gilded the trees, whose leaves were already turning
at the first chill touch of winter, Monsieur Sauvage would sometimes smile at Morissot, and
say:
"What a glorious spectacle!"
And Morissot would answer, without taking his eyes from his float:
"This is much better than the boulevard, isn't it"
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As soon as they recognized each other they shook hands cordially, affected at the thought of
meeting under such changed circumstances.
Monsieur Sauvage, with a sigh, murmured:
"These are sad times!"
Morissot shook his head mournfully.
"And such weather! This is the first fine day of the year."
The sky was, in fact, of a bright, cloudless blue.
They walked along, side by side, reflective and sad.
"And to think of the fishing!" said Morissot. "What good times we used to have!"
"When shall we be able to fish again" asked Monsieur Sauvage.
They entered a small cafe and took an absinthe together, then resumed their walk along the
pavement.
Morissot stopped suddenly.
"Shall we have another absinthe" he said.
"If you like," agreed Monsieur Sauvage.
And they entered another wine shop.
They were quite unsteady when they came out, owing to the effect of the alcohol on their
empty stomachs. It was a fine, mild day, and a gentle breeze fanned their faces.
The fresh air completed the effect of the alcohol on Monsieur Sauvage. He stopped suddenly,
saying:
"Suppose we go there"
"Where"
"Fishing."
"But where"
"Why, to the old place. The French outposts are close to Colombes. I know Colonel
Dumoulin, and we shall easily get leave to pass."
Morissot trembled with desire.
"Very well. I agree."
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And they separated, to fetch their rods and lines.
An hour later they were walking side by side on the-highroad. Presently they reached the villa
occupied by the colonel. He smiled at their request, and granted it. They resumed their walk,
furnished with a password.
Soon they left the outposts behind them, made their way through deserted Colombes, and
found themselves on the outskirts of the small vineyards which border the Seine. It was about
eleven o'clock.
Before them lay the village of Argenteuil, apparently lifeless. The heights of Orgement and
Sannois dominated the landscape. The great plain, extending as far as Nanterre, was empty,
quite empty-a waste of dun-colored soil and bare cherry trees.
Monsieur Sauvage, pointing to the heights, murmured:
"The Prussians are up yonder!"
And the sight of the deserted country filled the two friends with vague misgivings.
The Prussians! They had never seen them as yet, but they had felt their presence in the
neighborhood of Paris for months past—ruining France, pillaging, massacring, starving them.
And a kind of superstitious terror mingled with the hatred they already felt toward this
unknown, victorious nation.
"Suppose we were to meet any of them" said Morissot.
"We'd offer them some fish," replied Monsieur Sauvage, with that Parisian light-heartedness
which nothing can wholly quench.
Still, they hesitated to show themselves in the open country, overawed by the utter silence
which reigned around them.
At last Monsieur Sauvage said boldly:
"Come, we'll make a start; only let us be careful!"
And they made their way through one of the vineyards, bent double, creeping along beneath
the cover afforded by the vines, with eye and ear alert.
A strip of bare ground remained to be crossed before they could gain the river bank. They ran
across this, and, as soon as they were at the water's edge, concealed themselves among the
dry reeds.
Morissot placed his ear to the ground, to ascertain, if possible, whether footsteps were
coming their way. He heard nothing. They seemed to be utterly alone.
Their confidence was restored, and they began to fish.
304

Before them the deserted Ile Marante hid them from the farther shore. The little restaurant
was closed, and looked as if it had been deserted for years.
Monsieur Sauvage caught the first gudgeon, Monsieur Morissot the second, and almost every
moment one or other raised his line with a little, glittering, silvery fish wriggling at the end;
they were having excellent sport.
They slipped their catch gently into a close-meshed bag lying at their feet; they were filled
with joy—the joy of once more indulging in a pastime of which they had long been deprived.
The sun poured its rays on their backs; they no longer heard anything or thought of anything.
They ignored the rest of the world; they were fishing.
But suddenly a rumbling sound, which seemed to come from the bowels of the earth, shook
the ground beneath them: the cannon were resuming their thunder.
Morissot turned his head and could see toward the left, beyond the banks of the river, the
formidable outline of Mont-Valerien, from whose summit arose a white puff of smoke.
The next instant a second puff followed the first, and in a few moments a fresh detonation
made the earth tremble.
Others followed, and minute by minute the mountain gave forth its deadly breath and a white
puff of smoke, which rose slowly into the peaceful heaven and floated above the summit of
the cliff.
Monsieur Sauvage shrugged his shoulders.
"They are at it again!" he said.
Morissot, who was anxiously watching his float bobbing up and down, was suddenly seized
with the angry impatience of a peaceful man toward the madmen who were firing thus, and
remarked indignantly:
"What fools they are to kill one another like that!"
"They're worse than animals," replied Monsieur Sauvage.
And Morissot, who had just caught a bleak, declared:
"And to think that it will be just the same so long as there are governments!"
"The Republic would not have declared war," interposed Monsieur Sauvage.
Morissot interrupted him:
"Under a king we have foreign wars; under a republic we have civil war."
And the two began placidly discussing political problems with the sound common sense of
peaceful, matter-of-fact citizens—agreeing on one point: that they would never be free. And
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Mont-Valerien thundered ceaselessly, demolishing the houses of the French with its cannon
balls, grinding lives of men to powder, destroying many a dream, many a cherished hope,
many a prospective happiness; ruthlessly causing endless woe and suffering in the hearts of
wives, of daughters, of mothers, in other lands.
"Such is life!" declared Monsieur Sauvage.
"Say, rather, such is death!" replied Morissot, laughing.
But they suddenly trembled with alarm at the sound of footsteps behind them, and, turning
round, they perceived close at hand four tall, bearded men, dressed after the manner of livery
servants and wearing flat caps on their heads. They were covering the two anglers with their
rifles.
The rods slipped from their owners' grasp and floated away down the river.
In the space of a few seconds they were seized, bound, thrown into a boat, and taken across to
the Ile Marante.
And behind the house they had thought deserted were about a score of German soldiers.
A shaggy-looking giant, who was bestriding a chair and smoking a long clay pipe, addressed
them in excellent French with the words:
"Well, gentlemen, have you had good luck with your fishing"
Then a soldier deposited at the officer's feet the bag full of fish, which he had taken care to
bring away. The Prussian smiled.
"Not bad, I see. But we have something else to talk about. Listen to me, and don't be alarmed:
"You must know that, in my eyes, you are two spies sent to reconnoitre me and my
movements. Naturally, I capture you and I shoot you. You pretended to be fishing, the better
to disguise your real errand. You have fallen into my hands, and must take the consequences.
Such is war.
"But as you came here through the outposts you must have a password for your return. Tell
me that password and I will let you go."
The two friends, pale as death, stood silently side by side, a slight fluttering of the hands
alone betraying their emotion.
"No one will ever know," continued the officer. "You will return peacefully to your homes,
and the secret will disappear with you. If you refuse, it means death-instant death. Choose!"
They stood motionless, and did not open their lips.
The Prussian, perfectly calm, went on, with hand outstretched toward the river:
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"Just think that in five minutes you will be at the bottom of that water. In five minutes! You
have relations, I presume"
Mont-Valerien still thundered.
The two fishermen remained silent. The German turned and gave an order in his own
language. Then he moved his chair a little way off, that he might not be so near the prisoners,
and a dozen men stepped forward, rifle in hand, and took up a position, twenty paces off.
"I give you one minute," said the officer; "not a second longer."
Then he rose quickly, went over to the two Frenchmen, took Morissot by the arm, led him a
short distance off, and said in a low voice:
"Quick! the password! Your friend will know nothing. I will pretend to relent."
Morissot answered not a word.
Then the Prussian took Monsieur Sauvage aside in like manner, and made him the same
proposal.
Monsieur Sauvage made no reply.
Again they stood side by side.
The officer issued his orders; the soldiers raised their rifles.
Then by chance Morissot's eyes fell on the bag full of gudgeon lying in the grass a few feet
from him.
A ray of sunlight made the still quivering fish glisten like silver. And Morissot's heart sank.
Despite his efforts at self-control his eyes filled with tears.
"Good-by, Monsieur Sauvage," he faltered.
"Good-by, Monsieur Morissot," replied Sauvage.
They shook hands, trembling from head to foot with a dread beyond their mastery.
The officer cried:
"Fire!"
The twelve shots were as one.
Monsieur Sauvage fell forward instantaneously. Morissot, being the taller, swayed slightly
and fell across his friend with face turned skyward and blood oozing from a rent in the breast
of his coat.
The German issued fresh orders.
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His men dispersed, and presently returned with ropes and large stones, which they attached to
the feet of the two friends; then they carried them to the river bank.
Mont-Valerien, its summit now enshrouded in smoke, still continued to thunder.
Two soldiers took Morissot by the head and the feet; two others did the same with Sauvage.
The bodies, swung lustily by strong hands, were cast to a distance, and, describing a curve,
fell feet foremost into the stream.
The water splashed high, foamed, eddied, then grew calm; tiny waves lapped the shore.
A few streaks of blood flecked the surface of the river.
The officer, calm throughout, remarked, with grim humor:
"It's the fishes' turn now!"
Then he retraced his way to the house.
Suddenly he caught sight of the net full of gudgeons, lying forgotten in the grass. He picked it
up, examined it, smiled, and called:
"Wilhelm!"
A white-aproned soldier responded to the summons, and the Prussian, tossing him the catch
of the two murdered men, said:
"Have these fish fried for me at once, while they are still alive; they'll make a tasty dish."
Then he resumed his pipe.
308

THE YELLOW WALLPAPER - Charlotte Perkins Gilman
It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure ancestral halls for the
summer.
A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, and reach the height of
romantic felicity—but that would be asking too much of fate!
Still I will proudly declare that there is something queer about it.
Else, why should it be let so cheaply And why have stood so long untenanted
John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage.
John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience with faith, an intense horror of
superstition, and he scoffs openly at any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put down in
figures.
John is a physician, and PERHAPS—(I would not say it to a living soul, of course, but this is
dead paper and a great relief to my mind)—PERHAPS that is one reason I do not get well
faster.
You see he does not believe I am sick!
And what can one do
If a physician of high standing, and one's own husband, assures friends and relatives that
there is really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous depression—a slight
hysterical tendency—what is one to do
My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says the same thing.
So I take phosphates or phosphites—whichever it is, and tonics, and journeys, and air, and
exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to "work" until I am well again.
Personally, I disagree with their ideas.
Personally, I believe that congenial work, with excitement and change, would do me good.
But what is one to do
I did write for a while in spite of them; but it DOES exhaust me a good deal—having to be so
sly about it, or else meet with heavy opposition.
I sometimes fancy that in my condition if I had less opposition and more society and
stimulus—but John says the very worst thing I can do is to think about my condition, and I
confess it always makes me feel bad.
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So I will let it alone and talk about the house.
The most beautiful place! It is quite alone, standing well back from the road, quite three miles
from the village. It makes me think of English places that you read about, for there are hedges
and walls and gates that lock, and lots of separate little houses for the gardeners and people.
There is a DELICIOUS garden! I never saw such a garden—large and shady, full of boxbordered
paths, and lined with long grape-covered arbors with seats under them.
There were greenhouses, too, but they are all broken now.
There was some legal trouble, I believe, something about the heirs and coheirs; anyhow, the
place has been empty for years.
That spoils my ghostliness, I am afraid, but I don't care—there is something strange about the
house—I can feel it.
I even said so to John one moonlight evening, but he said what I felt was a DRAUGHT, and
shut the window.
I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes. I'm sure I never used to be so sensitive. I
think it is due to this nervous condition.
But John says if I feel so, I shall neglect proper self-control; so I take pains to control
myself—before him, at least, and that makes me very tired.
I don't like our room a bit. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the piazza and had roses
all over the window, and such pretty old-fashioned chintz hangings! but John would not hear
of it.
He said there was only one window and not room for two beds, and no near room for him if
he took another.
He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special direction.
I have a schedule prescription for each hour in the day; he takes all care from me, and so I
feel basely ungrateful not to value it more.
He said we came here solely on my account, that I was to have perfect rest and all the air I
could get. "Your exercise depends on your strength, my dear," said he, "and your food
somewhat on your appetite; but air you can absorb all the time." So we took the nursery at the
top of the house.
It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with windows that look all ways, and air and
sunshine galore. It was nursery first and then playroom and gymnasium, I should judge; for
the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls.
The paint and paper look as if a boys' school had used it. It is stripped off—the paper—in
great patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a great place
on the other side of the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life.
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One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin.
It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and
provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they
suddenly commit suicide—plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of
contradictions.
The color is repellent, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely faded by the
slow-turning sunlight.
It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.
No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long.
There comes John, and I must put this away,—he hates to have me write a word.
We have been here two weeks, and I haven't felt like writing before, since that first day.
I am sitting by the window now, up in this atrocious nursery, and there is nothing to hinder
my writing as much as I please, save lack of strength.
John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases are serious.
I am glad my case is not serious!
But these nervous troubles are dreadfully depressing.
John does not know how much I really suffer. He knows there is no REASON to suffer, and
that satisfies him.
Of course it is only nervousness. It does weigh on me so not to do my duty in any way!
I meant to be such a help to John, such a real rest and comfort, and here I am a comparative
burden already!
Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little I am able,—to dress and entertain,
and order things.
It is fortunate Mary is so good with the baby. Such a dear baby!
And yet I CANNOT be with him, it makes me so nervous.
I suppose John never was nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about this wall-paper!
At first he meant to repaper the room, but afterwards he said that I was letting it get the better
of me, and that nothing was worse for a nervous patient than to give way to such fancies.
He said that after the wall-paper was changed it would be the heavy bedstead, and then the
barred windows, and then that gate at the head of the stairs, and so on.
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"You know the place is doing you good," he said, "and really, dear, I don't care to renovate
the house just for a three months' rental."
"Then do let us go downstairs," I said, "there are such pretty rooms there."
Then he took me in his arms and called me a blessed little goose, and said he would go down
to the cellar, if I wished, and have it whitewashed into the bargain.
But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things.
It is an airy and comfortable room as any one need wish, and, of course, I would not be so
silly as to make him uncomfortable just for a whim.
I'm really getting quite fond of the big room, all but that horrid paper.
Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious deepshaded arbors, the riotous oldfashioned
flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees.
Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a little private wharf belonging to the estate.
There is a beautiful shaded lane that runs down there from the house. I always fancy I see
people walking in these numerous paths and arbors, but John has cautioned me not to give
way to fancy in the least. He says that with my imaginative power and habit of story-making,
a nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead to all manner of excited fancies, and that I ought
to use my will and good sense to check the tendency. So I try.
I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write a little it would relieve the press of
ideas and rest me.
But I find I get pretty tired when I try.
It is so discouraging not to have any advice and companionship about my work. When I get
really well, John says we will ask Cousin Henry and Julia down for a long visit; but he says
he would as soon put fireworks in my pillow-case as to let me have those stimulating people
about now.
I wish I could get well faster.
But I must not think about that. This paper looks to me as if it KNEW what a vicious
influence it had!
There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a broken neck and two bulbous eyes stare
at you upside down.
I get positively angry with the impertinence of it and the everlastingness. Up and down and
sideways they crawl, and those absurd, unblinking eyes are everywhere. There is one place
where two breadths didn't match, and the eyes go all up and down the line, one a little higher
than the other.
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I never saw so much expression in an inanimate thing before, and we all know how much
expression they have! I used to lie awake as a child and get more entertainment and terror out
of blank walls and plain furniture than most children could find in a toy store.
I remember what a kindly wink the knobs of our big, old bureau used to have, and there was
one chair that always seemed like a strong friend.
I used to feel that if any of the other things looked too fierce I could always hop into that
chair and be safe.
The furniture in this room is no worse than inharmonious, however, for we had to bring it all
from downstairs. I suppose when this was used as a playroom they had to take the nursery
things out, and no wonder! I never saw such ravages as the children have made here.
The wall-paper, as I said before, is torn off in spots, and it sticketh closer than a brother—
they must have had perseverance as well as hatred.
Then the floor is scratched and gouged and splintered, the plaster itself is dug out here and
there, and this great heavy bed which is all we found in the room, looks as if it had been
through the wars.
But I don't mind it a bit—only the paper.
There comes John's sister. Such a dear girl as she is, and so careful of me! I must not let her
find me writing.
She is a perfect and enthusiastic housekeeper, and hopes for no better profession. I verily
believe she thinks it is the writing which made me sick!
But I can write when she is out, and see her a long way off from these windows.
There is one that commands the road, a lovely shaded winding road, and one that just looks
off over the country. A lovely country, too, full of great elms and velvet meadows.
This wall-paper has a kind of sub-pattern in a different shade, a particularly irritating one, for
you can only see it in certain lights, and not clearly then.
But in the places where it isn't faded and where the sun is just so—I can see a strange,
provoking, formless sort of figure, that seems to skulk about behind that silly and
conspicuous front design.
There's sister on the stairs!
Well, the Fourth of July is over! The people are gone and I am tired out. John thought it
might do me good to see a little company, so we just had mother and Nellie and the children
down for a week.
Of course I didn't do a thing. Jennie sees to everything now.
But it tired me all the same.
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John says if I don't pick up faster he shall send me to Weir Mitchell in the fall.
But I don't want to go there at all. I had a friend who was in his hands once, and she says he is
just like John and my brother, only more so!
Besides, it is such an undertaking to go so far.
I don't feel as if it was worth while to turn my hand over for anything, and I'm getting
dreadfully fretful and querulous.
I cry at nothing, and cry most of the time.
Of course I don't when John is here, or anybody else, but when I am alone.
And I am alone a good deal just now. John is kept in town very often by serious cases, and
Jennie is good and lets me alone when I want her to.
So I walk a little in the garden or down that lovely lane, sit on the porch under the roses, and
lie down up here a good deal.
I'm getting really fond of the room in spite of the wall-paper. Perhaps BECAUSE of the wallpaper.
It dwells in my mind so!
I lie here on this great immovable bed—it is nailed down, I believe—and follow that pattern
about by the hour. It is as good as gymnastics, I assure you. I start, we'll say, at the bottom,
down in the corner over there where it has not been touched, and I determine for the
thousandth time that I WILL follow that pointless pattern to some sort of a conclusion.
I know a little of the principle of design, and I know this thing was not arranged on any laws
of radiation, or alternation, or repetition, or symmetry, or anything else that I ever heard of.
It is repeated, of course, by the breadths, but not otherwise.
Looked at in one way each breadth stands alone, the bloated curves and flourishes—a kind of
"debased Romanesque" with delirium tremens—go waddling up and down in isolated
columns of fatuity.
But, on the other hand, they connect diagonally, and the sprawling outlines run off in great
slanting waves of optic horror, like a lot of wallowing seaweeds in full chase.
The whole thing goes horizontally, too, at least it seems so, and I exhaust myself in trying to
distinguish the order of its going in that direction.
They have used a horizontal breadth for a frieze, and that adds wonderfully to the confusion.
There is one end of the room where it is almost intact, and there, when the crosslights fade
and the low sun shines directly upon it, I can almost fancy radiation after all,—the
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interminable grotesques seem to form around a common centre and rush off in headlong
plunges of equal distraction.
It makes me tired to follow it. I will take a nap I guess.
I don't know why I should write this.
I don't want to.
I don't feel able.
And I know John would think it absurd. But I MUST say what I feel and think in some
way—it is such a relief!
But the effort is getting to be greater than the relief.
Half the time now I am awfully lazy, and lie down ever so much.
John says I musn't lose my strength, and has me take cod liver oil and lots of tonics and
things, to say nothing of ale and wine and rare meat.
Dear John! He loves me very dearly, and hates to have me sick. I tried to have a real earnest
reasonable talk with him the other day, and tell him how I wish he would let me go and make
a visit to Cousin Henry and Julia.
But he said I wasn't able to go, nor able to stand it after I got there; and I did not make out a
very good case for myself, for I was crying before I had finished.
It is getting to be a great effort for me to think straight. Just this nervous weakness I suppose.
And dear John gathered me up in his arms, and just carried me upstairs and laid me on the
bed, and sat by me and read to me till it tired my head.
He said I was his darling and his comfort and all he had, and that I must take care of myself
for his sake, and keep well.
He says no one but myself can help me out of it, that I must use my will and self-control and
not let any silly fancies run away with me.
There's one comfort, the baby is well and happy, and does not have to occupy this nursery
with the horrid wall-paper.
If we had not used it, that blessed child would have! What a fortunate escape! Why, I
wouldn't have a child of mine, an impressionable little thing, live in such a room for worlds.
I never thought of it before, but it is lucky that John kept me here after all, I can stand it so
much easier than a baby, you see.
Of course I never mention it to them any more—I am too wise,—but I keep watch of it all the
same.
315

There are things in that paper that nobody knows but me, or ever will.
Behind that outside pattern the dim shapes get clearer every day.
It is always the same shape, only very numerous.
And it is like a woman stooping down and creeping about behind that pattern. I don't like it a
bit. I wonder—I begin to think—I wish John would take me away from here!
It is so hard to talk with John about my case, because he is so wise, and because he loves me
so.
But I tried it last night.
It was moonlight. The moon shines in all around just as the sun does.
I hate to see it sometimes, it creeps so slowly, and always comes in by one window or
another.
John was asleep and I hated to waken him, so I kept still and watched the moonlight on that
undulating wall-paper till I felt creepy.
The faint figure behind seemed to shake the pattern, just as if she wanted to get out.
I got up softly and went to feel and see if the paper DID move, and when I came back John
was awake.
"What is it, little girl" he said. "Don't go walking about like that—you'll get cold."
I though it was a good time to talk, so I told him that I really was not gaining here, and that I
wished he would take me away.
"Why darling!" said he, "our lease will be up in three weeks, and I can't see how to leave
before.
"The repairs are not done at home, and I cannot possibly leave town just now. Of course if
you were in any danger, I could and would, but you really are better, dear, whether you can
see it or not. I am a doctor, dear, and I know. You are gaining flesh and color, your appetite is
better, I feel really much easier about you."
"I don't weigh a bit more," said I, "nor as much; and my appetite may be better in the evening
when you are here, but it is worse in the morning when you are away!"
"Bless her little heart!" said he with a big hug, "she shall be as sick as she pleases! But now
let's improve the shining hours by going to sleep, and talk about it in the morning!"
"And you won't go away" I asked gloomily.
"Why, how can I, dear It is only three weeks more and then we will take a nice little trip of a
few days while Jennie is getting the house ready. Really dear you are better!"
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"Better in body perhaps—" I began, and stopped short, for he sat up straight and looked at me
with such a stern, reproachful look that I could not say another word.
"My darling," said he, "I beg of you, for my sake and for our child's sake, as well as for your
own, that you will never for one instant let that idea enter your mind! There is nothing so
dangerous, so fascinating, to a temperament like yours. It is a false and foolish fancy. Can
you not trust me as a physician when I tell you so"
So of course I said no more on that score, and we went to sleep before long. He thought I was
asleep first, but I wasn't, and lay there for hours trying to decide whether that front pattern
and the back pattern really did move together or separately.
On a pattern like this, by daylight, there is a lack of sequence, a defiance of law, that is a
constant irritant to a normal mind.
The color is hideous enough, and unreliable enough, and infuriating enough, but the pattern is
torturing.
You think you have mastered it, but just as you get well underway in following, it turns a
back-somersault and there you are. It slaps you in the face, knocks you down, and tramples
upon you. It is like a bad dream.
The outside pattern is a florid arabesque, reminding one of a fungus. If you can imagine a
toadstool in joints, an interminable string of toadstools, budding and sprouting in endless
convolutions—why, that is something like it.
That is, sometimes!
There is one marked peculiarity about this paper, a thing nobody seems to notice but myself,
and that is that it changes as the light changes.
When the sun shoots in through the east window—I always watch for that first long, straight
ray—it changes so quickly that I never can quite believe it.
That is why I watch it always.
By moonlight—the moon shines in all night when there is a moon—I wouldn't know it was
the same paper.
At night in any kind of light, in twilight, candle light, lamplight, and worst of all by
moonlight, it becomes bars! The outside pattern I mean, and the woman behind it is as plain
as can be.
I didn't realize for a long time what the thing was that showed behind, that dim sub-pattern,
but now I am quite sure it is a woman.
By daylight she is subdued, quiet. I fancy it is the pattern that keeps her so still. It is so
puzzling. It keeps me quiet by the hour.
I lie down ever so much now. John says it is good for me, and to sleep all I can.
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Indeed he started the habit by making me lie down for an hour after each meal.
It is a very bad habit I am convinced, for you see I don't sleep.
And that cultivates deceit, for I don't tell them I'm awake—O no!
The fact is I am getting a little afraid of John.
He seems very queer sometimes, and even Jennie has an inexplicable look.
It strikes me occasionally, just as a scientific hypothesis,—that perhaps it is the paper!
I have watched John when he did not know I was looking, and come into the room suddenly
on the most innocent excuses, and I've caught him several times LOOKING AT THE
PAPER! And Jennie too. I caught Jennie with her hand on it once.
She didn't know I was in the room, and when I asked her in a quiet, a very quiet voice, with
the most restrained manner possible, what she was doing with the paper—she turned around
as if she had been caught stealing, and looked quite angry—asked me why I should frighten
her so!
Then she said that the paper stained everything it touched, that she had found yellow
smooches on all my clothes and John's, and she wished we would be more careful!
Did not that sound innocent But I know she was studying that pattern, and I am determined
that nobody shall find it out but myself!
Life is very much more exciting now than it used to be. You see I have something more to
expect, to look forward to, to watch. I really do eat better, and am more quiet than I was.
John is so pleased to see me improve! He laughed a little the other day, and said I seemed to
be flourishing in spite of my wall-paper.
I turned it off with a laugh. I had no intention of telling him it was BECAUSE of the wallpaper—he
would make fun of me. He might even want to take me away.
I don't want to leave now until I have found it out. There is a week more, and I think that will
be enough.
I'm feeling ever so much better! I don't sleep much at night, for it is so interesting to watch
developments; but I sleep a good deal in the daytime.
In the daytime it is tiresome and perplexing.
There are always new shoots on the fungus, and new shades of yellow all over it. I cannot
keep count of them, though I have tried conscientiously.
It is the strangest yellow, that wall-paper! It makes me think of all the yellow things I ever
saw—not beautiful ones like buttercups, but old foul, bad yellow things.
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But there is something else about that paper—the smell! I noticed it the moment we came
into the room, but with so much air and sun it was not bad. Now we have had a week of fog
and rain, and whether the windows are open or not, the smell is here.
It creeps all over the house.
I find it hovering in the dining-room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait
for me on the stairs.
It gets into my hair.
Even when I go to ride, if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it—there is that smell!
Such a peculiar odor, too! I have spent hours in trying to analyze it, to find what it smelled
like.
It is not bad—at first, and very gentle, but quite the subtlest, most enduring odor I ever met.
In this damp weather it is awful, I wake up in the night and find it hanging over me.
It used to disturb me at first. I thought seriously of burning the house—to reach the smell.
But now I am used to it. The only thing I can think of that it is like is the COLOR of the
paper! A yellow smell.
There is a very funny mark on this wall, low down, near the mopboard. A streak that runs
round the room. It goes behind every piece of furniture, except the bed, a long, straight, even
SMOOCH, as if it had been rubbed over and over.
I wonder how it was done and who did it, and what they did it for. Round and round and
round—round and round and round—it makes me dizzy!
I really have discovered something at last.
Through watching so much at night, when it changes so, I have finally found out.
The front pattern DOES move—and no wonder! The woman behind shakes it!
Sometimes I think there are a great many women behind, and sometimes only one, and she
crawls around fast, and her crawling shakes it all over.
Then in the very bright spots she keeps still, and in the very shady spots she just takes hold of
the bars and shakes them hard.
And she is all the time trying to climb through. But nobody could climb through that
pattern—it strangles so; I think that is why it has so many heads.
They get through, and then the pattern strangles them off and turns them upside down, and
makes their eyes white!
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If those heads were covered or taken off it would not be half so bad.
I think that woman gets out in the daytime!
And I'll tell you why—privately—I've seen her!
I can see her out of every one of my windows!
It is the same woman, I know, for she is always creeping, and most women do not creep by
daylight.
I see her on that long road under the trees, creeping along, and when a carriage comes she
hides under the blackberry vines.
I don't blame her a bit. It must be very humiliating to be caught creeping by daylight!
I always lock the door when I creep by daylight. I can't do it at night, for I know John would
suspect something at once.
And John is so queer now, that I don't want to irritate him. I wish he would take another
room! Besides, I don't want anybody to get that woman out at night but myself.
I often wonder if I could see her out of all the windows at once.
But, turn as fast as I can, I can only see out of one at one time.
And though I always see her, she MAY be able to creep faster than I can turn!
I have watched her sometimes away off in the open country, creeping as fast as a cloud
shadow in a high wind.
If only that top pattern could be gotten off from the under one! I mean to try it, little by little.
I have found out another funny thing, but I shan't tell it this time! It does not do to trust
people too much.
There are only two more days to get this paper off, and I believe John is beginning to notice. I
don't like the look in his eyes.
And I heard him ask Jennie a lot of professional questions about me. She had a very good
report to give.
She said I slept a good deal in the daytime.
John knows I don't sleep very well at night, for all I'm so quiet!
He asked me all sorts of questions, too, and pretended to be very loving and kind.
As if I couldn't see through him!
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Still, I don't wonder he acts so, sleeping under this paper for three months.
It only interests me, but I feel sure John and Jennie are secretly affected by it.
Hurrah! This is the last day, but it is enough. John is to stay in town over night, and won't be
out until this evening.
Jennie wanted to sleep with me—the sly thing! but I told her I should undoubtedly rest better
for a night all alone.
That was clever, for really I wasn't alone a bit! As soon as it was moonlight and that poor
thing began to crawl and shake the pattern, I got up and ran to help her.
I pulled and she shook, I shook and she pulled, and before morning we had peeled off yards
of that paper.
A strip about as high as my head and half around the room.
And then when the sun came and that awful pattern began to laugh at me, I declared I would
finish it to-day!
We go away to-morrow, and they are moving all my furniture down again to leave things as
they were before.
Jennie looked at the wall in amazement, but I told her merrily that I did it out of pure spite at
the vicious thing.
She laughed and said she wouldn't mind doing it herself, but I must not get tired.
How she betrayed herself that time!
But I am here, and no person touches this paper but me—not ALIVE!
She tried to get me out of the room—it was too patent! But I said it was so quiet and empty
and clean now that I believed I would lie down again and sleep all I could; and not to wake
me even for dinner—I would call when I woke.
So now she is gone, and the servants are gone, and the things are gone, and there is nothing
left but that great bedstead nailed down, with the canvas mattress we found on it.
We shall sleep downstairs to-night, and take the boat home to-morrow.
I quite enjoy the room, now it is bare again.
How those children did tear about here!
This bedstead is fairly gnawed!
But I must get to work.
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I have locked the door and thrown the key down into the front path.
I don't want to go out, and I don't want to have anybody come in, till John comes.
I want to astonish him.
I've got a rope up here that even Jennie did not find. If that woman does get out, and tries to
get away, I can tie her!
But I forgot I could not reach far without anything to stand on!
This bed will NOT move!
I tried to lift and push it until I was lame, and then I got so angry I bit off a little piece at one
corner—but it hurt my teeth.
Then I peeled off all the paper I could reach standing on the floor. It sticks horribly and the
pattern just enjoys it! All those strangled heads and bulbous eyes and waddling fungus
growths just shriek with derision!
I am getting angry enough to do something desperate. To jump out of the window would be
admirable exercise, but the bars are too strong even to try.
Besides I wouldn't do it. Of course not. I know well enough that a step like that is improper
and might be misconstrued.
I don't like to LOOK out of the windows even—there are so many of those creeping women,
and they creep so fast.
I wonder if they all come out of that wall-paper as I did
But I am securely fastened now by my well-hidden rope—you don't get ME out in the road
there!
I suppose I shall have to get back behind the pattern when it comes night, and that is hard!
It is so pleasant to be out in this great room and creep around as I please!
I don't want to go outside. I won't, even if Jennie asks me to.
For outside you have to creep on the ground, and everything is green instead of yellow.
But here I can creep smoothly on the floor, and my shoulder just fits in that long smooch
around the wall, so I cannot lose my way.
Why there's John at the door!
It is no use, young man, you can't open it!
How he does call and pound!
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Now he's crying for an axe.
It would be a shame to break down that beautiful door!
"John dear!" said I in the gentlest voice, "the key is down by the front steps, under a plantain
leaf!"
That silenced him for a few moments.
Then he said—very quietly indeed, "Open the door, my darling!"
"I can't," said I. "The key is down by the front door under a plantain leaf!"
And then I said it again, several times, very gently and slowly, and said it so often that he had
to go and see, and he got it of course, and came in. He stopped short by the door.
"What is the matter" he cried. "For God's sake, what are you doing!"
I kept on creeping just the same, but I looked at him over my shoulder.
"I've got out at last," said I, "in spite of you and Jane. And I've pulled off most of the paper,
so you can't put me back!"
Now why should that man have fainted But he did, and right across my path by the wall, so
that I had to creep over him every time!
323

A Prisoner in the Caucasus- Leo Tolstoy
AN officer named Zhìlin was serving in the army in the Caucasus.
One day he received a letter from home. It was from his mother, who wrote: ‗I am getting
old, and should like to see my dear son once more before I die. Come and say good-bye to me
and bury me, and then, if God pleases, return to service again with my blessing. But I have
found a girl for you, who is sensible and good and has some property. If you can love her,
you might marry her and remain at home.‘
Zhìlin thought it over. It was quite true, the old lady was failing fast and he might not have
another chance to see her alive. He had better go, and, if the girl was nice, why not marry
her
So he went to his Colonel, obtained leave of absence, said good-bye to his comrades, stood
the soldiers four pailfuls of vódka as a farewell treat, and got ready to go.
It was a time of war in the Caucasus. The roads were not safe by night or day. If ever a
Russian ventured to ride or walk any distance away from his fort, the Tartars killed him or
carried him off to the hills. So it had been arranged that twice every week a body of soldiers
should march from one fortress to the next to convoy travellers from point to point.
It was summer. At daybreak the baggage-train got ready under shelter of the fortress; the
soldiers marched out; and all started along the road. Zhìlin was on horseback, and a cart with
his things went with the baggage-train. They had sixteen miles to go. The baggage-train
moved slowly; sometimes the soldiers stopped, or perhaps a wheel would come off one of the
carts, or a horse refuse to go on, and then everybody had to wait.
When by the sun it was already past noon, they had not gone half the way. It was dusty and
hot, the sun was scorching and there was no shelter anywhere: a bare plain all round—not a
tree, not a bush, by the road.
Zhìlin rode on in front, and stopped, waiting for the baggage to overtake him. Then he heard
the signal-horn sounded behind him: the company had again stopped. So he began to think:
‗Hadn‘t I better ride on by myself My horse is a good one: if the Tartars do attack me, I can
gallop away. Perhaps, however, it would be wiser to wait.‘
As he sat considering, Kostìlin, an officer carrying a gun, rode up to him and said:
‗Come along, Zhìlin, let‘s go on by ourselves. It‘s dreadful; I am famished, and the heat is
terrible. My shirt is wringing wet.‘
Kostìlin was a stout, heavy man, and the perspiration was running down his red face. Zhìlin
thought awhile, and then asked: ‗Is your gun loaded‘
‗Yes it is.‘
‗Well, then, let‘s go, but on condition that we keep together.‘
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So they rode forward along the road across the plain, talking, but keeping a look-out on both
sides. They could see afar all round. But after crossing the plain the road ran through a valley
between two hills, and Zhìlin said: ‗We had better climb that hill and have a look round, or
the Tartars may be on us before we know it.‘
But Kostìlin answered: ‗What‘s the use Let us go on.‘
Zhìlin, however, would not agree.
‗No,‘ he said; ‗you can wait here if you like, but I‘ll go and look round.‘ And he turned his
horse to the left, up the hill. Zhìlin‘s horse was a hunter, and carried him up the hillside as if
it had wings. (He had bought it for a hundred roubles as a colt out of a herd, and had broken it
in himself.) Hardly had he reached the top of the hill, when he saw some thirty Tartars not
much more than a hundred yards ahead of him. As soon as he caught sight of them he turned
round but the Tartars had also seen him, and rushed after him at full gallop, getting their guns
out as they went. Down galloped Zhìlin as fast as the horse‘s legs could go, shouting to
Kostìlin: ‗Get your gun ready!‘
And, in thought, he said to his horse: ‗Get me well out of this, my pet; don‘t stumble, for if
you do it‘s all up. Once I reach the gun, they shan‘t take me prisoner.‘
But, instead of waiting, Kostìlin, as soon as he caught sight of the Tartars, turned back
towards the fortress at full speed, whipping his horse now on one side now on the other, and
its switching tail was all that could be seen of him in the dust.
Zhìlin saw it was a bad look-out; the gun was gone, and what could he do with nothing but
his sword He turned his horse towards the escort, thinking to escape, but there were six
Tartars rushing to cut him off. His horse was a good one, but theirs were still better; and
besides, they were across his path. He tried to rein in his horse and to turn another way, but it
was going so fast it could not stop, and dashed on straight towards the Tartars. He saw a redbearded
Tartar on a grey horse, with his gun raised, come at him, yelling and showing his
teeth.
‗Ah,‘ thought Zhìlin, ‗I know you, devils that you are. If you take me alive, you‘ll put me in a
pit and flog me. I will not be taken alive!‘
Zhìlin, though not a big fellow, was brave. He drew his sword and dashed at the red-bearded
Tartar thinking: ‗Either I‘ll ride him down, or disable him with my sword.‘
He was still a horse‘s length away from him, when he was fired at from behind, and his horse
was hit. It fell to the ground with all its weight, pinning Zhìlin to the earth.
He tried to rise, but two ill-savoured Tartars were already sitting on him and binding his
hands behind his back. He made an effort and flung them off, but three others jumped from
their horses and began beating his head with the butts of their guns. His eyes grew dim, and
he fell back. The Tartars seized him, and, taking spare girths from their saddles, twisted his
hands behind him and tied them with a Tartar knot. They knocked his cap off, pulled off his
boots, searched him all over, tore his clothes, and took his money and his watch.
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Zhìlin looked round at his horse. There it lay on its side, poor thing, just as it had fallen;
struggling, its legs in the air, unable to touch the ground. There was a hole in its head, and
black blood was pouring out, turning the dust to mud for a couple of feet around.
One of the Tartars went up to the horse and began taking the saddle off, it still kicked, so he
drew a dagger and cut its windpipe. A whistling sound came from its throat, the horse gave
one plunge, and all was over.
The Tartars took the saddle and trappings. The red-bearded Tartar mounted his horse, and the
others lifted Zhìlin into the saddle behind him. To prevent his falling off, they strapped him to
the Tartar‘s girdle; and then they all rode away to the hills.
So there sat Zhìlin, swaying from side to side, his head striking against the Tartar‘s stinking
back. He could see nothing but that muscular back and sinewy neck, with its closely shaven,
bluish nape. Zhìlin‘s head was wounded: the blood had dried over his eyes, and he could
neither shift his position on the saddle nor wipe the blood off. His arms were bound so tightly
that his collar-bones ached.
They rode up and down hills for a long way. Then they reached a river which they forded,
and came to a hard road leading across a valley.
Zhìlin tried to see where they were going, but his eyelids were stuck together with blood, and
he could not turn.
Twilight began to fall; they crossed another river and rode up a stony hillside. There was a
smell of smoke here, and dogs were barking. They had reached an Aoul (a Tartar village).
The Tartars got off their horses; Tartar children came and stood round Zhìlin, shrieking with
pleasure and throwing stones at him.
The Tartar drove the children away, took Zhìlin off the horse, and called his man. A Nogáy
with high cheek-bones, and nothing on but a shirt (and that so torn that his breast was all
bare), answered the call. The Tartar gave him an order. He went and fetched shackles: two
blocks of oak with iron rings attached, and a clasp and lock fixed to one of the rings.
They untied Zhìlin‘s arms, fastened the shackles on his leg, and dragged him to a barn, where
they pushed him in and locked the door.
Zhìlin fell on a heap of manure. He lay still awhile then groped about to find a soft place, and
settled down.
II
That night Zhìlin hardly slept at all. It was the time of year when the nights are short, and
daylight soon showed itself through a chink in the wall. He rose, scratched to make the chink
bigger, and peeped out.
Through the hole he saw a road leading down-hill; to the right was a Tartar hut with two trees
near it, a black dog lay on the threshold, and a goat and kids were moving about wagging
their tails. Then he saw a young Tartar woman in a long, loose, bright-coloured gown, with
trousers and high boots showing from under it. She had a coat thrown over her head, on
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which she carried a large metal jug filled with water. She was leading by the hand a small,
closely-shaven Tartar boy, who wore nothing but a shirt; and as she went along balancing
herself, the muscles of her back quivered. This woman carried the water into the hut, and,
soon after, the red-bearded Tartar of yesterday came out dressed in a silk tunic, with a silverhilted
dagger hanging by his side, shoes on his bare feet, and a tall black sheepskin cap set far
back on his head. He came out, stretched himself, and stroked his red beard. He stood awhile,
gave an order to his servant, and went away.
Then two lads rode past from watering their horses. The horses‘ noses were wet. Some other
closely-shaven boys ran out, without any trousers, and wearing nothing but their shirts. They
crowded together, came to the barn, picked up a twig, and began pushing it in at the chink.
Zhìlin gave a shout, and the boys shrieked and scampered off, their little bare knees gleaming
as they ran.
Zhìlin was very thirsty: his throat was parched, and he thought: ‗If only they would come and
so much as look at me!‘
Then he heard some one unlocking the barn. The red-bearded Tartar entered, and with him
was another a smaller man, dark, with bright black eyes, red cheeks and a short beard. He had
a merry face, and was always laughing. This man was even more richly dressed than the
other. He wore a blue silk tunic trimmed with gold, a large silver dagger in his belt, red
morocco slippers worked with silver, and over these a pair of thick shoes, and he had a white
sheepskin cap on his head.
The red-bearded Tartar entered, muttered something as if he were annoyed, and stood leaning
against the doorpost, playing with his dagger, and glaring askance at Zhìlin, like a wolf. The
dark one, quick and lively and moving as if on springs, came straight up to Zhìlin, squatted
down in front of him, slapped him on the shoulder, and began to talk very fast in his own
language. His teeth showed, and he kept winking, clicking his tongue, and repeating, ‗Good
Russ, good Russ.‘
Zhìlin could not understand a word, but said, ‗Drink! give me water to drink!‘
The dark man only laughed. ‗Good Russ,‘ he said, and went on talking in his own tongue.
Zhìlin made signs with lips and hands that he wanted something to drink.
The dark man understood, and laughed. Then he looked out of the door, and called to some
one: ‗Dina!‘
A little girl came running in: she was about thirteen, slight, thin, and like the dark Tartar in
face. Evidently she was his daughter. She, too, had clear black eyes, and her face was goodlooking.
She had on a long blue gown with wide sleeves, and no girdle. The hem of her
gown, the front, and the sleeves, were trimmed with red. She wore trousers and slippers, and
over the slippers stouter shoes with high heels. Round her neck she had a necklace made of
Russian silver coins. She was bareheaded, and her black hair was plaited with a ribbon and
ornamented with gilt braid and silver coins.
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Her father gave an order, and she ran away and returned with a metal jug. She handed the
water to Zhìlin and sat down, crouching so that her knees were as high as her head, and there
she sat with wide open eyes watching Zhìlin drink, as though he were a wild animal.
When Zhìlin handed the empty jug back to her, she gave such a sudden jump back, like a
wild goat, that it made her father laugh. He sent her away for something else. She took the
jug, ran out, and brought back some unleavened bread on a round board, and once more sat
down, crouching, and looking on with staring eves.
Then the Tartars went away and again locked the door.
After a while the Nogáy came and said: ‗Ayda, the master, Ayda!‘
He, too, knew no Russian. All Zhìlin could make out was that he was told to go somewhere.
Zhìlin followed the Nógay, but limped, for the shackles dragged his feet so that he could
hardly step at all. On getting out of the barn he saw a Tartar village of about ten houses, and a
Tartar church with a small tower. Three horses stood saddled before one of the houses; little
boys were holding them by the reins. The dark Tartar came out of this house, beckoning with
his hand for Zhìlin to follow him. Then he laughed, said something in his own language, and
returned into the house.
Zhìlin entered. The room was a good one: the walls smoothly plastered with clay. Near the
front wall lay a pile of bright-coloured feather beds; the side walls were covered with rich
carpets used as hangings, and on these were fastened guns, pistols and swords, all inlaid with
silver. Close to one of the walls was a small stove on a level with the earthen floor. The floor
itself was as clean as a thrashing-ground. A large space in one corner was spread over with
felt, on which were rugs, and on these rugs were cushions stuffed with down. And on these
cushions sat five Tartars, the dark one, the red-haired one, and three guests. They were
wearing their indoor slippers, and each had a cushion behind his back. Before them were
standing millet cakes on a round board, melted butter in a bowl and a jug of buza, or Tartar
beer. They ate both cakes and butter with their hands.
The dark man jumped up and ordered Zhìlin to be placed on one side, not on the carpet but on
the bare ground, then he sat down on the carpet again, and offered millet cakes and buza to
his guests. The servant made Zhìlin sit down, after which he took off his own overshoes, put
them by the door where the other shoes were standing, and sat down nearer to his masters on
the felt, watching them as they ate, and licking his lips.
The Tartars ate as much as they wanted, and a woman dressed in the same way as the girl—in
a long gown and trousers, with a kerchief on her head— came and took away what was left,
and brought a handsome basin, and an ewer with a narrow spout. The Tartars washed their
hands, folded them, went down on their knees, blew to the four quarters, and said their
prayers. After they had talked for a while, one of the guests turned to Zhìlin and began to
speak in Russian.
‗You were captured by Kazi-Mohammed,‘ he said, and pointed at the red-bearded Tartar.
‗And Kazi-Mohammed has given you to Abdul Murat,‘ pointing at the dark one. ‗Abdul
Murat is now your master.‘
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Zhìlin was silent. Then Abdul Murat began to talk, laughing, pointing to Zhìlin, and
repeating, ‗Soldier Russ, good Russ.‘
The interpreter said, ‗He orders you to write home and tell them to send a ransom, and as
soon as the money comes he will set you free.‘
Zhìlin thought for a moment, and said, ‗How much ransom does he want‘
The Tartars talked awhile, and then the interpreter said, ‗Three thousand roubles.‘
‗No,‘ said Zhìlin,‘ I can‘t pay so much.‘
Abdul jumped up and, waving his arms, talked to Zhìlin‘ thinking, as before, that he would
understand. The interpreter translated: ‗How much will you give‘
Zhìlin considered, and said, ‗Five hundred roubles.‘ At this the Tartars began speaking very
quickly, all together. Abdul began to shout at the red-bearded one, and jabbered so fast that
the spittle spurted out of his mouth. The red-bearded one only screwed up his eyes and
clicked his tongue.
They quietened down after a while, and the interpreter said, ‗Five hundred roubles is not
enough for the master. He paid two hundred for you himself. Kazi-Mohammed was in debt to
him, and he took you in payment. Three thousand roubles! Less than that won‘t do. If you
refuse to write, you will be put into a pit and flogged with a whip!‘
‗Eh!‘ thought Zhìlin, ‗the more one fears them the worse it will be.‘
So he sprang to his feet, and said, ‗You tell that dog that if he tries to frighten me I will not
write at all, and he will get nothing. I never was afraid of you dogs, and never will be!‘
The interpreter translated, and again they all began to talk at once.
They jabbered for a long time, and then the dark man jumped up, came to Zhìlin, and said:
‗Dzhigit Russ, dzhigit Russ!‘ (Dzhigit in their language means ‗brave.‘) And he laughed, and
said something to the interpreter, who translated: ‗One thousand roubles will satisfy him.‘
Zhìlin stuck to it: ‗I will not give more than five hundred. And if you kill me you‘ll get
nothing at all.‘
The Tartars talked awhile, then sent the servant out to fetch something, and kept looking, now
at Zhìlin, now at the door. The servant returned, followed by a stout, bare-footed, tattered
man, who also had his leg shackled.
Zhìlin gasped with surprise: it was Kostìlin. He, too, had been taken. They were put side by
side, and began to tell each other what had occurred. While they talked, the Tartars looked on
in silence. Zhìlin related what had happened to him; and Kostìlin told how his horse had
stopped, his gun missed fire, and this same Abdul had overtaken and captured him.
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Abdul jumped up, pointed to Kostìlin, and said something. The interpreter translated that they
both now belonged to one master, and the one who first paid the ransom would be set free
first.
‗There now,‘ he said to Zhìlin, ‗you get angry, but your comrade here is gentle; he has written
home, and they will send five thousand roubles. So he will be well fed and well treated.‘
Zhìlin replied: ‗My comrade can do as he likes; maybe he is rich, I am not. It must be as I
said. Kill me, if you like—you will gain nothing by it; but I will not write for more than five
hundred roubles.‘
They were silent. Suddenly up sprang Abdul, brought a little box, took out a pen, ink, and a
bit of paper, gave them to Zhìlin, slapped him on the shoulder, and made a sign that he should
write. He had agreed to take five hundred roubles.
‗Wait a bit!‘ said Zhìlin to the interpreter; ‗tell him that he must feed us properly, give us
proper clothes and boots, and let us be together. It will be more cheerful for us. And he must
have these shackles taken off our feet,‘ and Zhìlin looked at his master and laughed.
The master also laughed, heard the interpreter, and said: ‗I will give them the best of clothes:
a cloak and boots fit to be married in. I will feed them like princes; and if they like they can
live together in the barn. But I can‘t take off the shackles, or they will run away. They shall
be taken off, however, at night.‘ And he jumped up and slapped Zhìlin on the shoulder,
exclaiming: ‗You good, I good!‘
Zhìlin wrote the letter, but addressed it wrongly, so that it should not reach its destination,
thinking to himself: ‗I‘ll run away!‘
Zhìlin and Kostìlin were taken back to the barn and given some maize straw, a jug of water,
some bread, two old cloaks, and some worn-out military boots— evidently taken from the
corpses of Russian soldiers, At night their shackles were taken off their feet, and they were
locked up in the barn.
III
Zhìlin and his friend lived in this way for a whole month. The master always laughed and
said: ‗You, Iván, good! I, Abdul, good!‘ But he fed them badly giving them nothing but
unleavened bread of millet-flour baked into flat cakes, or sometimes only unbaked dough.
Kostìlin wrote home a second time, and did nothing but mope and wait for the money to
arrive. He would sit for days together in the barn sleeping, or counting the days till a letter
could come.
Zhìlin knew his letter would reach no one, and he did not write another. He thought: ‗Where
could my mother get enough money to ransom me As it is she lived chiefly on what I sent
her. If she had to raise five hundred roubles, she would be quite ruined. With God‘s help I‘ll
manage to escape!‘
So he kept on the look-out, planning how to run away.
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He would walk about the Aoul whistling; or would sit working, modelling dolls of clay, or
weaving baskets out of twigs: for Zhìlin was clever with his hands.
Once he modelled a doll with a nose and hands and feet and with a Tartar gown on, and put it
up on the roof. When the Tartar women came out to fetch water, the master‘s daughter, Dina,
saw the doll and called the women, who put down their jugs and stood looking and laughing.
Zhìlin took down the doll and held it out to them. They laughed, but dared not take it. He put
down the doll and went into the barn, waiting to see what would happen.
Dina ran up to the doll, looked round, seized it, and ran away.
In the morning, at daybreak, he looked out. Dina came out of the house and sat down on the
threshold with the doll, which she had dressed up in bits of red stuff, and she rocked it like a
baby, singing a Tartar lullaby. An old woman came out and scolded her, and snatching the
doll away she broke it to bits, and sent Dina about her business.
But Zhìlin made another doll, better than the first, and gave it to Dina. Once Dina brought a
little jug, put it on the ground, sat down gazing at him, and laughed, pointing to the jug.
‗What pleases her so‘ wondered Zhìlin. He took the jug thinking it was water, but it turned
out to be milk. He drank the milk and said: ‗That‘s good!‘
How pleased Dina was! ‗Good, Iván, good!‘ said she, and she jumped up and clapped her
hands. Then, seizing the jug, she ran away. After that, she stealthily brought him some milk
every day.
The Tartars make a kind of cheese out of goat‘s milk, which they dry on the roofs of their
houses; and sometimes, on the sly, she brought him some of this cheese. And once, when
Abdul had killed a sheep she brought Zhìlin a bit of mutton in her sleeve. She would just
throw the things down and run away.
One day there was a heavy storm, and the rain fell in torrents for a whole hour. All the
streams became turbid. At the ford, the water rose till it was seven feet high, and the current
was so strong that it rolled the stones about. Rivulets flowed everywhere, and the rumbling in
the hills never ceased. When the storm was over, the water ran in streams down the village
street. Zhìlin got his master to lend him a knife, and with it he shaped a small cylinder, and
cutting some little boards, he made a wheel to which he fixed two dolls, one on each side.
The little girls brought him some bits of stuff, and he dressed the dolls, one as a peasant, the
other as a peasant woman. Then he fastened them in their places, and set the wheel so that the
stream should work it. The wheel began to turn and the dolls danced.
The whole village collected round. Little boys and girls, Tartar men and women, all came and
clicked their tongues.
‗Ah, Russ! Ah, Iván!‘
Abdul had a Russian clock, which was broken. He called Zhìlin and showed it to him,
clicking his tongue.
‗Give it me, I‘ll mend it for you,‘ said Zhìlin.
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He took it to pieces with the knife, sorted the pieces, and put them together again, so that the
clock went all right.
The master was delighted, and made him a present of one of his old tunics which was all in
holes. Zhìlin had to accept it. He could, at any rate, use it as a coverlet at night.
After that Zhìlin‘s fame spread; and Tartars came from distant villages, bringing him now the
lock of a gun or of a pistol, now a watch, to mend. His master gave him some tools—pincers,
gimlets, and a file.
One day a Tartar fell ill, and they came to Zhìlin saying, ‗Come and heal him!‘ Zhìlin knew
nothing about doctoring, but he went to look, and thought to himself, ‗Perhaps he will get
well anyway.‘
He returned to the barn, mixed some water with sand, and then in the presence of the Tartars
whispered some words over it and gave it to the sick man to drink. Luckily for him, the Tartar
recovered.
Zhìlin began to pick up their language a little, and some of the Tartars grew familiar with
him. When they wanted him, they would call: ‗Iván! Iván!‘ Others, however, still looked at
him askance, as at a wild beast.
The red-bearded Tartar disliked Zhìlin. Whenever he saw him he frowned and turned away,
or swore at him. There was also an old man there who did not live in the Aoul, but used to
come up from the foot of the hill. Zhìlin only saw him when he passed on his way to the
Mosque. He was short, and had a white cloth wound round his hat. His beard and moustaches
were clipped, and white as snow; and his face was wrinkled and brick-red. His nose was
hooked like a hawk‘s, his grey eyes looked cruel, and he had no teeth except two tusks. He
would pass, with his turban on his head, leaning on his staff, and glaring round him like a
wolf. If he saw Zhìlin he would snort with anger and turn away.
Once Zhìlin descended the hill to see where the old man lived. He went down along the
pathway and came to a little garden surrounded by a stone wall; and behind the wall he saw
cherry and apricot trees, and a hut with a flat roof. He came closer, and saw hives made of
plaited straw, and bees flying about and humming. The old man was kneeling, busy doing
something with a hive. Zhìlin stretched to look, and his shackles rattled. The old man turned
round, and, giving a yell, snatched a pistol from his belt and shot at Zhìlin, who just managed
to shelter himself behind the stone wall.
The old man went to Zhìlin‘s master to complain. The master called Zhìlin, and said with a
laugh, ‗Why did you go to the old man‘s house‘
‗I did him no harm,‘ replied Zhìlin. ‗I only wanted to see how he lived.‘
The master repeated what Zhìlin said.
But the old man was in a rage; he hissed and jabbered, showing his tusks, and shaking his
fists at Zhìlin.
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Zhìlin could not understand all, but he gathered that the old man was telling Abdul he ought
not to keep Russians in the Aoul, but ought to kill them. At last the old man went away.
Zhìlin asked the master who the old man was.
‗He is a great man!‘ said the master. ‗He was the bravest of our fellows; he killed many
Russians and was at one time very rich. He had three wives and eight sons, and they all lived
in one village. Then the Russians came and destroyed the village, and killed seven of his
sons. Only one son was left, and he gave himself up to the Russians. The old man also went
and gave himself up, and lived among the Russians for three months. At the end of that time
he found his son, killed him with his own hands, and then escaped. After that he left off
fighting, and went to Mecca to pray to God; that is why he wears a turban. One who has been
to Mecca is called ―Hadji,‖ and wears a turban. He does not like you fellows. He tells me to
kill you. But I can‘t kill you. I have paid money for you and, besides, I have grown fond of
you, Iván. Far from killing you, I would not even let you go if I had not promised.‘ And he
laughed, saying in Russian, ‗You, Iván, good; I, Abdul, good!‘
IV
Zhìlin lived in this way for a month. During the day he sauntered about the Aoul or busied
himself with some handicraft, but at night, when all was silent in the Aoul, he dug at the floor
of the barn. It was no easy task digging, because of the stones; but he worked away at them
with his file, and at last had made a hole under the wall large enough to get through.
‗If only I could get to know the lay of the land,‘ thought he, ‗and which way to go! But none
of the Tartars will tell me.‘
So he chose a day when the master was away from home, and set off after dinner to climb the
hill beyond the village, and to look around. But before leaving home the master always gave
orders to his son to watch Zhìlin, and not to lose sight of him. So the lad ran after Zhìlin,
shouting: ‗Don‘t go! Father does not allow it. I‘ll call the neighbours if you won‘t come
back.‘
Zhìlin tried to persuade him, and said: ‗I‘m not going far; I only want to climb that hill. I
want to find a herb—to cure sick people with. You come with me if you like. How can I run
away with these shackles on To-morrow I‘ll make a bow and arrows for you.‘
So he persuaded the lad, and they went. To look at the hill, it did not seem far to the top; but
it was hard walking with shackles on his leg. Zhìlin went on and on, but it was all he could do
to reach the top. There he sat down and noted how the land lay. To the south, beyond the
barn, was a valley in which a herd of horses was pasturing and at the bottom of the valley one
could see another Aoul. Beyond that was a still steeper hill, and another hill beyond that.
Between the hills, in the blue distance, were forests, and still further off were mountains,
rising higher and higher. The highest of them were covered with snow, white as sugar; and
one snowy peak towered above all the rest. To the east and to the west were other such hills,
and here and there smoke rose from Aouls in the ravines. ‗Ah,‘ thought he, ‗all that is Tartar
country.‘ And he turned towards the Russian side. At his feet he saw a river, and the Aoul he
lived in, surrounded by little gardens. He could see women, like tiny dolls, sitting by the river
rinsing clothes. Beyond the Aoul was a hill, lower than the one to the south, and beyond it
two other hills well wooded; and between these, a smooth bluish plain, and far, far across the
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plain something that looked like a cloud of smoke. Zhìlin tried to remember where the sun
used to rise and set when he was living in the fort, and he saw that there was no mistake: the
Russian fort must be in that plain. Between those two hills he would have to make his way
when he escaped.
The sun was beginning to set. The white, snowy mountains turned red, and the dark hills
turned darker; mists rose from the ravine, and the valley, where he supposed the Russian fort
to be, seemed on fire with the sunset glow. Zhìlin looked carefully. Something seemed to be
quivering in the valley like smoke from a chimney, and he felt sure the Russian fortress was
there.
It had grown late. The Mullah‘s cry was heard. The herds were being driven home, the cows
were lowing, and the lad kept saying, ‗Come home!‘ But Zhìlin did not feel inclined to go
away.
At last, however, they went back. ‗Well,‘ thought Zhìlin, ‗now that I know the way, it is time
to escape.‘ He thought of running away that night. The nights were dark—the moon had
waned. But as ill-luck would have it, the Tartars returned home that evening. They generally
came back driving cattle before them and in good spirits. But this time they had no cattle. All
they brought home was the dead body of a Tartar —the red one‘s brother—who had been
killed. They came back looking sullen, and they all gathered together for the burial. Zhìlin
also came out to see it.
They wrapped the body in a piece of linen, without any coffin, and carried it out of the
village, and laid it on the grass under some plane-trees. The Mullah and the old men came.
They wound clothes round their caps, took off their shoes, and squatted on their heels, side by
side, near the corpse.
The Mullah was in front: behind him in a row were three old men in turbans, and behind
them again the other Tartars. All cast down their eyes and sat in silence. This continued a
long time, until the Mullah raised his head and said: ‗Allah!‘ (which means God). He said
that one word, and they all cast down their eyes again, and were again silent for a long time.
They sat quite still, not moving or making any sound.
Again the Mullah lifted his head and said, ‗Allah!‘ and they all repeated: ‗Allah! Allah!‘ and
were again silent.
The dead body lay immovable on the grass, and they sat as still as if they too were dead. Not
one of them moved. There was no sound but that of the leaves of the plane-trees stirring in
the breeze. Then the Mullah repeated a prayer, and they all rose. They lifted the body and
carried it in their arms to a hole in the ground. It was not an ordinary hole, but was hollowed
out under the ground like a vault. They took the body under the arms and by the legs, bent it,
and let it gently down, pushing it under the earth in a sitting posture, with the hands folded in
front.
The Nogáy brought some green rushes, which they stuffed into the hole, and, quickly
covering it with earth, they smoothed the ground, and set an upright stone at the head of the
grave. Then they trod the earth down, and again sat in a row before the grave, keeping silence
for a long time.
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At last they rose, said ‗Allah! Allah! Allah!‘ and sighed.
The red-bearded Tartar gave money to the old men; then he too rose, took a whip, struck
himself with it three times on the forehead, and went home.
The next morning Zhìlin saw the red Tartar, followed by three others, leading a mare out of
the village. When they were beyond the village, the red-bearded Tartar took off his tunic and
turned up his sleeves, showing his stout arms. Then he drew a dagger and sharpened it on a
whetstone. The other Tartars raised the mare‘s head, and he cut her throat, threw her down
and began skinning her, loosening the hide with his big hands. Women and girls came and
began to wash the entrails and the inwards. The mare was cut up, the pieces taken into the
hut, and the whole village collected at the red Tartar‘s hut for a funeral feast.
For three days they went on eating the flesh of the mare, drinking buza, and praying for the
dead man. All the Tartars were at home. On the fourth day at dinner-time Zhìlin saw them
preparing to go away. Horses were brought out, they got ready, and some ten of them (the red
one among them) rode away; but Abdul stayed at home. It was new moon, and the nights
were still dark.
‗Ah!‘ thought Zhìlin, ‗to-night is the time to escape.‘ And he told Kostìlin; but Kostìlin‘s
heart failed him.
‗How can we escape‘ he said. ‗We don‘t even know the way.‘
‗I know the way,‘ said Zhìlin.
‗Even if you do‘‘ said Kostìlin, ‗we can‘t reach the fort in one night.‘
‗If we can‘t,‘ said Zhìlin, ‗we‘ll sleep in the forest. See here, I have saved some cheeses.
What‘s the good of sitting and moping here If they send your ransom —well and good; but
suppose they don‘t manage to collect it The Tartars are angry now, because the Russians
have killed one of their men. They are talking of killing us.‘
Kostìlin thought it over.
‗Well, let‘s go,‘ said he.
Zhìlin crept into the hole, widened it so that Kostìlin might also get through, and then they
both sat waiting till all should be quiet in the Aoul.
As soon as all was quiet, Zhìlin crept under the wall, got out, and whispered to Kostìlin,
‗Come!‘ Kostìlin crept out, but in so doing he caught a stone with his foot and made a noise.
The master had a very vicious watch-dog, a spotted one called Oulyashin. Zhìlin had been
careful to feed him for some time before. Oulyashin heard the noise and began to bark and
jump, and the other dogs did the same. Zhìlin gave a slight whistle, and threw him a bit of
cheese. Oulyashin knew Zhìlin, wagged his tail, and stopped barking.
But the master had heard the dog, and shouted to him from his hut, ‗Hayt, hayt, Oulyashin!‘
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Zhìlin, however, scratched Oulyashin behind the ears, and the dog was quiet, and rubbed
against his legs, wagging his tail
They sat hidden behind a corner for awhile. All became silent again, only a sheep coughed
inside a shed, and the water rippled over the stones in the hollow. It was dark, the stars were
high overhead, and the new moon showed red as it set, horns upward, behind the hill. In the
valleys the fog was white as milk.
Zhìlin rose and said to his companion, ‗Well, friend, come along!‘
They started; but they had only gone a few steps when they heard the Mullah crying from the
roof, ‗Allah, Beshmillah! Ilrahman!‘ That meant that the people would be going to the
Mosque. So they sat down again, hiding behind a wall, and waited a long time till the people
had passed. At last all was quiet again.
‗Now then! May God be with us!‘ They crossed themselves, and started once more. They
passed through a yard and went down the hillside to the river, crossed the river, and went
along the valley.
The mist was thick, but only near the ground; overhead the stars shone quite brightly. Zhìlin
directed their course by the stars. It was cool in the mist, and easy walking, only their boots
were uncomfortable, being worn out and trodden down. Zhìlin took his off, threw them away,
and went barefoot, jumping from stone to stone, and guiding his course by the stars. Kostìlin
began to lag behind.
‗Walk slower,‘ he said, ‗these confounded boots have quite blistered my feet.‘
‗Take them off!‘ said Zhìlin. ‗It will be easier walking without them.‘
Kostìlin went barefoot, but got on still worse. The stones cut his feet and he kept lagging
behind. Zhìlin said: ‗If your feet get cut, they‘ll heal again; but if the Tartars catch us and kill
us, it will be worse!‘
Kostìlin did not reply, but went on, groaning all the time.
Their way lay through the valley for a long time. Then, to the right, they heard dogs barking.
Zhìlin stopped, looked about, and began climbing the hill feeling with his hands.
‗Ah!‘ said he, ‗we have gone wrong, and have come too far to the right. Here is another Aoul,
one I saw from the hill. We must turn back and go up that hill to the left. There must be a
wood there.‘
But Kostìlin said: ‗Wait a minute! Let me get breath. My feet are all cut and bleeding.‘
‗Never mind, friend! They‘ll heal again. You should spring more lightly. Like this!‘
And Zhìlin ran back and turned to the left up the hill towards the wood.
Kostìlin still lagged behind, and groaned. Zhìlin only said ‗Hush!‘ and went on and on.
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They went up the hill and found a wood as Zhìlin had said. They entered the wood and forced
their way through the brambles, which tore their clothes. At last they came to a path and
followed it.
‗Stop!‘ They heard the tramp of hoofs on the path, and waited, listening. It sounded like the
tramping of a horse‘s feet, but then ceased. They moved on, and again they heard the
tramping. When they paused, it also stopped. Zhìlin crept nearer to it, and saw something
standing on the path where it was not quite so dark. It looked like a horse, and yet not quite
like one, and on it was something queer, not like a man. He heard it snorting. ‗What can it
be‘ Zhìlin gave a low whistle, and off it dashed from the path into the thicket, and the woods
were filled with the noise of crackling, as if a hurricane were sweeping through, breaking the
branches.
Kostìlin was so frightened that he sank to the ground. But Zhìlin laughed and said: ‗It‘s a
stag. Don‘t you hear him breaking the branches with his antlers We were afraid of him, and
he is afraid of us.‘
They went on. The Great Bear was already setting. It was near morning, and they did not
know whether they were going the right way or not. Zhìlin thought it was the way he had
been brought by the Tartars, and that they were still some seven miles from the Russian fort;
but he had nothing certain to go by, and at night one easily mistakes the way. After a time
they came to a clearing. Kostìlin sat down and said: ‗Do as you like, I can go no farther! My
feet won‘t carry me.‘
Zhìlin tried to persuade him.
‗No I shall never get there, I can‘t!‘
Zhìlin grew angry, and spoke roughly to him.
‗Well, then, I shall go on alone. Good-bye!‘
Kostìlin jumped up and followed. They went another three miles. The mist in the wood had
settled down still more densely; they could not see a yard before them, and the stars had
grown dim.
Suddenly they heard the sound of a horse‘s hoofs in front of them. They heard its shoes strike
the stones. Zhìlin lay down flat, and listened with his ear to the ground.
‗Yes, so it is! A horseman is coming towards us.‘
They ran off the path, crouched among the bushes and waited. Zhìlin crept to the road,
looked, and saw a Tartar on horseback driving a cow and humming to himself. The Tartar
rode past. Zhìlin returned to Kostìlin.
‗God has led him past us; get up and let‘s go on!‘
Kostìlin tried to rise, but fell back again.
‗I can‘t; on my word I can‘t! I have no strength left.‘
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He was heavy and stout, and had been perspiring freely. Chilled by the mist, and with his feet
all bleeding, he had grown quite limp.
Zhìlin tried to lift him, when suddenly Kostìlin screamed out: ‗Oh, how it hurts!‘
Zhìlin‘s heart sank.
‗What are you shouting for The Tartar is still near; he‘ll have heard you!‘ And he thought to
himself, ‗He is really quite done up. What am I to do with him It won‘t do to desert a
comrade.‘
‗Well, then, get up, and climb up on my back. I‘ll carry you if you really can‘t walk.‘
He helped Kostìlin up, and put his arms under his thighs. Then he went out on to the path,
carrying him.
‗Only, for the love of heaven,‘ said Zhìlin, ‗don‘t throttle me with your hands! Hold on to my
shoulders.‘
Zhìlin found his load heavy; his feet, too, were bleeding, and he was tired out. Now and then
he stooped to balance Kostìlin better, jerking him up so that he should sit higher, and then
went on again.
The Tartar must, however, really have heard Kostìlin scream. Zhìlin suddenly heard some
one galloping behind and shouting in the Tartar tongue. He darted in among the bushes. The
Tartar seized his gun and fired, but did not hit them, shouted in his own language, and
galloped off along the road.
‗Well, now we are lost, friend!‘ said Zhìlin. ‗That dog will gather the Tartars together to hunt
us down. Unless we can get a couple of miles away from here we are lost!‘ And he thought to
himself, ‗Why the devil did I saddle myself with this block I should have got away long ago
had I been alone.‘
‗Go on alone,‘ said Kostìlin. ‗Why should you perish because of me‘
‗No I won‘t go. It won‘t do to desert a comrade.‘
Again he took Kostìlin on his shoulders and staggered on. They went on in that way for
another half-mile or more. They were still in the forest, and could not see the end of it. But
the mist was already dispersing, and clouds seemed to be gathering, the stars were no longer
to be seen. Zhìlin was quite done up. They came to a spring walled in with stones by the side
of the path. Zhìlin stopped and set Kostìlin down.
‗Let me have a rest and a drink,‘ said he, ‗and let us eat some of the cheese. It can‘t be much
farther now.‘
But hardly had he lain down to get a drink, when he heard the sound of horses‘ feet behind
him. Again they darted to the right among the bushes, and lay down under a steep slope.
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They heard Tartar voices. The Tartars stopped at the very spot where they had turned off the
path. The Tartars talked a bit, and then seemed to be setting a dog on the scent. There was a
sound of crackling twigs, and a strange dog appeared from behind the bushes. It stopped, and
began to bark.
Then the Tartars, also strangers, came climbing down, seized Zhìlin and Kostìlin, bound
them, put them on horses, and rode away with them.
When they had ridden about two miles, they met Abdul, their owner, with two other Tartars
following him. After talking with the strangers, he put Zhìlin and Kostìlin on two of his own
horses and took them back to the Aoul.
Abdul did not laugh now, and did not say a word to them.
They were back at the Aoul by daybreak, and were set down in the street. The children came
crowding round, throwing stones, shrieking, and beating them with whips.
The Tartars gathered together in a circle, and the old man from the foot of the hill was also
there. They began discussing, and Zhìlin heard them considering what should be done with
him and Kostìlin. Some said they ought to be sent farther into the mountains; but the old man
said: ‗They must be killed!‘
Abdul disputed with him, saying: ‗I gave money for them, and I must get ransom for them.‘
But the old man said: ‗They will pay you nothing, but will only bring misfortune. It is a sin to
feed Russians. Kill them, and have done with it!‘
They dispersed. When they had gone, the master came up to Zhìlin and said: ‗If the money
for your ransom is not sent within a fortnight, I will flog you; and if you try to run away
again, I‘ll kill you like a dog! Write a letter, and write properly!‘
Paper was brought to them, and they wrote the letters. Shackles were put on their feet, and
they were taken behind the Mosque to a deep pit about twelve feet square, into which they
were let down.
VI
Life was now very hard for them. Their shackles were never taken off, and they were not let
out into the fresh air. Unbaked dough was thrown to them as if they were dogs, and water was
let down in a can.
It was wet and close in the pit, and there was a horrible stench. Kostìlin grew quite ill, his
body became swollen and he ached all over, and moaned or slept all the time. Zhìlin, too,
grew downcast; he saw it was a bad look-out, and could think of no way of escape.
He tried to make a tunnel, but there was nowhere to put the earth. His master noticed it, and
threatened to kill him.
He was sitting on the floor of the pit one day, thinking of freedom and feeling very
downhearted, when suddenly a cake fell into his lap, then another, and then a shower of
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cherries. He looked up, and there was Dina. She looked at him, laughed, and ran away. And
Zhìlin thought: ‗Might not Dina help me‘
He cleared out a little place in the pit, scraped up some clay, and began modelling toys. He
made men, horses, and dogs, thinking, ‗When Dina comes I‘ll throw them up to her.‘
But Dina did not come next day. Zhìlin heard the tramp of horses; some men rode past, and
the Tartars gathered in council near the Mosque. They shouted and argued; the word
‗Russians‘ was repeated several times. He could hear the voice of the old man. Though he
could not distinguish what was said, he guessed that Russian troops were somewhere near,
and that the Tartars, afraid they might come into the Aoul, did not know what to do with their
prisoners.
After talking awhile, they went away. Suddenly he heard a rustling overhead, and saw Dina
crouching at the edge of the pit, her knees higher than her head, and bending over so that the
coins of her plait dangled above the pit. Her eyes gleamed like stars. She drew two cheeses
out of her sleeve and threw them to him. Zhìlin took them and said, ‗Why did you not come
before I have made some toys for you. Here, catch!‘ And he began throwing the toys up, one
by one.
But she shook her head and would not look at them.
‗I don‘t want any,‘ she said. She sat silent for awhile, and then went on, ‗Iván, they want to
kill you!‘ And she pointed to her own throat.
‗Who wants to kill me‘
‗Father; the old men say he must. But I am sorry for you!‘
Zhìlin answered: ‗Well, if you are sorry for me, bring me a long pole.‘
She shook her head, as much as to say, ‗I can‘t!‘
He clasped his hands and prayed her: ‗Dina, please do! Dear Dina, I beg of you!‘
‗I can‘t!‘ she said, ‗they would see me bringing it. They‘re all at home.‘ And she went away.
So when evening came Zhìlin still sat looking up now and then, and wondering what would
happen. The stars were there, but the moon had not yet risen. The Mullah‘s voice was heard;
then all was silent. Zhìlin was beginning to doze, thinking: ‗The girl will be afraid to do it!‘
Suddenly he felt clay falling on his head. He looked up, and saw a long pole poking into the
opposite wall of the pit. It kept poking about for a time, and then it came down, sliding into
the pit. Zhìlin was glad indeed. He took hold of it and lowered it. It was a strong pole, one
that he had seen before on the roof of his master‘s hut.
He looked up. The stars were shining high in the sky, and just above the pit Dina‘s eyes
gleamed in the dark like a cat‘s. She stooped with her face close to the edge of the pit, and
whispered, ‗Iván! Iván!‘ waving her hand in front of her face to show that he should speak
low.
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‗What‘ said Zhìlin.
‗All but two have gone away.‘
Then Zhìlin said, ‗Well, Kostìlin, come; let us have one last try; I‘ll help you up.‘
But Kostìlin would not hear of it.
‗No,‘ said he, ‗It‘s clear I can‘t get away from here. How can I go, when I have hardly
strength to turn round‘
‗Well, good-bye, then! Don‘t think ill of me!‘ and they kissed each other. Zhìlin seized the
pole, told Dina to hold on, and began to climb. He slipped once or twice; the shackles
hindered him. Kostìlin helped him, and he managed to get to the top. Dina with her little
hands, pulled with all her might at his shirt, laughing.
Zhìlin drew out the pole and said, ‗Put it back in its place, Dina, or they‘ll notice, and you
will be beaten.‘
She dragged the pole away, and Zhìlin went down the hill. When he had gone down the steep
incline, he took a sharp stone and tried to wrench the lock off the shackles. But it was a
strong lock and he could not manage to break it, and besides, it was difficult to get at. Then
he heard some one running down the hill, springing lightly. He thought: ‗Surely, that‘s Dina
again.‘
Dina came, took a stone and said, ‗Let me try.‘
She knelt down and tried to wrench the lock off, but her little hands were as slender as little
twigs, and she had not the strength. She threw the stone away and began to cry. Then Zhìlin
set to work again at the lock, and Dina squatted beside him with her hand on his shoulder.
Zhìlin looked round and saw a red light to the left behind the hill. The moon was just rising.
‗Ah!‘ he thought, ‗before the moon has risen I must have passed the valley and be in the
forest.‘ So he rose and threw away the stone. Shackles or no, he must go on.
‗Good-bye, Dina dear!‘ he said. ‗I shall never forget you!‘
Dina seized hold of him and felt about with her hands for a place to put some cheeses she had
brought. He took them from her.
‗Thank you, my little one. Who will make dolls for you when I am gone‘ And he stroked her
head.
Dina burst into tears hiding her face in her hands. Then she ran up the hill like a young goat,
the coins in her plait clinking against her back.
Zhìlin crossed himself took the lock of his shackles in his hand to prevent its clattering, and
went along the road, dragging his shackled leg, and looking towards the place where the
moon was about to rise. He now knew the way. If he went straight he would have to walk
nearly six miles. If only he could reach the wood before the moon had quite risen! He crossed
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the river; the light behind the hill was growing whiter. Still looking at it, he went along the
valley. The moon was not yet visible. The light became brighter, and one side of the valley
was growing lighter and lighter, and shadows were drawing in towards the foot of the hill,
creeping nearer and nearer to him.
Zhìlin went on, keeping in the shade. He was hurrying, but the moon was moving still faster;
the tops of the hills on the right were already lit up. As he got near the wood the white moon
appeared from behind the hills, and it became light as day. One could see all the leaves on the
trees. It was light on the hill, but silent, as if nothing were alive; no sound could be heard but
the gurgling of the river below.
Zhìlin reached the wood without meeting any one, chose a dark spot, and sat down to rest.
He rested and ate one of the cheeses. Then he found a stone and set to work again to knock
off the shackles. He knocked his hands sore, but could not break the lock. He rose and went
along the road. After walking the greater part of a mile he was quite done up, and his feet
were aching. He had to stop every ten steps. ‗There is nothing else for it,‘ thought he. ‗I must
drag on as long as I have any strength left. If I sit down, I shan‘t be able to rise again. I can‘t
reach the fortress; but when day breaks I‘ll lie down in the forest, remain there all day, and go
on again at night.‘
He went on all night. Two Tartars on horseback passed him; but he heard them a long way
off, and hid behind a tree.
The moon began to grow paler, the dew to fall. It was getting near dawn, and Zhìlin had not
reached the end of the forest. ‗Well,‘ thought he, ‗I‘ll walk another thirty steps, and then turn
in among the trees and sit down.‘
He walked another thirty steps, and saw that he was at the end of the forest. He went to the
edge; it was now quite light, and straight before him was the plain and the fortress. To the
left, quite close at the foot of the slope, a fire was dying out, and the smoke from it spread
round. There were men gathered about the fire.
He looked intently, and saw guns glistening. They were soldiers—Cossacks!
Zhìlin was filled with joy. He collected his remaining strength and set off down the hill,
saying to himself: ‗God forbid that any mounted Tartar should see me now, in the open field!
Near as I am, I could not get there in time.‘
Hardly had he said this when, a couple of hundred yards off, on a hillock to the left, he saw
three Tartars.
They saw him also and made a rush. His heart sank. He waved his hands, and shouted with
all his might, ‗Brothers, brothers! Help!‘
The Cossacks heard him, and a party of them on horseback darted to cut across the Tartars‘
path. The Cossacks were far and the Tartars were near; but Zhìlin, too, made a last effort.
Lifting the shackles with his hand, he ran towards the Cossacks, hardly knowing what he was
doing, crossing himself and shouting, ‗Brothers! Brothers! Brothers!‘
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There were some fifteen Cossacks. The Tartars were frightened, and stopped before reaching
him. Zhilin staggered up to the Cossacks.
They surrounded him and began questioning him. ‗Who are you What are you Where
from
But Zhìlin was quite beside himself, and could only weep and repeat, ‗Brothers! Brothers!‘
Then the soldiers came running up and crowded round Zhìlin—one giving him bread, another
buckwheat, a third vódka: one wrapping a cloak round him, another breaking his shackles.
The officers recognized him, and rode with him to the fortress. The soldiers were glad to see
him back, and his comrades all gathered round him.
Zhìlin told them all that had happened to him.
‗That‘s the way I went home and got married!‘ said he. ‗No. It seems plain that fate was
against it!‘
So he went on serving in the Caucasus. A month passed before Kostìlin was released, after
paying five thousand roubles ransom. He was almost dead when they brought him back.
343

Aloysha The Pot - Leo Tolstoy
ALYOSHA was the younger brother. He was called the Pot, because his
mother had once sent him with a pot of milk to the deacon's wife, and he
had stumbled against something and broken it. His mother had beaten him,
and the children had teased him. Since then he was nicknamed the Pot.
Alyosha was a tiny, thin little fellow, with ears like wings, and a huge
nose. "Alyosha has a nose that looks like a dog on a hill!" the children
used to call after him. Alyosha went to the village school, but was not
good at lessons; besides, there was so little time to learn. His elder
brother was in town, working for a merchant, so Alyosha had to help his
father from a very early age. When he was no more than six he used to
go out with the girls to watch the cows and sheep in the pasture, and
a little later he looked after the horses by day and by night. And at
twelve years of age he had already begun to plough and to drive the
cart. The skill was there though the strength was not. He was always
cheerful. Whenever the children made fun of him, he would either laugh
or be silent. When his father scolded him he would stand mute and listen
attentively, and as soon as the scolding was over would smile and go
on with his work. Alyosha was nineteen when his brother was taken as a
soldier. So his father placed him with the merchant as a yard-porter.
He was given his brother's old boots, his father's old coat and cap,
and was taken to town. Alyosha was delighted with his clothes, but the
merchant was not impressed by his appearance.
"I thought you would bring me a man in Simeon's place," he said,
scanning Alyosha; "and you've brought me THIS! What's the good of him"
"He can do everything; look after horses and drive. He's a good one
to work. He looks rather thin, but he's tough enough. And he's very
willing."
"He looks it. All right; we'll see what we can do with him."
So Alyosha remained at the merchant's.
The family was not a large one. It consisted of the merchant's wife:
her old mother: a married son poorly educated who was in his father's
business: another son, a learned one who had finished school and entered
the University, but having been expelled, was living at home: and a
daughter who still went to school.
They did not take to Alyosha at first. He was uncouth, badly dressed,
and had no manner, but they soon got used to him. Alyosha worked even
better than his brother had done; he was really very willing. They sent
him on all sorts of errands, but he did everything quickly and readily,
going from one task to another without stopping. And so here, just as at
home, all the work was put upon his shoulders. The more he did, the more
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he was given to do. His mistress, her old mother, the son, the daughter,
the clerk, and the cook--all ordered him about, and sent him from one
place to another.
"Alyosha, do this! Alyosha, do that! What! have you forgotten, Alyosha
Mind you don't forget, Alyosha!" was heard from morning till night. And
Alyosha ran here, looked after this and that, forgot nothing, found time
for everything, and was always cheerful.
His brother's old boots were soon worn out, and his master scolded
him for going about in tatters with his toes sticking out. He ordered
another pair to be bought for him in the market. Alyosha was delighted
with his new boots, but was angry with his feet when they ached at the
end of the day after so much running about. And then he was afraid that
his father would be annoyed when he came to town for his wages, to find
that his master had deducted the cost of the boots.
In the winter Alyosha used to get up before daybreak. He would chop the
wood, sweep the yard, feed the cows and horses, light the stoves, clean
the boots, prepare the samovars and polish them afterwards; or the clerk
would get him to bring up the goods; or the cook would set him to knead
the bread and clean the saucepans. Then he was sent to town on various
errands, to bring the daughter home from school, or to get some olive
oil for the old mother. "Why the devil have you been so long" first
one, then another, would say to him. Why should they go Alyosha can go.
"Alyosha! Alyosha!" And Alyosha ran here and there. He breakfasted in
snatches while he was working, and rarely managed to get his dinner at
the proper hour. The cook used to scold him for being late, but she was
sorry for him all the same, and would keep something hot for his dinner
and supper.
At holiday times there was more work than ever, but Alyosha liked
holidays because everybody gave him a tip. Not much certainly, but it
would amount up to about sixty kopeks [1s 2d]--his very own money. For
Alyosha never set eyes on his wages. His father used to come and take
them from the merchant, and only scold Alyosha for wearing out his
boots.
When he had saved up two roubles [4s], by the advice of the cook he
bought himself a red knitted jacket, and was so happy when he put it
on, that he couldn't close his mouth for joy. Alyosha was not talkative;
when he spoke at all, he spoke abruptly, with his head turned away.
When told to do anything, or asked if he could do it, he would say yes
without the smallest hesitation, and set to work at once.
Alyosha did not know any prayer; and had forgotten what his mother
had taught him. But he prayed just the same, every morning and every
evening, prayed with his hands, crossing himself.
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He lived like this for about a year and a half, and towards the end of
the second year a most startling thing happened to him. He discovered
one day, to his great surprise, that, in addition to the relation of
usefulness existing between people, there was also another, a peculiar
relation of quite a different character. Instead of a man being wanted
to clean boots, and go on errands and harness horses, he is not wanted
to be of any service at all, but another human being wants to serve him
and pet him. Suddenly Alyosha felt he was such a man.
He made this discovery through the cook Ustinia. She was young, had no
parents, and worked as hard as Alyosha. He felt for the first time in
his life that he--not his services, but he himself--was necessary to
another human being. When his mother used to be sorry for him, he had
taken no notice of her. It had seemed to him quite natural, as though
he were feeling sorry for himself. But here was Ustinia, a perfect
stranger, and sorry for him. She would save him some hot porridge, and
sit watching him, her chin propped on her bare arm, with the sleeve
rolled up, while he was eating it. When he looked at her she would begin
to laugh, and he would laugh too.
This was such a new, strange thing to him that it frightened Alyosha.
He feared that it might interfere with his work. But he was pleased,
nevertheless, and when he glanced at the trousers that Ustinia had
mended for him, he would shake his head and smile. He would often
think of her while at work, or when running on errands. "A fine girl,
Ustinia!" he sometimes exclaimed.
Ustinia used to help him whenever she could, and he helped her. She told
him all about her life; how she had lost her parents; how her aunt had
taken her in and found a place for her in the town; how the merchant's
son had tried to take liberties with her, and how she had rebuffed him.
She liked to talk, and Alyosha liked to listen to her. He had heard
that peasants who came up to work in the towns frequently got married
to servant girls. On one occasion she asked him if his parents intended
marrying him soon. He said that he did not know; that he did not want to
marry any of the village girls.
"Have you taken a fancy to some one, then"
"I would marry you, if you'd be willing."
"Get along with you, Alyosha the Pot; but you've found your tongue,
haven't you" she exclaimed, slapping him on the back with a towel she
held in her hand. "Why shouldn't I"
At Shrovetide Alyosha's father came to town for his wages. It had come
to the ears of the merchant's wife that Alyosha wanted to marry Ustinia,
and she disapproved of it. "What will be the use of her with a baby"
she thought, and informed her husband.
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The merchant gave the old man Alyosha's wages.
"How is my lad getting on" he asked. "I told you he was willing."
"That's all right, as far as it goes, but he's taken some sort of
nonsense into his head. He wants to marry our cook. Now I don't approve
of married servants. We won't have them in the house."
"Well, now, who would have thought the fool would think of such a
thing" the old man exclaimed. "But don't you worry. I'll soon settle
that."
He went into the kitchen, and sat down at the table waiting for his son.
Alyosha was out on an errand, and came back breathless.
"I thought you had some sense in you; but what's this you've taken into
your head" his father began.
"I Nothing."
"How, nothing They tell me you want to get married. You shall get
married when the time comes. I'll find you a decent wife, not some town
hussy."
His father talked and talked, while Alyosha stood still and sighed. When
his father had quite finished, Alyosha smiled.
"All right. I'll drop it."
"Now that's what I call sense."
When he was left alone with Ustinia he told her what his father had
said. (She had listened at the door.)
"It's no good; it can't come off. Did you hear He was angry--won't have
it at any price."
Ustinia cried into her apron.
Alyosha shook his head.
"What's to be done We must do as we're told."
"Well, are you going to give up that nonsense, as your father told you"
his mistress asked, as he was putting up the shutters in the evening.
"To be sure we are," Alyosha replied with a smile, and then burst into
tears.
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From that day Alyosha went about his work as usual, and no longer talked
to Ustinia about their getting married. One day in Lent the clerk told
him to clear the snow from the roof. Alyosha climbed on to the roof and
swept away all the snow; and, while he was still raking out some frozen
lumps from the gutter, his foot slipped and he fell over. Unfortunately
he did not fall on the snow, but on a piece of iron over the door.
Ustinia came running up, together with the merchant's daughter.
"Have you hurt yourself, Alyosha"
"Ah! no, it's nothing."
But he could not raise himself when he tried to, and began to smile.
He was taken into the lodge. The doctor arrived, examined him, and asked
where he felt the pain.
"I feel it all over," he said. "But it doesn't matter. I'm only afraid
master will be annoyed. Father ought to be told."
Alyosha lay in bed for two days, and on the third day they sent for the
priest.
"Are you really going to die" Ustinia asked.
"Of course I am. You can't go on living for ever. You must go when the
time comes." Alyosha spoke rapidly as usual. "Thank you, Ustinia. You've
been very good to me. What a lucky thing they didn't let us marry! Where
should we have been now It's much better as it is."
When the priest came, he prayed with his bands and with his heart. "As
it is good here when you obey and do no harm to others, so it will be
there," was the thought within it.
He spoke very little; he only said he was thirsty, and he seemed full of
wonder at something.
He lay in wonderment, then stretched himself, and died.
348

God Sees The Truth, But Waits - Leo Tolstoy
In the town of Vladimir lived a young merchant named Ivan Dmitrich Aksionov. He had two
shops and a house of his own.
Aksionov was a handsome, fair-haired, curly-headed fellow, full of fun, and very fond of
singing. When quite a young man he had been given to drink, and was riotous when he had
had too much; but after he married he gave up drinking, except now and then.
One summer Aksionov was going to the Nizhny Fair, and as he bade good-bye to his family,
his wife said to him, "Ivan Dmitrich, do not start to-day; I have had a bad dream about you."
Aksionov laughed, and said, "You are afraid that when I get to the fair I shall go on a spree."
His wife replied: "I do not know what I am afraid of; all I know is that I had a bad dream. I
dreamt you returned from the town, and when you took off your cap I saw that your hair was
quite grey."
Aksionov laughed. "That's a lucky sign," said he. "See if I don't sell out all my goods, and
bring you some presents from the fair."
So he said good-bye to his family, and drove away.
When he had travelled half-way, he met a merchant whom he knew, and they put up at the
same inn for the night. They had some tea together, and then went to bed in adjoining rooms.
It was not Aksionov's habit to sleep late, and, wishing to travel while it was still cool, he
aroused his driver before dawn, and told him to put in the horses.
Then he made his way across to the landlord of the inn (who lived in a cottage at the back),
paid his bill, and continued his journey.
When he had gone about twenty-five miles, he stopped for the horses to be fed. Aksionov
rested awhile in the passage of the inn, then he stepped out into the porch, and, ordering a
samovar to be heated, got out his guitar and began to play.
Suddenly a troika drove up with tinkling bells and an official alighted, followed by two
soldiers. He came to Aksionov and began to question him, asking him who he was and
whence he came. Aksionov answered him fully, and said, "Won't you have some tea with
me" But the official went on cross-questioning him and asking him. "Where did you spend
last night Were you alone, or with a fellow-merchant Did you see the other merchant this
morning Why did you leave the inn before dawn"
Aksionov wondered why he was asked all these questions, but he described all that had
happened, and then added, "Why do you cross-question me as if I were a thief or a robber I
am travelling on business of my own, and there is no need to question me."
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Then the official, calling the soldiers, said, "I am the police-officer of this district, and I
question you because the merchant with whom you spent last night has been found with his
throat cut. We must search your things."
They entered the house. The soldiers and the police-officer unstrapped Aksionov's luggage
and searched it. Suddenly the officer drew a knife out of a bag, crying, "Whose knife is this"
Aksionov looked, and seeing a blood-stained knife taken from his bag, he was frightened.
"How is it there is blood on this knife"
Aksionov tried to answer, but could hardly utter a word, and only stammered: "I--don't know-
-not mine." Then the police-officer said: "This morning the merchant was found in bed with
his throat cut. You are the only person who could have done it. The house was locked from
inside, and no one else was there. Here is this blood-stained knife in your bag and your face
and manner betray you! Tell me how you killed him, and how much money you stole"
Aksionov swore he had not done it; that he had not seen the merchant after they had had tea
together; that he had no money except eight thousand rubles of his own, and that the knife
was not his. But his voice was broken, his face pale, and he trembled with fear as though he
went guilty.
The police-officer ordered the soldiers to bind Aksionov and to put him in the cart. As they
tied his feet together and flung him into the cart, Aksionov crossed himself and wept. His
money and goods were taken from him, and he was sent to the nearest town and imprisoned
there. Enquiries as to his character were made in Vladimir. The merchants and other
inhabitants of that town said that in former days he used to drink and waste his time, but that
he was a good man. Then the trial came on: he was charged with murdering a merchant from
Ryazan, and robbing him of twenty thousand rubles.
His wife was in despair, and did not know what to believe. Her children were all quite small;
one was a baby at her breast. Taking them all with her, she went to the town where her
husband was in jail. At first she was not allowed to see him; but after much begging, she
obtained permission from the officials, and was taken to him. When she saw her husband in
prison-dress and in chains, shut up with thieves and criminals, she fell down, and did not
come to her senses for a long time. Then she drew her children to her, and sat down near him.
She told him of things at home, and asked about what had happened to him. He told her all,
and she asked, "What can we do now"
"We must petition the Czar not to let an innocent man perish."
His wife told him that she had sent a petition to the Czar, but it had not been accepted.
Aksionov did not reply, but only looked downcast.
Then his wife said, "It was not for nothing I dreamt your hair had turned grey. You
remember You should not have started that day." And passing her fingers through his hair,
she said: "Vanya dearest, tell your wife the truth; was it not you who did it"
350

"So you, too, suspect me!" said Aksionov, and, hiding his face in his hands, he began to
weep. Then a soldier came to say that the wife and children must go away; and Aksionov said
good-bye to his family for the last time.
When they were gone, Aksionov recalled what had been said, and when he remembered that
his wife also had suspected him, he said to himself, "It seems that only God can know the
truth; it is to Him alone we must appeal, and from Him alone expect mercy."
And Aksionov wrote no more petitions; gave up all hope, and only prayed to God.
Aksionov was condemned to be flogged and sent to the mines. So he was flogged with a
knot, and when the wounds made by the knot were healed, he was driven to Siberia with
other convicts.
For twenty-six years Aksionov lived as a convict in Siberia. His hair turned white as snow,
and his beard grew long, thin, and grey. All his mirth went; he stooped; he walked slowly,
spoke little, and never laughed, but he often prayed.
In prison Aksionov learnt to make boots, and earned a little money, with which he bought
The Lives of the Saints. He read this book when there was light enough in the prison; and on
Sundays in the prison-church he read the lessons and sang in the choir; for his voice was still
good.
The prison authorities liked Aksionov for his meekness, and his fellow-prisoners respected
him: they called him "Grandfather," and "The Saint." When they wanted to petition the prison
authorities about anything, they always made Aksionov their spokesman, and when there
were quarrels among the prisoners they came to him to put things right, and to judge the
matter.
No news reached Aksionov from his home, and he did not even know if his wife and children
were still alive.
One day a fresh gang of convicts came to the prison. In the evening the old prisoners
collected round the new ones and asked them what towns or villages they came from, and
what they were sentenced for. Among the rest Aksionov sat down near the newcomers, and
listened with downcast air to what was said.
One of the new convicts, a tall, strong man of sixty, with a closely-cropped grey beard, was
telling the others what be had been arrested for.
"Well, friends," he said, "I only took a horse that was tied to a sledge, and I was arrested and
accused of stealing. I said I had only taken it to get home quicker, and had then let it go;
besides, the driver was a personal friend of mine. So I said, 'It's all right.' 'No,' said they, 'you
stole it.' But how or where I stole it they could not say. I once really did something wrong,
and ought by rights to have come here long ago, but that time I was not found out. Now I
have been sent here for nothing at all... Eh, but it's lies I'm telling you; I've been to Siberia
before, but I did not stay long."
"Where are you from" asked some one.
351

"From Vladimir. My family are of that town. My name is Makar, and they also call me
Semyonich."
Aksionov raised his head and said: "Tell me, Semyonich, do you know anything of the
merchants Aksionov of Vladimir Are they still alive"
"Know them Of course I do. The Aksionovs are rich, though their father is in Siberia: a
sinner like ourselves, it seems! As for you, Gran'dad, how did you come here"
Aksionov did not like to speak of his misfortune. He only sighed, and said, "For my sins I
have been in prison these twenty-six years."
"What sins" asked Makar Semyonich.
But Aksionov only said, "Well, well--I must have deserved it!" He would have said no more,
but his companions told the newcomers how Aksionov came to be in Siberia; how some one
had killed a merchant, and had put the knife among Aksionov's things, and Aksionov had
been unjustly condemned.
When Makar Semyonich heard this, he looked at Aksionov, slapped his own knee, and
exclaimed, "Well, this is wonderful! Really wonderful! But how old you've grown,
Gran'dad!"
The others asked him why he was so surprised, and where he had seen Aksionov before; but
Makar Semyonich did not reply. He only said: "It's wonderful that we should meet here,
lads!"
These words made Aksionov wonder whether this man knew who had killed the merchant; so
he said, "Perhaps, Semyonich, you have heard of that affair, or maybe you've seen me
before"
"How could I help hearing The world's full of rumours. But it's a long time ago, and I've
forgotten what I heard."
"Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant" asked Aksionov.
Makar Semyonich laughed, and replied: "It must have been him in whose bag the knife was
found! If some one else hid the knife there, 'He's not a thief till he's caught,' as the saying is.
How could any one put a knife into your bag while it was under your head It would surely
have woke you up."
When Aksionov heard these words, he felt sure this was the man who had killed the
merchant. He rose and went away. All that night Aksionov lay awake. He felt terribly
unhappy, and all sorts of images rose in his mind. There was the image of his wife as she was
when he parted from her to go to the fair. He saw her as if she were present; her face and her
eyes rose before him; he heard her speak and laugh. Then he saw his children, quite little, as
they: were at that time: one with a little cloak on, another at his mother's breast. And then he
remembered himself as he used to be-young and merry. He remembered how he sat playing
the guitar in the porch of the inn where he was arrested, and how free from care he had been.
He saw, in his mind, the place where he was flogged, the executioner, and the people
352

standing around; the chains, the convicts, all the twenty-six years of his prison life, and his
premature old age. The thought of it all made him so wretched that he was ready to kill
himself.
"And it's all that villain's doing!" thought Aksionov. And his anger was so great against
Makar Semyonich that he longed for vengeance, even if he himself should perish for it. He
kept repeating prayers all night, but could get no peace. During the day he did not go near
Makar Semyonich, nor even look at him.
A fortnight passed in this way. Aksionov could not sleep at night, and was so miserable that
he did not know what to do.
One night as he was walking about the prison he noticed some earth that came rolling out
from under one of the shelves on which the prisoners slept. He stopped to see what it was.
Suddenly Makar Semyonich crept out from under the shelf, and looked up at Aksionov with
frightened face. Aksionov tried to pass without looking at him, but Makar seized his hand and
told him that he had dug a hole under the wall, getting rid of the earth by putting it into his
high-boots, and emptying it out every day on the road when the prisoners were driven to their
work.
"Just you keep quiet, old man, and you shall get out too. If you blab, they'll flog the life out of
me, but I will kill you first."
Aksionov trembled with anger as he looked at his enemy. He drew his hand away, saying, "I
have no wish to escape, and you have no need to kill me; you killed me long ago! As to
telling of you--I may do so or not, as God shall direct."
Next day, when the convicts were led out to work, the convoy soldiers noticed that one or
other of the prisoners emptied some earth out of his boots. The prison was searched and the
tunnel found. The Governor came and questioned all the prisoners to find out who had dug
the hole. They all denied any knowledge of it. Those who knew would not betray Makar
Semyonich, knowing he would be flogged almost to death. At last the Governor turned to
Aksionov whom he knew to be a just man, and said:
"You are a truthful old man; tell me, before God, who dug the hole"
Makar Semyonich stood as if he were quite unconcerned, looking at the Governor and not so
much as glancing at Aksionov. Aksionov's lips and hands trembled, and for a long time he
could not utter a word. He thought, "Why should I screen him who ruined my life Let him
pay for what I have suffered. But if I tell, they will probably flog the life out of him, and
maybe I suspect him wrongly. And, after all, what good would it be to me"
"Well, old man," repeated the Governor, "tell me the truth: who has been digging under the
wall"
Aksionov glanced at Makar Semyonich, and said, "I cannot say, your honour. It is not God's
will that I should tell! Do what you like with me; I am your hands."
However much the Governor! tried, Aksionov would say no more, and so the matter had to
be left.
353

That night, when Aksionov was lying on his bed and just beginning to doze, some one came
quietly and sat down on his bed. He peered through the darkness and recognised Makar.
"What more do you want of me" asked Aksionov. "Why have you come here"
Makar Semyonich was silent. So Aksionov sat up and said, "What do you want Go away, or
I will call the guard!"
Makar Semyonich bent close over Aksionov, and whispered, "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!"
"What for" asked Aksionov.
"It was I who killed the merchant and hid the knife among your things. I meant to kill you
too, but I heard a noise outside, so I hid the knife in your bag and escaped out of the
window."
Aksionov was silent, and did not know what to say. Makar Semyonich slid off the bed-shelf
and knelt upon the ground. "Ivan Dmitrich," said he, "forgive me! For the love of God,
forgive me! I will confess that it was I who killed the merchant, and you will be released and
can go to your home."
"It is easy for you to talk," said Aksionov, "but I have suffered for you these twenty-six years.
Where could I go to now... My wife is dead, and my children have forgotten me. I have
nowhere to go..."
Makar Semyonich did not rise, but beat his head on the floor. "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!"
he cried. "When they flogged me with the knot it was not so hard to bear as it is to see you
now ... yet you had pity on me, and did not tell. For Christ's sake forgive me, wretch that I
am!" And he began to sob.
When Aksionov heard him sobbing he, too, began to weep. "God will forgive you!" said he.
"Maybe I am a hundred times worse than you." And at these words his heart grew light, and
the longing for home left him. He no longer had any desire to leave the prison, but only
hoped for his last hour to come.
In spite of what Aksionov had said, Makar Semyonich confessed, his guilt. But when the
order for his release came, Aksionov was already dead.
354

How Much Land Does A Man Need - Leo Tolstoy
I
An elder sister came to visit her younger sister in the country.
The elder was married to a tradesman in town, the younger to a
peasant in the village. As the sisters sat over their tea talking,
the elder began to boast of the advantages of town life: saying how
comfortably they lived there, how well they dressed, what fine
clothes her children wore, what good things they ate and drank, and
how she went to the theatre, promenades, and entertainments.
The younger sister was piqued, and in turn disparaged the life of a
tradesman, and stood up for that of a peasant.
"I would not change my way of life for yours," said she. "We may
live roughly, but at least we are free from anxiety. You live in
better style than we do, but though you often earn more than you
need, you are very likely to lose all you have. You know the proverb,
'Loss and gain are brothers twain.' It often happens that people who
are wealthy one day are begging their bread the next. Our way is
safer. Though a peasant's life is not a fat one, it is a long one.
We shall never grow rich, but we shall always have enough to eat."
The elder sister said sneeringly:
"Enough Yes, if you like to share with the pigs and the calves!
What do you know of elegance or manners! However much your good man
may slave, you will die as you are living-on a dung heap-and your
children the same."
"Well, what of that" replied the younger. "Of course our work is
rough and coarse. But, on the other hand, it is sure; and we need
not bow to any one. But you, in your towns, are surrounded by
temptations; today all may be right, but tomorrow the Evil One may
tempt your husband with cards, wine, or women, and all will go to
ruin. Don't such things happen often enough"
Pahom, the master of the house, was lying on the top of the oven,
and he listened to the women's chatter.
"It is perfectly true," thought he. "Busy as we are from childhood
tilling Mother Earth, we peasants have no time to let any nonsense
settle in our heads. Our only trouble is that we haven't land
enough. If I had plenty of land, I shouldn't fear the Devil himself!"
The women finished their tea, chatted a while about dress, and then
cleared away the tea-things and lay down to sleep.
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But the Devil had been sitting behind the oven, and had heard all
that was said. He was pleased that the peasant's wife had led her
husband into boasting, and that he had said that if he had plenty of
land he would not fear the Devil himself.
"All right," thought the Devil. "We will have a tussle. I'll give you
land enough; and by means of that land I will get you into my power."
II
Close to the village there lived a lady, a small landowner, who had
an estate of about three hundred acres. She had always lived on
good terms with the peasants, until she engaged as her steward an
old soldier, who took to burdening the people with fines. However
careful Pahom tried to be, it happened again and again that now a
horse of his got among the lady's oats, now a cow strayed into her
garden, now his calves found their way into her meadows-and he
always had to pay a fine.
Pahom paid, but grumbled, and, going home in a temper, was rough
with his family. All through that summer Pahom had much trouble
because of this steward; and he was even glad when winter came and
the cattle had to be stabled. Though he grudged the fodder when
they could no longer graze on the pasture-land, at least he was free
from anxiety about them.
In the winter the news got about that the lady was going to sell her
land, and that the keeper of the inn on the high road was bargaining
for it. When the peasants heard this they were very much alarmed.
"Well," thought they, "if the innkeeper gets the land he will worry us
with fines worse than the lady's steward. We all depend on that estate."
So the peasants went on behalf of their Commune, and asked the lady
not to sell the land to the innkeeper; offering her a better price
for it themselves. The lady agreed to let them have it. Then the
peasants tried to arrange for the Commune to buy the whole estate,
so that it might be held by all in common. They met twice to
discuss it, but could not settle the matter; the Evil One sowed
discord among them, and they could not agree. So they decided to
buy the land individually, each according to his means; and the lady
agreed to this plan as she had to the other.
Presently Pahom heard that a neighbor of his was buying fifty acres,
and that the lady had consented to accept one half in cash and to
wait a year for the other half. Pahom felt envious.
"Look at that," thought he, "the land is all being sold, and I shall
get none of it." So he spoke to his wife.
356

"Other people are buying," said he, "and we must also buy twenty
acres or so. Life is becoming impossible. That steward is simply
crushing us with his fines."
So they put their heads together and considered how they could
manage to buy it. They had one hundred roubles laid by. They sold
a colt, and one half of their bees; hired out one of their sons as a
laborer, and took his wages in advance; borrowed the rest from a
brother-in-law, and so scraped together half the purchase money.
Having done this, Pahom chose out a farm of forty acres, some of it
wooded, and went to the lady to bargain for it. They came to an
agreement, and he shook hands with her upon it, and paid her a
deposit in advance. Then they went to town and signed the deeds; he
paying half the price down, and undertaking to pay the remainder
within two years.
So now Pahom had land of his own. He borrowed seed, and sowed it on
the land he had bought. The harvest was a good one, and within a
year he had managed to pay off his debts both to the lady and to his
brother-in-law. So he became a landowner, ploughing and sowing his
own land, making hay on his own land, cutting his own trees, and
feeding his cattle on his own pasture. When he went out to plough
his fields, or to look at his growing corn, or at his grass meadows,
his heart would fill with joy. The grass that grew and the flowers
that bloomed there, seemed to him unlike any that grew elsewhere.
Formerly, when he had passed by that land, it had appeared the same
as any other land, but now it seemed quite different.
III
So Pahom was well contented, and everything would have been right if
the neighboring peasants would only not have trespassed on his cornfields
and meadows. He appealed to them most civilly, but they
still went on: now the Communal herdsmen would let the village cows
stray into his meadows; then horses from the night pasture would get
among his corn. Pahom turned them out again and again, and forgave
their owners, and for a long time he forbore from prosecuting any
one. But at last he lost patience and complained to the District
Court. He knew it was the peasants' want of land, and no evil
intent on their part, that caused the trouble; but he thought:
"I cannot go on overlooking it, or they will destroy all I have.
They must be taught a lesson."
So he had them up, gave them one lesson, and then another, and two
or three of the peasants were fined. After a time Pahom's
neighbours began to bear him a grudge for this, and would now and
then let their cattle on his land on purpose. One peasant even got
357

into Pahom's wood at night and cut down five young lime trees for
their bark. Pahom passing through the wood one day noticed
something white. He came nearer, and saw the stripped trunks lying
on the ground, and close by stood the stumps, where the tree had
been. Pahom was furious.
"If he had only cut one here and there it would have been bad enough,"
thought Pahom, "but the rascal has actually cut down a whole clump.
If I could only find out who did this, I would pay him out."
He racked his brains as to who it could be. Finally he decided: "It
must be Simon-no one else could have done it." Se he went to
Simon's homestead to have a look around, but he found nothing, and
only had an angry scene. However' he now felt more certain than
ever that Simon had done it, and he lodged a complaint. Simon was
summoned. The case was tried, and re-tried, and at the end of it
all Simon was acquitted, there being no evidence against him. Pahom
felt still more aggrieved, and let his anger loose upon the Elder
and the Judges.
"You let thieves grease your palms," said he. "If you were honest
folk yourselves, you would not let a thief go free."
So Pahom quarrelled with the Judges and with his neighbors. Threats
to burn his building began to be uttered. So though Pahom had more
land, his place in the Commune was much worse than before.
About this time a rumor got about that many people were moving to
new parts.
"There's no need for me to leave my land," thought Pahom. "But some
of the others might leave our village, and then there would be more
room for us. I would take over their land myself, and make my
estate a bit bigger. I could then live more at ease. As it is, I
am still too cramped to be comfortable."
One day Pahom was sitting at home, when a peasant passing through
the village, happened to call in. He was allowed to stay the night,
and supper was given him. Pahom had a talk with this peasant and
asked him where he came from. The stranger answered that he came
from beyond the Volga, where he had been working. One word led to
another, and the man went on to say that many people were settling
in those parts. He told how some people from his village had
settled there. They had joined the Commune, and had had twenty-five
acres per man granted them. The land was so good, he said, that the
rye sown on it grew as high as a horse, and so thick that five cuts
of a sickle made a sheaf. One peasant, he said, had brought nothing
with him but his bare hands, and now he had six horses and two cows
of his own.
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Pahom's heart kindled with desire. He thought:
"Why should I suffer in this narrow hole, if one can live so well
elsewhere I will sell my land and my homestead here, and with the
money I will start afresh over there and get everything new. In
this crowded place one is always having trouble. But I must first
go and find out all about it myself."
Towards summer he got ready and started. He went down the Volga on
a steamer to Samara, then walked another three hundred miles on
foot, and at last reached the place. It was just as the stranger
had said. The peasants had plenty of land: every man had twentyfive
acres of Communal land given him for his use, and any one who
had money could buy, besides, at fifty-cents an acre as much good
freehold land as he wanted.
Having found out all he wished to know, Pahom returned home as
autumn came on, and began selling off his belongings. He sold his
land at a profit, sold his homestead and all his cattle, and
withdrew from membership of the Commune. He only waited till the
spring, and then started with his family for the new settlement.
IV
As soon as Pahom and his family arrived at their new abode, he
applied for admission into the Commune of a large village. He stood
treat to the Elders, and obtained the necessary documents. Five
shares of Communal land were given him for his own and his sons'
use: that is to say--125 acres (not altogether, but in different
fields) besides the use of the Communal pasture. Pahom put up the
buildings he needed, and bought cattle. Of the Communal land alone
he had three times as much as at his former home, and the land was
good corn-land. He was ten times better off than he had been. He
had plenty of arable land and pasturage, and could keep as many head
of cattle as he liked.
At first, in the bustle of building and settling down, Pahom was
pleased with it all, but when he got used to it he began to think
that even here he had not enough land. The first year, he sowed
wheat on his share of the Communal land, and had a good crop. He
wanted to go on sowing wheat, but had not enough Communal land for
the purpose, and what he had already used was not available; for in
those parts wheat is only sown on virgin soil or on fallow land. It
is sown for one or two years, and then the land lies fallow till it
is again overgrown with prairie grass. There were many who wanted
such land, and there was not enough for all; so that people
quarrelled about it. Those who were better off, wanted it for
growing wheat, and those who were poor, wanted it to let to dealers,
so that they might raise money to pay their taxes. Pahom wanted to
359

sow more wheat; so he rented land from a dealer for a year. He
sowed much wheat and had a fine crop, but the land was too far from
the village--the wheat had to be carted more than ten miles. After
a time Pahom noticed that some peasant-dealers were living on
separate farms, and were growing wealthy; and he thought:
"If I were to buy some freehold land, and have a homestead on it, it
would be a different thing, altogether. Then it would all be nice
and compact."
The question of buying freehold land recurred to him again and again.
He went on in the same way for three years; renting land and sowing
wheat. The seasons turned out well and the crops were good, so that
he began to lay money by. He might have gone on living contentedly,
but he grew tired of having to rent other people's land every year,
and having to scramble for it. Wherever there was good land to be
had, the peasants would rush for it and it was taken up at once, so
that unless you were sharp about it you got none. It happened in
the third year that he and a dealer together rented a piece of
pasture land from some peasants; and they had already ploughed it
up, when there was some dispute, and the peasants went to law about
it, and things fell out so that the labor was all lost.
"If it were my own land," thought Pahom, "I should be independent,
and there would not be all this unpleasantness."
So Pahom began looking out for land which he could buy; and he came
across a peasant who had bought thirteen hundred acres, but having
got into difficulties was willing to sell again cheap. Pahom
bargained and haggled with him, and at last they settled the price
at 1,500 roubles, part in cash and part to be paid later. They had
all but clinched the matter, when a passing dealer happened to stop
at Pahom's one day to get a feed for his horse. He drank tea with
Pahom, and they had a talk. The dealer said that he was just
returning from the land of the Bashkirs, far away, where he had
bought thirteen thousand acres of land all for 1,000 roubles. Pahom
questioned him further, and the tradesman said:
"All one need do is to make friends with the chiefs. I gave away
about one hundred roubles' worth of dressing-gowns and carpets,
besides a case of tea, and I gave wine to those who would drink it;
and I got the land for less than two cents an acre. And he showed
Pahom the title-deeds, saying:
"The land lies near a river, and the whole prairie is virgin soil."
Pahom plied him with questions, and the tradesman said:
360

"There is more land there than you could cover if you walked a year,
and it all belongs to the Bashkirs. They are as simple as sheep,
and land can be got almost for nothing."
"There now," thought Pahom, "with my one thousand roubles, why
should I get only thirteen hundred acres, and saddle myself with a
debt besides. If I take it out there, I can get more than ten times
as much for the money."
V
Pahom inquired how to get to the place, and as soon as the tradesman
had left him, he prepared to go there himself. He left his wife to
look after the homestead, and started on his journey taking his man
with him. They stopped at a town on their way, and bought a case of
tea, some wine, and other presents, as the tradesman had advised.
On and on they went until they had gone more than three hundred
miles, and on the seventh day they came to a place where the
Bashkirs had pitched their tents. It was all just as the tradesman
had said. The people lived on the steppes, by a river, in feltcovered
tents. They neither tilled the ground, nor ate bread.
Their cattle and horses grazed in herds on the steppe. The colts
were tethered behind the tents, and the mares were driven to them
twice a day. The mares were milked, and from the milk kumiss was
made. It was the women who prepared kumiss, and they also made
cheese. As far as the men were concerned, drinking kumiss and tea,
eating mutton, and playing on their pipes, was all they cared about.
They were all stout and merry, and all the summer long they never
thought of doing any work. They were quite ignorant, and knew no
Russian, but were good-natured enough.
As soon as they saw Pahom, they came out of their tents and gathered
round their visitor. An interpreter was found, and Pahom told them
he had come about some land. The Bashkirs seemed very glad; they
took Pahom and led him into one of the best tents, where they made
him sit on some down cushions placed on a carpet, while they sat
round him. They gave him tea and kumiss, and had a sheep killed,
and gave him mutton to eat. Pahom took presents out of his cart and
distributed them among the Bashkirs, and divided amongst them the
tea. The Bashkirs were delighted. They talked a great deal among
themselves, and then told the interpreter to translate.
"They wish to tell you," said the interpreter, "that they like you,
and that it is our custom to do all we can to please a guest and to
repay him for his gifts. You have given us presents, now tell us
which of the things we possess please you best, that we may present
them to you."
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"What pleases me best here," answered Pahom, "is your land. Our
land is crowded, and the soil is exhausted; but you have plenty of
land and it is good land. I never saw the like of it."
The interpreter translated. The Bashkirs talked among themselves
for a while. Pahom could not understand what they were saying, but
saw that they were much amused, and that they shouted and laughed.
Then they were silent and looked at Pahom while the interpreter said:
"They wish me to tell you that in return for your presents they will
gladly give you as much land as you want. You have only to point it
out with your hand and it is yours."
The Bashkirs talked again for a while and began to dispute. Pahom
asked what they were disputing about, and the interpreter told him
that some of them thought they ought to ask their Chief about the
land and not act in his absence, while others thought there was no
need to wait for his return.
VI
While the Bashkirs were disputing, a man in a large fox-fur cap
appeared on the scene. They all became silent and rose to their
feet. The interpreter said, "This is our Chief himself."
Pahom immediately fetched the best dressing-gown and five pounds of
tea, and offered these to the Chief. The Chief accepted them, and
seated himself in the place of honour. The Bashkirs at once began
telling him something. The Chief listened for a while, then made a
sign with his head for them to be silent, and addressing himself to
Pahom, said in Russian:
"Well, let it be so. Choose whatever piece of land you like; we
have plenty of it."
"How can I take as much as I like" thought Pahom. "I must get a
deed to make it secure, or else they may say, 'It is yours,' and
afterwards may take it away again."
"Thank you for your kind words," he said aloud. "You have much
land, and I only want a little. But I should like to be sure which
bit is mine. Could it not be measured and made over to me Life and
death are in God's hands. You good people give it to me, but your
children might wish to take it away again."
"You are quite right," said the Chief. "We will make it over to you."
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"I heard that a dealer had been here," continued Pahom, "and that
you gave him a little land, too, and signed title-deeds to that
effect. I should like to have it done in the same way."
The Chief understood.
"Yes," replied he, "that can be done quite easily. We have a scribe,
and we will go to town with you and have the deed properly sealed."
"And what will be the price" asked Pahom.
"Our price is always the same: one thousand roubles a day."
Pahom did not understand.
"A day What measure is that How many acres would that be"
"We do not know how to reckon it out," said the Chief. "We sell it
by the day. As much as you can go round on your feet in a day is
yours, and the price is one thousand roubles a day."
Pahom was surprised.
"But in a day you can get round a large tract of land," he said.
The Chief laughed.
"It will all be yours!" said he. "But there is one condition: If
you don't return on the same day to the spot whence you started,
your money is lost."
"But how am I to mark the way that I have gone"
"Why, we shall go to any spot you like, and stay there. You must
start from that spot and make your round, taking a spade with you.
Wherever you think necessary, make a mark. At every turning, dig a
hole and pile up the turf; then afterwards we will go round with a
plough from hole to hole. You may make as large a circuit as you
please, but before the sun sets you must return to the place you
started from. All the land you cover will be yours."
Pahom was delighted. It-was decided to start early next morning.
They talked a while, and after drinking some more kumiss and eating
some more mutton, they had tea again, and then the night came on.
They gave Pahom a feather-bed to sleep on, and the Bashkirs
dispersed for the night, promising to assemble the next morning at
daybreak and ride out before sunrise to the appointed spot.
VII
363

Pahom lay on the feather-bed, but could not sleep. He kept thinking
about the land.
"What a large tract I will mark off!" thought he. "I can easily go
thirty-five miles in a day. The days are long now, and within a
circuit of thirty-five miles what a lot of land there will be! I
will sell the poorer land, or let it to peasants, but I'll pick out
the best and farm it. I will buy two ox-teams, and hire two more
laborers. About a hundred and fifty acres shall be plough-land, and
I will pasture cattle on the rest."
Pahom lay awake all night, and dozed off only just before dawn.
Hardly were his eyes closed when he had a dream. He thought he was
lying in that same tent, and heard somebody chuckling outside. He
wondered who it could be, and rose and went out, and he saw the
Bashkir Chief sitting in front of the tent holding his side and
rolling about with laughter. Going nearer to the Chief, Pahom
asked: "What are you laughing at" But he saw that it was no longer
the Chief, but the dealer who had recently stopped at his house and
had told him about the land. Just as Pahom was going to ask, "Have
you been here long" he saw that it was not the dealer, but the
peasant who had come up from the Volga, long ago, to Pahom's old
home. Then he saw that it was not the peasant either, but the Devil
himself with hoofs and horns, sitting there and chuckling, and
before him lay a man barefoot, prostrate on the ground, with only
trousers and a shirt on. And Pahom dreamt that he looked more
attentively to see what sort of a man it was lying there, and he saw
that the man was dead, and that it was himself! He awoke horror-struck.
"What things one does dream," thought he.
Looking round he saw through the open door that the dawn was breaking.
"It's time to wake them up," thought he. "We ought to be starting."
He got up, roused his man (who was sleeping in his cart), bade him
harness; and went to call the Bashkirs.
"It's time to go to the steppe to measure the land," he said.
The Bashkirs rose and assembled, and the Chief came, too. Then they
began drinking kumiss again, and offered Pahom some tea, but he
would not wait.
"If we are to go, let us go. It is high time," said he.
VIII
364

The Bashkirs got ready and they all started: some mounted on horses,
and some in carts. Pahom drove in his own small cart with his
servant, and took a spade with him. When they reached the steppe,
the morning red was beginning to kindle. They ascended a hillock
(called by the Bashkirs a shikhan) and dismounting from their carts
and their horses, gathered in one spot. The Chief came up to Pahom
and stretched out his arm towards the plain:
"See," said he, "all this, as far as your eye can reach, is ours.
You may have any part of it you like."
Pahom's eyes glistened: it was all virgin soil, as flat as the palm
of your hand, as black as the seed of a poppy, and in the hollows
different kinds of grasses grew breast high.
The Chief took off his fox-fur cap, placed it on the ground and said:
"This will be the mark. Start from here, and return here again.
All the land you go round shall be yours."
Pahom took out his money and put it on the cap. Then he took off
his outer coat, remaining in his sleeveless under coat. He
unfastened his girdle and tied it tight below his stomach, put a
little bag of bread into the breast of his coat, and tying a flask
of water to his girdle, he drew up the tops of his boots, took the
spade from his man, and stood ready to start. He considered for
some moments which way he had better go--it was tempting everywhere.
"No matter," he concluded, "I will go towards the rising sun."
He turned his face to the east, stretched himself, and waited for
the sun to appear above the rim.
"I must lose no time," he thought, "and it is easier walking while
it is still cool."
The sun's rays had hardly flashed above the horizon, before Pahom,
carrying the spade over his shoulder, went down into the steppe.
Pahom started walking neither slowly nor quickly. After having gone
a thousand yards he stopped, dug a hole and placed pieces of turf
one on another to make it more visible. Then he went on; and now
that he had walked off his stiffness he quickened his pace. After a
while he dug another hole.
Pahom looked back. The hillock could be distinctly seen in the
sunlight, with the people on it, and the glittering tires of the
cartwheels. At a rough guess Pahom concluded that he had walked
three miles. It was growing warmer; he took off his under-coat,
365

flung it across his shoulder, and went on again. It had grown quite
warm now; he looked at the sun, it was time to think of breakfast.
"The first shift is done, but there are four in a day, and it is too
soon yet to turn. But I will just take off my boots," said he to himself.
He sat down, took off his boots, stuck them into his girdle, and went on.
It was easy walking now.
"I will go on for another three miles," thought he, "and then turn
to the left. The spot is so fine, that it would be a pity to lose
it. The further one goes, the better the land seems."
He went straight on a for a while, and when he looked round, the
hillock was scarcely visible and the people on it looked like black
ants, and he could just see something glistening there in the sun.
"Ah," thought Pahom, "I have gone far enough in this direction, it
is time to turn. Besides I am in a regular sweat, and very thirsty."
He stopped, dug a large hole, and heaped up pieces of turf. Next he
untied his flask, had a drink, and then turned sharply to the left.
He went on and on; the grass was high, and it was very hot.
Pahom began to grow tired: he looked at the sun and saw that it was noon.
"Well," he thought, "I must have a rest."
He sat down, and ate some bread and drank some water; but he did not
lie down, thinking that if he did he might fall asleep. After
sitting a little while, he went on again. At first he walked
easily: the food had strengthened him; but it had become terribly
hot, and he felt sleepy; still he went on, thinking: "An hour to
suffer, a life-time to live."
He went a long way in this direction also, and was about to turn to
the left again, when he perceived a damp hollow: "It would be a pity
to leave that out," he thought. "Flax would do well there." So he
went on past the hollow, and dug a hole on the other side of it
before he turned the corner. Pahom looked towards the hillock. The
heat made the air hazy: it seemed to be quivering, and through the
haze the people on the hillock could scarcely be seen.
"Ah!" thought Pahom, "I have made the sides too long; I must make
this one shorter." And he went along the third side, stepping
faster. He looked at the sun: it was nearly half way to the
horizon, and he had not yet done two miles of the third side of the
square. He was still ten miles from the goal.
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"No," he thought, "though it will make my land lopsided, I must
hurry back in a straight line now. I might go too far, and as it is
I have a great deal of land."
So Pahom hurriedly dug a hole, and turned straight towards the hillock.
IX
Pahom went straight towards the hillock, but he now walked with
difficulty. He was done up with the heat, his bare feet were cut
and bruised, and his legs began to fail. He longed to rest, but it
was impossible if he meant to get back before sunset. The sun waits
for no man, and it was sinking lower and lower.
"Oh dear," he thought, "if only I have not blundered trying for too
much! What if I am too late"
He looked towards the hillock and at the sun. He was still far from
his goal, and the sun was already near the rim. Pahom walked on and
on; it was very hard walking, but he went quicker and quicker. He
pressed on, but was still far from the place. He began running,
threw away his coat, his boots, his flask, and his cap, and kept
only the spade which he used as a support.
"What shall I do," he thought again, "I have grasped too much, and
ruined the whole affair. I can't get there before the sun sets."
And this fear made him still more breathless. Pahom went on
running, his soaking shirt and trousers stuck to him, and his mouth
was parched. His breast was working like a blacksmith's bellows,
his heart was beating like a hammer, and his legs were giving way as
if they did not belong to him. Pahom was seized with terror lest he
should die of the strain.
Though afraid of death, he could not stop. "After having run all
that way they will call me a fool if I stop now," thought he. And
he ran on and on, and drew near and heard the Bashkirs yelling and
shouting to him, and their cries inflamed his heart still more. He
gathered his last strength and ran on.
The sun was close to the rim, and cloaked in mist looked large, and
red as blood. Now, yes now, it was about to set! The sun was quite
low, but he was also quite near his aim. Pahom could already see
the people on the hillock waving their arms to hurry him up. He
could see the fox-fur cap on the ground, and the money on it, and
the Chief sitting on the ground holding his sides. And Pahom
remembered his dream.
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"There is plenty of land," thought he, "but will God let me live on
it I have lost my life, I have lost my life! I shall never reach
that spot!"
Pahom looked at the sun, which had reached the earth: one side of it
had already disappeared. With all his remaining strength he rushed
on, bending his body forward so that his legs could hardly follow
fast enough to keep him from falling. Just as he reached the
hillock it suddenly grew dark. He looked up--the sun had already
set. He gave a cry: "All my labor has been in vain," thought he,
and was about to stop, but he heard the Bashkirs still shouting, and
remembered that though to him, from below, the sun seemed to have
set, they on the hillock could still see it. He took a long breath
and ran up the hillock. It was still light there. He reached the
top and saw the cap. Before it sat the Chief laughing and holding
his sides. Again Pahom remembered his dream, and he uttered a cry:
his legs gave way beneath him, he fell forward and reached the cap
with his hands.
"Ah, what a fine fellow!" exclaimed the Chief. "He has gained
much land!"
Pahom's servant came running up and tried to raise him, but he saw
that blood was flowing from his mouth. Pahom was dead!
The Bashkirs clicked their tongues to show their pity.
His servant picked up the spade and dug a grave long enough for
Pahom to lie in, and buried him in it. Six feet from his head to
his heels was all he needed.
Footnotes:
1. One hundred kopeks make a rouble. The kopek is worth about
half a cent.
2. A non-intoxicating drink usually made from rye-malt and rye-flour.
3. The brick oven in a Russian peasant's hut is usually built so
as to leave a flat top, large enough to lie on, for those who want
to sleep in a warm place.
4. 120 "desyatins." The "desyatina" is properly 2.7 acres; but in
this story round numbers are used.
5. Three roubles per "desyatina."
6. Five "kopeks" for a "desyatina."
368

Ivan The Fool - Leo Tolstoy
CHAPTER I
In a certain kingdom there lived a rich peasant, who had three
sons--Simeon (a soldier), Tarras-Briukhan (fat man), and Ivan (a
fool)--and one daughter, Milania, born dumb. Simeon went to war, to
serve the Czar; Tarras went to a city and became a merchant; and Ivan,
with his sister, remained at home to work on the farm.
For his valiant service in the army, Simeon received an estate with high
rank, and married a noble's daughter. Besides his large pay, he was in
receipt of a handsome income from his estate; yet he was unable to make
ends meet. What the husband saved, the wife wasted in extravagance. One
day Simeon went to the estate to collect his income, when the steward
informed him that there was no income, saying:
"We have neither horses, cows, fishing-nets, nor implements; it is
necessary first to buy everything, and then to look for income."
Simeon thereupon went to his father and said:
"You are rich, batiushka [little father], but you have given nothing
to me. Give me one-third of what you possess as my share, and I will
transfer it to my estate."
The old man replied: "You did not help to bring prosperity to our
household. For what reason, then, should you now demand the third part
of everything It would be unjust to Ivan and his sister."
"Yes," said Simeon; "but he is a fool, and she was born dumb. What need
have they of anything"
"See what Ivan will say."
Ivan's reply was: "Well, let him take his share."
Simeon took the portion allotted to him, and went again to serve in the
army.
Tarras also met with success. He became rich and married a merchant's
daughter, but even this failed to satisfy his desires, and he also went
to his father and said, "Give me my share."
The old man, however, refused to comply with his request, saying: "You
had no hand in the accumulation of our property, and what our household
contains is the result of Ivan's hard work. It would be unjust," he
repeated, "to Ivan and his sister."
369

Tarras replied: "But he does not need it. He is a fool, and cannot
marry, for no one will have him; and sister does not require anything,
for she was born dumb." Turning then to Ivan he continued: "Give me half
the grain you have, and I will not touch the implements or fishing-nets;
and from the cattle I will take only the dark mare, as she is not fit to
plow."
Ivan laughed and said: "Well, I will go and arrange matters so that
Tarras may have his share," whereupon Tarras took the brown mare with
the grain to town, leaving Ivan with one old horse to work on as before
and support his father, mother, and sister.
CHAPTER II.
It was disappointing to the Stary Tchert (Old Devil) that the brothers
did not quarrel over the division of the property, and that they
separated peacefully; and he cried out, calling his three small devils
(Tchertionki).
"See here," said he, "there are living three brothers--Simeon the
soldier, Tarras-Briukhan, and Ivan the Fool. It is necessary that
they should quarrel. Now they live peacefully, and enjoy each other's
hospitality. The Fool spoiled all my plans. Now you three go and work
with them in such a manner that they will be ready to tear each other's
eyes out. Can you do this"
"We can," they replied.
"How will you accomplish it"
"In this way: We will first ruin them to such an extent that they will
have nothing to eat, and we will then gather them together in one place
where we are sure that they will fight."
"Very well; I see you understand your business. Go, and do not return to
me until you have created a feud between the three brothers--or I will
skin you alive."
The three small devils went to a swamp to consult as to the best means
of accomplishing their mission. They disputed for a long time--each
one wanting the easiest part of the work--and not being able to agree,
concluded to draw lots; by which it was decided that the one who was
first finished had to come and help the others. This agreement being
entered into, they appointed a time when they were again to meet in the
swamp--to find out who was through and who needed assistance.
The time having arrived, the young devils met in the swamp as agreed,
when each related his experience. The first, who went to Simeon, said:
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"I have succeeded in my undertaking, and to-morrow Simeon returns to his
father."
His comrades, eager for particulars, inquired how he had done it.
"Well," he began, "the first thing I did was to blow some courage into
his veins, and, on the strength of it, Simeon went to the Czar and
offered to conquer the whole world for him. The Emperor made him
commander-in-chief of the forces, and sent him with an army to fight the
Viceroy of India. Having started on their mission of conquest, they were
unaware that I, following in their wake, had wet all their powder.
I also went to the Indian ruler and showed him how I could create
numberless soldiers from straw.
"Simeon's army, seeing that they were surrounded by such a vast number of
Indian warriors of my creation, became frightened, and Simeon commanded
to fire from cannons and rifles, which of course they were unable to
do. The soldiers, discouraged, retreated in great disorder. Thus Simeon
brought upon himself the terrible disgrace of defeat. His estate was
confiscated, and to-morrow he is to be executed. All that remains for
me to do, therefore," concluded the young devil, "is to release him
to-morrow morning. Now, then, who wants my assistance"
The second small devil (from Tarras) then related his story.
"I do not need any help," he began. "My business is also all right. My
work with Tarras will be finished in one week. In the first place I made
him grow thin. He afterward became so covetous that he wanted to possess
everything he saw, and he spent all the money he had in the purchase
of immense quantities of goods. When his capital was gone he still
continued to buy with borrowed money, and has become involved in such
difficulties that he cannot free himself. At the end of one week the
date for the payment of his notes will have expired, and, his goods
being seized upon, he will become a bankrupt; and he also will return to
his father."
At the conclusion of this narrative they inquired of the third devil how
things had fared between him and Ivan.
"Well," said he, "my report is not so encouraging. The first thing I did
was to spit into his jug of quass [a sour drink made from rye],
which made him sick at his stomach. He afterward went to plow his
summer-fallow, but I made the soil so hard that the plow could scarcely
penetrate it. I thought the Fool would not succeed, but he started to
work nevertheless. Moaning with pain, he still continued to labor. I
broke one plow, but he replaced it with another, fixing it securely, and
resumed work. Going beneath the surface of the ground I took hold of the
plowshares, but did not succeed in stopping Ivan. He pressed so hard,
and the colter was so sharp, that my hands were cut; and despite my
utmost efforts, he went over all but a small portion of the field."
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He concluded with: "Come, brothers, and help me, for if we do not
conquer him our whole enterprise will be a failure. If the Fool is
permitted successfully to conduct his farming, they will have no need,
for he will support his brothers."
CHAPTER III.
Ivan having succeeded in plowing all but a small portion of his land, he
returned the next day to finish it. The pain in his stomach continued,
but he felt that he must go on with his work. He tried to start his
plow, but it would not move; it seemed to have struck a hard root. It
was the small devil in the ground who had wound his feet around the
plowshares and held them.
"This is strange," thought Ivan. "There were never any roots here
before, and this is surely one."
Ivan put his hand in the ground, and, feeling something soft, grasped
and pulled it out. It was like a root in appearance, but seemed
to possess life. Holding it up he saw that it was a little devil.
Disgusted, he exclaimed, "See the nasty thing," and he proceeded to
strike it a blow, intending to kill it, when the young devil cried out:
"Do not kill me, and I will grant your every wish."
"What can you do for me"
"Tell me what it is you most wish for," the little devil replied.
Ivan, peasant-fashion, scratched the back of his head as he thought, and
finally he said:
"I am dreadfully sick at my stomach. Can you cure me"
"I can," the little devil said.
"Then do so."
The little devil bent toward the earth and began searching for roots,
and when he found them he gave them to Ivan, saying: "If you will
swallow some of these you will be immediately cured of whatsoever
disease you are afflicted with."
Ivan did as directed, and obtained instant relief.
"I beg of you to let me go now," the little devil pleaded; "I will pass
into the earth, never to return."
372

"Very well; you may go, and God bless you;" and as Ivan pronounced the
name of God, the small devil disappeared into the earth like a flash,
and only a slight opening in the ground remained.
Ivan placed in his hat what roots he had left, and proceeded to plow.
Soon finishing his work, he turned his plow over and returned home.
When he reached the house he found his brother Simeon and his wife
seated at the supper-table. His estate had been confiscated, and he
himself had barely escaped execution by making his way out of prison,
and having nothing to live upon had come back to his father for support.
Turning to Ivan he said: "I came to ask you to care for us until I can
find something to do."
"Very well," Ivan replied; "you may remain with us."
Just as Ivan was about to sit down to the table Simeon's wife made a wry
face, indicating that she did not like the smell of Ivan's sheep-skin
coat; and turning to her husband she said, "I shall not sit at the table
with a moujik [peasant] who smells like that."
Simeon the soldier turned to his brother and said: "My lady objects to
the smell of your clothes. You may eat in the porch."
Ivan said: "Very well, it is all the same to me. I will soon have to go
and feed my horse any way."
Ivan took some bread in one hand, and his kaftan (coat) in the other,
and left the room.
CHAPTER IV.
The small devil finished with Simeon that night, and according to
agreement went to the assistance of his comrade who had charge of
Ivan, that he might help to conquer the Fool. He went to the field and
searched everywhere, but could find nothing but the hole through which
the small devil had disappeared.
"Well, this is strange," he said; "something must have happened to my
companion, and I will have to take his place and continue the work he
began. The Fool is through with his plowing, so I must look about me
for some other means of compassing his destruction. I must overflow his
meadow and prevent him from cutting the grass."
The little devil accordingly overflowed the meadow with muddy water,
and, when Ivan went at dawn next morning with his scythe set and
sharpened and tried to mow the grass, he found that it resisted all his
efforts and would not yield to the implement as usual.
373

Many times Ivan tried to cut the grass, but always without success. At
last, becoming weary of the effort, he decided to return home and have
his scythe again sharpened, and also to procure a quantity of bread,
saying: "I will come back here and will not leave until I have mown all
the meadow, even if it should take a whole week."
Hearing this, the little devil became thoughtful, saying: "That Ivan is
a koolak [hard case], and I must think of some other way of conquering
him."
Ivan soon returned with his sharpened scythe and started to mow.
The small devil hid himself in the grass, and as the point of the scythe
came down he buried it in the earth and made it almost impossible for
Ivan to move the implement. He, however, succeeded in mowing all but
one small spot in the swamp, where again the small devil hid himself,
saying: "Even if he should cut my hands I will prevent him from
accomplishing his work."
When Ivan came to the swamp he found that the grass was not very thick.
Still, the scythe would not work, which made him so angry that he worked
with all his might, and one blow more powerful than the others cut off a
portion of the small devil's tail, who had hidden himself there.
Despite the little devil's efforts he succeeded in finishing his work,
when he returned home and ordered his sister to gather up the grass
while he went to another field to cut rye. But the devil preceded him
there, and fixed the rye in such a manner that it was almost impossible
for Ivan to cut it; however, after continuous hard labor he succeeded,
and when he was through with the rye he said to himself: "Now I will
start to mow oats."
On hearing this, the little devil thought to himself: "I could not
prevent him from mowing the rye, but I will surely stop him from mowing
the oats when the morning comes."
Early next day, when the devil came to the field, he found that the oats
had been already mowed. Ivan did it during the night, so as to avoid
the loss that might have resulted from the grain being too ripe and dry.
Seeing that Ivan again had escaped him, the little devil became greatly
enraged, saying:
"He cut me all over and made me tired, that fool. I did not meet such
misfortune even on the battle-field. He does not even sleep;" and the
devil began to swear. "I cannot follow him," he continued. "I will go
now to the heaps and make everything rotten."
Accordingly he went to a heap of the new-mown grain and began his
fiendish work. After wetting it he built a fire and warmed himself, and
soon was fast asleep.
374

Ivan harnessed his horse, and, with his sister, went to bring the rye
home from the field.
After lifting a couple of sheaves from the first heap his pitchfork came
into contact with the little devil's back, which caused the latter to
howl with pain and to jump around in every direction. Ivan exclaimed:
"See here! What nastiness! You again here"
"I am another one!" said the little devil. "That was my brother. I am
the one who was sent to your brother Simeon."
"Well," said Ivan, "it matters not who you are. I will fix you all the
same."
As Ivan was about to strike the first blow the devil pleaded: "Let me go
and I will do you no more harm. I will do whatever you wish."
"What can you do for me" asked Ivan.
"I can make soldiers from almost anything."
"And what will they be good for"
"Oh, they will do everything for you!"
"Can they sing"
"They can."
"Well, make them."
"Take a bunch of straw and scatter it on the ground, and see if each
straw will not turn into a soldier."
Ivan shook the straws on the ground, and, as he expected, each straw
turned into a soldier, and they began marching with a band at their
head.
"Ishty [look you], that was well done! How it will delight the village
maidens!" he exclaimed.
The small devil now said: "Let me go; you do not need me any longer."
But Ivan said: "No, I will not let you go just yet. You have converted
the straw into soldiers, and now I want you to turn them again into
straw, as I cannot afford to lose it, but I want it with the grain on."
The devil replied: "Say: 'So many soldiers, so much straw.'"
375

Ivan did as directed, and got back his rye with the straw.
The small devil again begged for his release.
Ivan, taking him from the pitchfork, said: "With God's blessing you may
depart"; and, as before at the mention of God's name, the little devil
was hurled into the earth like a flash, and nothing was left but the
hole to show where he had gone.
Soon afterward Ivan returned home, to find his brother Tarras and his
wife there. Tarras-Briukhan could not pay his debts, and was forced to
flee from his creditors and seek refuge under his father's roof. Seeing
Ivan, he said: "Well, Ivan, may we remain here until I start in some new
business"
Ivan replied as he had before to Simeon: "Yes, you are perfectly welcome
to remain here as long as it suits you."
With that announcement he removed his coat and seated himself at the
supper-table with the others. But Tarras-Briukhan's wife objected to the
smell of his clothes, saying: "I cannot eat with a fool; neither can I
stand the smell."
Then Tarras-Briukhan said: "Ivan, from your clothes there comes a bad
smell; go and eat by yourself in the porch."
"Very well," said Ivan; and he took some bread and went out as ordered,
saying, "It is time for me to feed my mare."
CHAPTER V.
The small devil who had charge of Tarras finished with him that night,
and according to agreement proceeded to the assistance of the other two
to help them conquer Ivan. Arriving at the plowed field he looked
around for his comrades, but found only the hole through which one had
disappeared; and on going to the meadow he discovered the severed tail
of the other, and in the rye-field he found yet another hole.
"Well," he thought, "it is quite clear that my comrades have met with
some great misfortune, and that I will have to take their places and
arrange the feud between the brothers."
The small devil then went in search of Ivan. But he, having finished
with the field, was nowhere to be found. He had gone to the forest to
cut logs to build homes for his brothers, as they found it inconvenient
for so many to live under the same roof.
The small devil at last discovered his whereabouts, and going to the
forest climbed into the branches of the trees and began to interfere
376

with Ivan's work. Ivan cut down a tree, which failed, however, to fall
to the ground, becoming entangled in the branches of other trees; yet he
succeeded in getting it down after a hard struggle. In chopping down the
next tree he met with the same difficulties, and also with the third.
Ivan had supposed he could cut down fifty trees in a day, but he
succeeded in chopping but ten before darkness put an end to his labors
for a time. He was now exhausted, and, perspiring profusely, he sat down
alone in the woods to rest. He soon after resumed his work, cutting down
one more tree; but the effort gave him a pain in his back, and he was
obliged to rest again. Seeing this, the small devil was full of joy.
"Well," he thought, "now he is exhausted and will stop work, and I will
rest also." He then seated himself on some branches and rejoiced.
Ivan again arose, however, and, taking his axe, gave the tree a terrific
blow from the opposite side, which felled it instantly to the ground,
carrying the little devil with it; and Ivan, proceeding to cut the
branches, found the devil alive. Very much astonished, Ivan exclaimed:
"Look you! Such nastiness! Are you again here"
"I am another one," replied the devil. "I was with your brother Tarras."
"Well," said Ivan, "that makes no difference; I will fix you." And he
was about to strike him a blow with the axe when the devil pleaded:
"Do not kill me, and whatever you wish you shall have."
Ivan asked, "What can you do"
"I can make for you all the money you wish."
Ivan then told the devil he might proceed, whereupon the latter began to
explain to him how he might become rich.
"Take," said he to Ivan, "the leaves of this oak tree and rub them in
your hands, and the gold will fall to the ground."
Ivan did as he was directed, and immediately the gold began to drop
about his feet; and he remarked:
"This will be a fine trick to amuse the village boys with."
"Can I now take my departure" asked the devil, to which Ivan replied,
"With God's blessing you may go."
At the mention of the name of God, the devil disappeared into the earth.
CHAPTER VI.
377

The brothers, having finished their houses, moved into them and lived
apart from their father and brother. Ivan, when he had completed his
plowing, made a great feast, to which he invited his brothers, telling
them that he had plenty of beer for them to drink. The brothers,
however, declined Ivan's hospitality, saying, "We have seen the beer
moujiks drink, and want none of it."
Ivan then gathered around him all the peasants in the village and
with them drank beer until he became intoxicated, when he joined the
Khorovody (a street gathering of the village boys and girls, who sing
songs), and told them they must sing his praises, saying that in return
he would show them such sights as they had never before seen in their
lives. The little girls laughed and began to sing songs praising Ivan,
and when they had finished they said: "Very well; now give us what you
said you would."
Ivan replied, "I will soon show you," and, taking an empty bag in his
hand, he started for the woods. The little girls laughed as they said,
"What a fool he is!" and resuming their play they forgot all about him.
Some time after Ivan suddenly appeared among them carrying in his hand
the bag, which was now filled.
"Shall I divide this with you" he said.
"Yes; divide!" they sang in chorus.
So Ivan put his hand into the bag and drew it out full of gold coins,
which he scattered among them.
"Batiushka," they cried as they ran to gather up the precious pieces.
The moujiks then appeared on the scene and began to fight among
themselves for the possession of the yellow objects. In the melee one
old woman was nearly crushed to death.
Ivan laughed and was greatly amused at the sight of so many persons
quarrelling over a few pieces of gold.
"Oh! you duratchki" (little fools), he said, "why did you almost crush
the life out of the old grandmother Be more gentle. I have plenty more,
and I will give them to you;" whereupon he began throwing about more of
the coins.
The people gathered around him, and Ivan continued throwing until he
emptied his bag. They clamored for more, but Ivan replied: "The gold
is all gone. Another time I will give you more. Now we will resume our
singing and dancing."
378

The little children sang, but Ivan said to them, "Your songs are no
good."
The children said, "Then show us how to sing better."
To this Ivan replied, "I will show you people who can sing better than
you." With that remark Ivan went to the barn and, securing a bundle
of straw, did as the little devil had directed him; and presently a
regiment of soldiers appeared in the village street, and he ordered them
to sing and dance.
The people were astonished and could not understand how Ivan had
produced the strangers.
The soldiers sang for some time, to the great delight of the villagers;
and when Ivan commanded them to stop they instantly ceased.
Ivan then ordered them off to the barn, telling the astonished and
mystified moujiks that they must not follow him. Reaching the barn,
he turned the soldiers again into straw and went home to sleep off the
effects of his debauch.
CHAPTER VII.
The next morning Ivan's exploits were the talk of the village, and news
of the wonderful things he had done reached the ears of his brother
Simeon, who immediately went to Ivan to learn all about it.
"Explain to me," he said; "from whence did you bring the soldiers, and
where did you take them"
"And what do you wish to know for" asked Ivan.
"Why, with soldiers we can do almost anything we wish--whole kingdoms
can be conquered," replied Simeon.
This information greatly surprised Ivan, who said: "Well, why did you
not tell me about this before I can make as many as you want."
Ivan then took his brother to the barn, but he said: "While I am willing
to create the soldiers, you must take them away from here; for if it
should become necessary to feed them, all the food in the village would
last them only one day."
Simeon promised to do as Ivan wished, whereupon Ivan proceeded to
convert the straw into soldiers. Out of one bundle of straw he made an
entire regiment; in fact, so many soldiers appeared as if by magic that
there was not a vacant spot in the field.
379

Turning to Simeon Ivan said, "Well, is there a sufficient number"
Beaming with joy, Simeon replied: "Enough! enough! Thank you, Ivan!"
"Glad you are satisfied," said Ivan, "and if you wish more I will make
them for you. I have plenty of straw now."
Simeon divided his soldiers into battalions and regiments, and after
having drilled them he went forth to fight and to conquer.
Simeon had just gotten safely out of the village with his soldiers when
Tarras, the other brother, appeared before Ivan--he also having heard
of the previous day's performance and wanting to learn the secret of
his power. He sought Ivan, saying: "Tell me the secret of your supply of
gold, for if I had plenty of money I could with its assistance gather in
all the wealth in the world."
Ivan was greatly surprised on hearing this statement, and said: "You
might have told me this before, for I can obtain for you as much money
as you wish."
Tarras was delighted, and he said, "You might get me about three
bushels."
"Well," said Ivan, "we will go to the woods, or, better still, we
will harness the horse, as we could not possibly carry so much money
ourselves."
The brothers went to the woods and Ivan proceeded to gather the oak
leaves, which he rubbed between his hands, the dust falling to the
ground and turning into gold pieces as quickly as it fell.
When quite a pile had accumulated Ivan turned to Tarras and asked if he
had rubbed enough leaves into money, whereupon Tarras replied: "Thank
you, Ivan; that will be sufficient for this time."
Ivan then said: "If you wish more, come to me and I will rub as much as
you want, for there are plenty of leaves."
Tarras, with his tarantas (wagon) filled with gold, rode away to the
city to engage in trade and increase his wealth; and thus both brothers
went their way, Simeon to fight and Tarras to trade.
Simeon's soldiers conquered a kingdom for him and Tarras-Briukhan made
plenty of money.
Some time afterward the two brothers met and confessed to each other
the source from whence sprang their prosperity, but they were not yet
satisfied.
380

Simeon said: "I have conquered a kingdom and enjoy a very pleasant life,
but I have not sufficient money to procure food for my soldiers;" while
Tarras confessed that he was the possessor of enormous wealth, but the
care of it caused him much uneasiness.
"Let us go again to our brother," said Simeon; "I will order him to make
more soldiers and will give them to you, and you may then tell him that
he must make more money so that we can buy food for them."
They went again to Ivan, and Simeon said: "I have not sufficient
soldiers; I want you to make me at least two divisions more." But Ivan
shook his head as he said: "I will not create soldiers for nothing; you
must pay me for doing it."
"Well, but you promised," said Simeon.
"I know I did," replied Ivan; "but I have changed my mind since that
time."
"But, fool, why will you not do as you promised"
"For the reason that your soldiers kill men, and I will not make any
more for such a cruel purpose." With this reply Ivan remained stubborn
and would not create any more soldiers.
Tarras-Briukhan next approached Ivan and ordered him to make more money;
but, as in the case of Tarras, Ivan only shook his head, as he said:
"I will not make you any money unless you pay me for doing it. I cannot
work without pay."
Tarras then reminded him of his promise.
"I know I promised," replied Ivan; "but still I must refuse to do as you
wish."
"But why, fool, will you not fulfill your promise" asked Tarras.
"For the reason that your gold was the means of depriving Mikhailovna of
her cow."
"But how did that happen" inquired Tarras.
"It happened in this way," said Ivan. "Mikhailovna always kept a cow,
and her children had plenty of milk to drink; but some time ago one of
her boys came to me to beg for some milk, and I asked, 'Where is your
cow' when he replied, 'A clerk of Tarras-Briukhan came to our home
and offered three gold pieces for her. Our mother could not resist the
temptation, and now we have no milk to drink. I gave you the gold pieces
for your pleasure, and you put them to such poor use that I will not
give you any more.'"
381

The brothers, on hearing this, took their departure to discuss as to the
best plan to pursue in regard to a settlement of their troubles.
Simeon said: "Let us arrange it in this way: I will give you the half of
my kingdom, and soldiers to keep guard over your wealth; and you give me
money to feed the soldiers in my half of the kingdom."
To this arrangement Tarras agreed, and both the brothers became rulers
and very happy.
CHAPTER VIII.
Ivan remained on the farm and worked to support his father, mother, and
dumb sister. Once it happened that the old dog, which had grown up on
the farm, was taken sick, when Ivan thought he was dying, and, taking
pity on the animal, placed some bread in his hat and carried it to him.
It happened that when he turned out the bread the root which the little
devil had given him fell out also. The old dog swallowed it with the
bread and was almost instantly cured, when he jumped up and began to wag
his tail as an expression of joy. Ivan's father and mother, seeing
the dog cured so quickly, asked by what means he had performed such a
miracle.
Ivan replied: "I had some roots which would cure any disease, and the
dog swallowed one of them."
It happened about that time that the Czar's daughter became ill, and her
father had it announced in every city, town, and village that whosoever
would cure her would be richly rewarded; and if the lucky person should
prove to be a single man he would give her in marriage to him.
This announcement, of course, appeared in Ivan's village.
Ivan's father and mother called him and said: "If you have any of those
wonderful roots, go and cure the Czar's daughter. You will be much
happier for having performed such a kind act--indeed, you will be made
happy for all your after life."
"Very well," said Ivan; and he immediately made ready for the journey.
As he reached the porch on his way out he saw a poor woman standing
directly in his path and holding a broken arm. The woman accosted him,
saying:
"I was told that you could cure me, and will you not please do so, as I
am powerless to do anything for myself"
Ivan replied: "Very well, my poor woman; I will relieve you if I can."
382

He produced a root which he handed to the poor woman and told her to
swallow it.
She did as Ivan told her and was instantly cured, and went away
rejoicing that she had recovered the use of her arm.
Ivan's father and mother came out to wish him good luck on his journey,
and to them he told the story of the poor woman, saying that he
had given her his last root. On hearing this his parents were much
distressed, as they now believed him to be without the means of curing
the Czar's daughter, and began to scold him.
"You had pity for a beggar and gave no thought to the Czar's daughter,"
they said.
"I have pity for the Czar's daughter also," replied Ivan, after which
he harnessed his horse to his wagon and took his seat ready for his
departure; whereupon his parents said: "Where are you going, you
fool--to cure the Czar's daughter, and without anything to do it with"
"Very well," replied Ivan, as he drove away.
In due time he arrived at the palace, and the moment he appeared on
the balcony the Czar's daughter was cured. The Czar was overjoyed and
ordered Ivan to be brought into his presence. He dressed him in the
richest robes and addressed him as his son-in-law. Ivan was married to
the Czarevna, and, the Czar dying soon after, Ivan became ruler. Thus
the three brothers became rulers in different kingdoms.
CHAPTER IX.
The brothers lived and reigned. Simeon, the eldest brother, with his
straw soldiers took captive the genuine soldiers and trained all alike.
He was feared by every one.
Tarras-Briukhan, the other brother, did not squander the gold he
obtained from Ivan, but instead greatly increased his wealth, and at
the same time lived well. He kept his money in large trunks, and, while
having more than he knew what to do with, still continued to collect
money from his subjects. The people had to work for the money to pay the
taxes which Tarras levied on them, and life was made burdensome to them.
Ivan the Fool did not enjoy his wealth and power to the same extent
as did his brothers. As soon as his father-in-law, the late Czar, was
buried, he discarded the Imperial robes which had fallen to him and told
his wife to put them away, as he had no further use for them. Having
cast aside the insignia of his rank, he once more donned his peasant
garb and started to work as of old.
383

"I felt lonesome," he said, "and began to grow enormously stout, and yet
I had no appetite, and neither could I sleep."
Ivan sent for his father, mother, and dumb sister, and brought them to
live with him, and they worked with him at whatever he chose to do.
The people soon learned that Ivan was a fool. His wife one day said to
him, "The people say you are a fool, Ivan."
"Well, let them think so if they wish," he replied.
His wife pondered this reply for some time, and at last decided that
if Ivan was a fool she also was one, and that it would be useless to go
contrary to her husband, thinking affectionately of the old proverb that
"where the needle goes there goes the thread also." She therefore cast
aside her magnificent robes, and, putting them into the trunk
with Ivan's, dressed herself in cheap clothing and joined her dumb
sister-in-law, with the intention of learning to work. She succeeded so
well that she soon became a great help to Ivan.
Seeing that Ivan was a fool, all the wise men left the kingdom and only
the fools remained. They had no money, their wealth consisting only
of the products of their labor. But they lived peacefully together,
supported themselves in comfort, and had plenty to spare for the needy
and afflicted.
CHAPTER X.
The old devil grew tired of waiting for the good news which he expected
the little devils to bring him. He waited in vain to hear of the ruin of
the brothers, so he went in search of the emissaries which he had sent
to perform that work for him. After looking around for some time, and
seeing nothing but the three holes in the ground, he decided that they
had not succeeded in their work and that he would have to do it himself.
The old devil next went in search of the brothers, but he could learn
nothing of their whereabouts. After some time he found them in their
different kingdoms, contented and happy. This greatly incensed the
old devil, and he said, "I will now have to accomplish their mission
myself."
He first visited Simeon the soldier, and appeared before him as a
voyevoda (general), saying: "You, Simeon, are a great warrior, and I
also have had considerable experience in warfare, and am desirous of
serving you."
Simeon questioned the disguised devil, and seeing that he was an
intelligent man took him into his service.
384

The new General taught Simeon how to strengthen his army until it became
very powerful. New implements of warfare were introduced.
Cannons capable of throwing one hundred balls a minute were also
constructed, and these, it was expected, would be of deadly effect in
battle.
Simeon, on the advice of his new General, ordered all young men above a
certain age to report for drill. On the same advice Simeon established
gun-shops, where immense numbers of cannons and rifles were made.
The next move of the new General was to have Simeon declare war against
the neighboring kingdom. This he did, and with his immense army marched
into the adjoining territory, which he pillaged and burned, destroying
more than half the enemy's soldiers. This so frightened the ruler of
that country that he willingly gave up half of his kingdom to save the
other half.
Simeon, overjoyed at his success, declared his intention of marching
into Indian territory and subduing the Viceroy of that country.
But Simeon's intentions reached the ears of the Indian ruler, who
prepared to do battle with him. In addition to having secured all
the latest implements of warfare, he added still others of his own
invention. He ordered all boys over fourteen and all single women to
be drafted into the army, until its proportions became much larger than
Simeon's. His cannons and rifles were of the same pattern as Simeon's,
and he invented a flying-machine from which bombs could be thrown into
the enemy's camp.
Simeon went forth to conquer the Viceroy with full confidence in his own
powers to succeed. This time luck forsook him, and instead of being the
conqueror he was himself conquered.
The Indian ruler had so arranged his army that Simeon could not even
get within shooting distance, while the bombs from the flying-machine
carried destruction and terror in their path, completely routing his
army, so that Simeon was left alone.
The Viceroy took possession of his kingdom and Simeon had to fly for his
life.
Having finished with Simeon, the old devil next approached Tarras. He
appeared before him disguised as one of the merchants of his kingdom,
and established factories and began to make money. The "merchant" paid
the highest price for everything he purchased, and the people ran after
him to sell their goods. Through this "merchant" they were enabled to
make plenty of money, paying up all their arrears of taxes as well as
the others when they came due.
385

Tarras was overjoyed at this condition of affairs and said: "Thanks to
this merchant, now I will have more money than before, and life will be
much pleasanter for me."
He wished to erect new buildings, and advertised for workmen, offering
the highest prices for all kinds of labor. Tarras thought the people
would be as anxious to work as formerly, but instead he was much
surprised to learn that they were working for the "merchant." Thinking
to induce them to leave the "merchant," he increased his offers, but the
former, equal to the emergency, also raised the wages of his workmen.
Tarras, having plenty of money, increased the offers still more; but
the "merchant" raised them still higher and got the better of him. Thus,
defeated at every point, Tarras was compelled to abandon the idea of
building.
Tarras next announced that he intended laying out gardens and erecting
fountains, and the work was to be commenced in the fall, but no one
came to offer his services, and again he was obliged to forego his
intentions. Winter set in, and Tarras wanted some sable fur with which
to line his great-coat, and he sent his man to procure it for him; but
the servant returned without it, saying: "There are no sables to be had.
The 'merchant' has bought them all, paying a very high price for them."
Tarras needed horses and sent a messenger to purchase them, but he
returned with the same story as on former occasions--that none were to
be found, the "merchant" having bought them all to carry water for an
artificial pond he was constructing. Tarras was at last compelled to
suspend business, as he could not find any one willing to work for him.
They had all gone over to the "merchant's" side. The only dealings the
people had with Tarras were when they went to pay their taxes. His money
accumulated so fast that he could not find a place to put it, and his
life became miserable. He abandoned all idea of entering upon the new
venture, and only thought of how to exist peaceably. This he found
it difficult to do, for, turn which way he would, fresh obstacles
confronted him. Even his cooks, coachmen, and all his other servants
forsook him and joined the "merchant." With all his wealth he had
nothing to eat, and when he went to market he found the "merchant" had
been there before him and had bought up all the provisions. Still, the
people continued to bring him money.
Tarras at last became so indignant that he ordered the "merchant" out
of his kingdom. He left, but settled just outside the boundary line, and
continued his business with the same result as before, and Tarras was
frequently forced to go without food for days. It was rumored that the
"merchant" wanted to buy even Tarras himself. On hearing this the latter
became very much alarmed and could not decide as to the best course to
pursue.
About this time his brother Simeon arrived in the kingdom, and said:
"Help me, for I have been defeated and ruined by the Indian Viceroy."
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Tarras replied: "How can I help you, when I have had no food myself for
two days"
CHAPTER XI.
The old devil, having finished with the second brother, went to Ivan the
Fool. This time he disguised himself as a General, the same as in the
case of Simeon, and, appearing before Ivan, said: "Get an army together.
It is disgraceful for the ruler of a kingdom to be without an army. You
call your people to assemble, and I will form them into a fine large
army."
Ivan took the supposed General's advice, and said: "Well, you may form
my people into an army, but you must also teach them to sing the songs I
like."
The old devil then went through Ivan's kingdom to secure recruits for
the army, saying: "Come, shave your heads [the heads of recruits are
always shaved in Russia] and I will give each of you a red hat and
plenty of vodki" (whiskey).
At this the fools only laughed, and said: "We can have all the vodki we
want, for we distill it ourselves; and of hats, our little girls make
all we want, of any color we please, and with handsome fringes."
Thus was the devil foiled in securing recruits for his army; so
he returned to Ivan and said: "Your fools will not volunteer to be
soldiers. It will therefore be necessary to force them."
"Very well," replied Ivan, "you may use force if you want to."
The old devil then announced that all the fools must become soldiers,
and those who refused, Ivan would punish with death.
The fools went to the General; and said: "You tell us that Ivan will
punish with death all those who refuse to become soldiers, but you have
omitted to state what will be done with us soldiers. We have been told
that we are only to be killed."
"Yes, that is true," was the reply.
The fools on hearing this became stubborn and refused to go.
"Better kill us now if we cannot avoid death, but we will not become
soldiers," they declared.
"Oh! you fools," said the old devil, "soldiers may and may not be
killed; but if you disobey Ivan's orders you will find certain death at
his hands."
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The fools remained absorbed in thought for some time and finally went to
Ivan to question him in regard to the matter.
On arriving at his house they said: "A General came to us with an order
from you that we were all to become soldiers, and if we refused you were
to punish us with death. Is it true"
Ivan began to laugh heartily on hearing this, and said: "Well, how I
alone can punish you with death is something I cannot understand. If I
was not a fool myself I would be able to explain it to you, but as it is
I cannot."
"Well, then, we will not go," they said.
"Very well," replied Ivan, "you need not become soldiers unless you wish
to."
The old devil, seeing his schemes about to prove failures, went to the
ruler of Tarakania and became his friend, saying: "Let us go and
conquer Ivan's kingdom. He has no money, but he has plenty of cattle,
provisions, and various other things that would be useful to us."
The Tarakanian ruler gathered his large army together, and equipping it
with cannons and rifles, crossed the boundary line into Ivan's kingdom.
The people went to Ivan and said: "The ruler of Tarakania is here with a
large army to fight us."
"Let them come," replied Ivan.
The Tarakanian ruler, after crossing the line into Ivan's kingdom,
looked in vain for soldiers to fight against; and waiting some time and
none appearing, he sent his own warriors to attack the villages.
They soon reached the first village, which they began to plunder.
The fools of both sexes looked calmly on, offering not the least
resistance when their cattle and provisions were being taken from them.
On the contrary, they invited the soldiers to come and live with them,
saying: "If you, dear friends, find it is difficult to earn a living in
your own land, come and live with us, where everything is plentiful."
The soldiers decided to remain, finding the people happy and prosperous,
with enough surplus food to supply many of their neighbors. They were
surprised at the cordial greetings which they everywhere received, and,
returning to the ruler of Tarakania, they said: "We cannot fight with
these people--take us to another place. We would much prefer the dangers
of actual warfare to this unsoldierly method of subduing the village."
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The Tarakanian ruler, becoming enraged, ordered the soldiers to destroy
the whole kingdom, plunder the villages, burn the houses and provisions,
and slaughter the cattle.
"Should you disobey my orders," said he, "I will have every one of you
executed."
The soldiers, becoming frightened, started to do as they were ordered,
but the fools wept bitterly, offering no resistance, men, women, and
children all joining in the general lamentation.
"Why do you treat us so cruelly" they cried to the invading soldiers.
"Why do you wish to destroy everything we have If you have more need
of these things than we have, why not take them with you and leave us in
peace"
The soldiers, becoming saddened with remorse, refused further to
pursue their path of destruction--the entire army scattering in many
directions.
CHAPTER XII.
The old devil, failing to ruin Ivan's kingdom with soldiers, transformed
himself into a nobleman, dressed exquisitely, and became one of
Ivan's subjects, with the intention of compassing the downfall of his
kingdom--as he had done with that of Tarras.
The "nobleman" said to Ivan: "I desire to teach you wisdom and to render
you other service. I will build you a palace and factories."
"Very well," said Ivan; "you may live with us."
The next day the "nobleman" appeared on the Square with a sack of gold
in his hand and a plan for building a house, saying to the people: "You
are living like pigs, and I am going to teach you how to live decently.
You are to build a house for me according to this plan. I will
superintend the work myself, and will pay you for your services in
gold," showing them at the same time the contents of his sack.
The fools were amused. They had never before seen any money. Their
business was conducted entirely by exchange of farm products or by
hiring themselves out to work by the day in return for whatever they
most needed. They therefore glanced at the gold pieces with amazement,
and said, "What nice toys they would be to play with!" In return for the
gold they gave their services and brought the "nobleman" the produce of
their farms.
The old devil was overjoyed as he thought, "Now my enterprise is on a
fair road and I will be able to ruin the Fool--as I did his brothers."
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The fools obtained sufficient gold to distribute among the entire
community, the women and young girls of the village wearing much of it
as ornaments, while to the children they gave some pieces to play with
on the streets.
When they had secured all they wanted they stopped working and the
"noblemen" did not get his house more than half finished. He had neither
provisions nor cattle for the year, and ordered the people to bring him
both. He directed them also to go on with the building of the palace and
factories. He promised to pay them liberally in gold for everything they
did. No one responded to his call--only once in awhile a little boy or
girl would call to exchange eggs for his gold.
Thus was the "nobleman" deserted, and, having nothing to eat, he went
to the village to procure some provisions for his dinner. He went to
one house and offered gold in return for a chicken, but was refused, the
owner saying: "We have enough of that already and do not want any more."
He next went to a fish-woman to buy some herring, when she, too, refused
to accept his gold in return for fish, saying: "I do not wish it, my
dear man; I have no children to whom I can give it to play with. I have
three pieces which I keep as curiosities only."
He then went to a peasant to buy bread, but he also refused to accept
the gold. "I have no use for it," said he, "unless you wish to give it
for Christ's sake; then it will be a different matter, and I will tell
my baba [old woman] to cut a piece of bread for you."
The old devil was so angry that he ran away from the peasant, spitting
and cursing as he went.
Not only did the offer to accept in the name of Christ anger him, but
the very mention of the name was like the thrust of a knife in his
throat.
The old devil did not succeed in getting any bread, and in his efforts
to secure other articles of food he met with the same failure. The
people had all the gold they wanted and what pieces they had they
regarded as curiosities. They said to the old devil: "If you bring us
something else in exchange for food, or come to ask for Christ's sake,
we will give you all you want."
But the old devil had nothing but gold, and was too lazy to work;
and being unable to accept anything for Christ's sake, he was greatly
enraged.
"What else do you want" he said. "I will give you gold with which you
can buy everything you want, and you need labor no longer."
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But the fools would not accept his gold, nor listen to him. Thus the old
devil was obliged to go to sleep hungry.
Tidings of this condition of affairs soon reached the ears of Ivan. The
people went to him and said: "What shell we do This nobleman appeared
among us; he is well dressed; he wishes to eat and drink of the best,
but is unwilling to work, and does not beg for food for Christ's sake.
He only offers every one gold pieces. At first we gave him everything he
wanted, taking the gold pieces in exchange just as curiosities; but
now we have enough of them and refuse to accept any more from him. What
shall we do with him he may die of hunger!"
Ivan heard all they had to say, and told them to employ him as a
shepherd, taking turns in doing so.
The old devil saw no other way out of the difficulty and was obliged to
submit.
It soon came the old devil's turn to go to Ivan's house. He went there
to dinner and found Ivan's dumb sister preparing the meal. She was often
cheated by the lazy people, who while they did not work, yet ate up all
the gruel. But she learned to know the lazy people from the condition of
their hands. Those with great welts on their hands she invited first
to the table, and those having smooth white hands had to take what was
left.
The old devil took a seat at the table, but the dumb girl, taking his
hands, looked at them, and seeing them white and clean, and with long
nails, swore at him and put him from the table.
Ivan's wife said to the old devil: "You must excuse my sister-in-law;
she will not allow any one to sit at the table whose hands have not been
hardened by toil, so you will have to wait until the dinner is over and
then you can have what is left. With it you must be satisfied."
The old devil was very much offended that he was made to eat with
"pigs," as he expressed it, and complained to Ivan, saying: "The foolish
law you have in your kingdom, that all persons must work, is surely the
invention of fools. People who work for a living are not always forced
to labor with their hands. Do you think wise men labor so"
Ivan replied: "Well, what do fools know about it We all work with our
hands."
"And for that reason you are fools," replied the devil. "I can teach you
how to use your brains, and you will find such labor more beneficial."
Ivan was surprised at hearing this, and said:
"Well, it is perhaps not without good reason that we are called fools."
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"It is not so easy to work with the brain," the old devil said.
"You will not give me anything to eat because my hands have not the
appearance of being toil-hardened, but you must understand that it is
much harder to do brain-work, and sometimes the head feels like bursting
with the effort it is forced to make."
"Then why do you not select some light work that you can perform with
your hands" Ivan asked.
The devil said: "I torment myself with brain-work because I have pity
for you fools, for, if I did not torture myself, people like you would
remain fools for all eternity. I have exercised my brain a great deal
during my life, and now I am able to teach you."
Ivan was greatly surprised and said: "Very well; teach us, so that when
our hands are tired we can use our heads to replace them."
The devil promised to instruct the people, and Ivan announced the fact
throughout his kingdom.
The devil was willing to teach all those who came to him how to use the
head instead of the hands, so as to produce more with the former than
with the latter.
In Ivan's kingdom there was a high tower, which was reached by a long,
narrow ladder leading up to the balcony, and Ivan told the old devil
that from the top of the tower every one could see him.
So the old devil went up to the balcony and addressed the people.
The fools came in great crowds to hear what the old devil had to say,
thinking that he really meant to tell them how to work with the head.
But the old devil only told them in words what to do, and did not give
them any practical instruction. He said that men working only with their
hands could not make a living. The fools did not understand what he
said to them and looked at him in amazement, and then departed for their
daily work.
The old devil addressed them for two days from the balcony, and at the
end of that time, feeling hungry, he asked the people to bring him some
bread. But they only laughed at him and told him if he could work better
with his head than with his hands he could also find bread for himself.
He addressed the people for yet another day, and they went to hear him
from curiosity, but soon left him to return to their work.
Ivan asked, "Well, did the nobleman work with his head"
"Not yet," they said; "so far he has only talked."
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One day, while the old devil was standing on the balcony, he became
weak, and, falling down, hurt his head against a pole.
Seeing this, one of the fools ran to Ivan's wife and said, "The
gentleman has at last commenced to work with his head."
She ran to the field to tell Ivan, who was much surprised, and said,
"Let us go and see him."
He turned his horses' heads in the direction of the tower, where the old
devil remained weak from hunger and was still suspended from the pole,
with his body swaying back and forth and his head striking the lower
part of the pole each time it came in contact with it. While Ivan
was looking, the old devil started down the steps head-first--as they
supposed, to count them.
"Well," said Ivan, "he told the truth after all--that sometimes from
this kind of work the head bursts. This is far worse than welts on the
hands."
The old devil fell to the ground head-foremost. Ivan approached him,
but at that instant the ground opened and the devil disappeared, leaving
only a hole to show where he had gone.
Ivan scratched his head and said: "See here; such nastiness! This is yet
another devil. He looks like the father of the little ones."
Ivan still lives, and people flock to his kingdom. His brothers come to
him and he feeds them.
To every one who comes to him and says, "Give us food," he replies:
"Very well; you are welcome. We have plenty of everything."
There is only one unchangeable custom observed in Ivan's kingdom: The
man with toil-hardened hands is always given a seat at the table, while
the possessor of soft white hands must be contented with what is left.
393

The Empty Drum - Leo Tolstoy
(A FOLK-TALE LONG CURRENT IN THE REGION OF THE VOLGA)
EMELYÁN WAS a labourer and worked for a master. Crossing the meadows one day on his
way to work, he nearly trod on a frog that jumped right in front of him, but he just managed
to avoid it. Suddenly he heard some one calling to him from behind.
Emelyán looked round and saw a lovely lassie, who said to him: 'Why don't you get married,
Emelyán'
'How can I marry, my lass' said he. 'I have but the clothes I stand up in, nothing more, and
no one would have me for a husband.'
'Take me for a wife,' said she.
Emelyán liked the maid. 'I should be glad to,' said he, 'but where and how could we live'
'Why trouble about that' said the girl. 'One only has to work more and sleep less, and one
can clothe and feed oneself anywhere.'
'Very well then, let us marry,' said Emelyán. 'Where shall we go to'
'Let us go to town.'
So Emelyán and the lass went to town, and she took him to a small hut on the very edge of
the town, and they married and began housekeeping.
One day the King, driving through the town, passed by Emelyán's hut. Emelyán's wife came
out to see the King. The King noticed her and was quite surprised.
'Where did such a beauty come from' said he and stopping his carriage he called Emelyán's
wife and asked her: 'Who are you'
'The peasant Emelyán's wife,' said she.
'Why did you, who are such a beauty, marry a peasant' said the King. 'You ought to be a
queen!'
'Thank you for your kind words,' said she, 'but a peasant husband is good enough for me.'
The King talked to her awhile and then drove on. He returned to the palace, but could not get
Emelyán's wife out of his head. All night he did not sleep, but kept thinking how to get her
for himself. He could think of no way of doing it, so he called his servants and told them they
must find a way.
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The King's servants said: 'Command Emelyán to come to the palace to work, and we will
work him so hard that he will die. His wife will be left a widow, and then you can take her for
yourself.'
The King followed their advice. He sent an order that Emelyán should come to the palace as a
workman and that he should live at the palace, and his wife with him.
The messengers came to Emelyán and gave him the King's message. His wife said, 'Go,
Emelyán; work all day, but come back home at night.'
So Emelyán went, and when he got to the palace the King's steward asked him, 'Why have
you come alone, without your wife'
'Why should I drag her about' said Emelyán. 'She has a house to live in.'
At the King's palace they gave Emelyán work enough for two. He began the job not hoping to
finish it; but when evening came, lo and behold! it was all done. The steward saw that it was
finished, and set him four times as much for next day.
Emelyán went home. Everything there was swept and tidy; the oven was heated, his supper
was cooked and ready, and his wife sat by the table sewing and waiting for his return. She
greeted him, laid the table, gave him to eat and drink, and then began to ask him about his
work.
'Ah!' said he, 'it's a bad business: they give me tasks beyond my strength, and want to kill me
with work.'
'Don't fret about the work,' said she, 'don't look either before or behind to see how much you
have done or how much there is left to do; only keep on working and all will be right.'
So Emelyán lay down and slept. Next morning he went to work again and worked without
once looking round. And, lo and behold! by the evening it was all done, and before dark he
came home for the night.
Again and again they increased Emelyán's work, but he always got through it in good time
and went back to his hut to sleep. A week passed, and the King's servants saw they could not
crush him with rough work so they tried giving him work that required skill. But this, also,
was of no avail. Carpentering, and masonry, and roofing, whatever they set him to do,
Emelyán had it ready in time, and went home to his wife at night. So a second week passed.
Then the King called his servants and said: 'Am I to feed you for nothing Two weeks have
gone, and I don't see that you have done anything. You were going to tire Emelyán out with
work, but I see from my windows how he goes home every evening -- singing cheerfully! Do
you mean to make a fool of me'
The King's servants began to excuse themselves. 'We tried our best to wear him out with
rough work,' they said, 'but nothing was too hard for him; he cleared it all off as though he
had swept it away with a broom. There was no tiring him out. Then we set him to tasks
needing skill, which we did not think he was clever enough to do, but he managed them all.
No matter what one sets him, he does it all, no one knows how. Either he or his wife must
395

know some spell that helps them. We ourselves are sick of him, and wish to find a task he
cannot master. We have now thought of setting him to build a cathedral in a single day. Send
for Emelyán, and order him to build a cathedral in front of the palace in a single day. Then, if
he does not do it, let his head be cut off for disobedience.'
The King sent for Emelyán. 'Listen to my command,' said he: 'build me a new cathedral on
the square in front of my palace, and have it ready by to-morrow evening. If you have it ready
I will reward you, but if not I will have your head cut off.'
When Emelyán heard the King's command he turned away and went home. 'My end is near,'
thought he. And coming to his wife, he said: 'Get ready, wife we must fly from here, or I shall
be lost by no fault of my own.'
'What has frightened you so' said she, 'and why should we run away'
'How can I help being frightened The King has ordered me, to-morrow, in a single day, to
build him a cathedral. If I fail he will cut my head off. There is only one thing to be done: we
must fly while there is yet time.'
But his wife would not hear of it. 'The King has many soldiers,' said she. 'They would catch
us anywhere. We cannot escape from him, but must obey him as long as strength holds out.'
'How can I obey him when the task is beyond my strength'
'Eh, goodman, don't be downhearted. Eat your supper now, and go to sleep. Rise early in the
morning and all will get done.'
So Emelyán lay down and slept. His wife roused him early next day. 'Go quickly,' said she,
'and finish the cathedral. Here are nails and a hammer; there is still enough work there for a
day.'
Emelyán went into the town, reached the palace square, and there stood a large cathedral not
quite finished. Emelyán set to work to do what was needed, and by the evening all was ready.
When the King awoke he looked out from his palace, and saw the cathedral, and Emelyán
going about driving in nails here and there. And the King was not pleased to have the
cathedral -- he was annoyed at not being able to condemn Emelyán and take his wife. Again
he called his servants. 'Emelyán has done this task also,' said the King, 'and there is no excuse
for putting him to death. Even this work was not too hard for him. You must find a more
cunning plan, or I will cut off your heads as well as his.'
So his servants planned that Emelyán should be ordered to make a river round the palace,
with ships sailing on it. And the King sent for Emelyán and set him this new task.
'If,' said he, 'you could build a cathedral in one night, you can also do this. To-morrow all
must be ready. If not, I will have your head off.'
Emelyán was more downcast than before, and returned to his wife sad at heart.
'Why are you so sad' said his wife. 'Has the King set you a fresh task'
396

Emelyán told her about it. 'We must fly,' said he.
But his wife replied: 'There is no escaping the soldiers; they will catch us wherever we go.
There is nothing for it but to obey.'
'How can I do it' groaned Emelyán.
'Eh! eh! goodman,' said she, 'don't be downhearted. Eat your supper now, and go to sleep.
Rise early, and all will get done in good time.'
So Emelyán lay down and slept. In the morning his wife woke him. 'Go,' said she 'to the
palace -- all is ready. Only, near the wharf in front of the palace, there is a mound left; take a
spade and level it.
When the King awoke he saw a river where there had not been one; ships were sailing up and
down, and Emelyán was levelling a mound with a spade. The King wondered, but was
pleased neither with the river nor with the ships, so vexed was he at not being able to
condemn Emelyán. 'There is no task,' thought he, 'that he cannot manage. What is to be
done' And he called his servants and again asked their advice.
'Find some task,' said he, 'which Emelyán cannot compass. For whatever we plan he fulfils,
and I cannot take his wife from him.'
The King's servants thought and thought, and at last devised a plan. They came to the King
and said: 'Send for Emelyán and say to him: "Go to there, don't know where," and bring back
"that, don't know what." Then he will not be able to escape you. No matter where he goes,
you can say that he has not gone to the right place, and no matter what he brings, you can say
it is not the right thing. Then you can have him beheaded and can take his wife.'
The King was pleased. 'That is well thought of,' said he. So the King sent for Emelyán and
said to him: 'Go to "there, don't know where," and bring back "that, don't know what." If you
fail to bring it, I will have you beheaded.'
Emelyán returned to his wife and told her what the King had said. His wife became
thoughtful.
'Well,' said she, 'they have taught the King how to catch you. Now we must act warily.' So
she sat and thought, and at last said to her husband: 'You must go far, to our Grandam -- the
old peasant woman, the mother of soldiers -- and you must ask her aid. If she helps you to
anything, go straight to the palace with it, I shall be there: I cannot escape them now. They
will take me by force, but it will not be for long. If you do everything as Grandam directs,
you will soon save me.'
So the wife got her husband ready for the journey. She gave him a wallet, and also a spindle.
'Give her this,' said she. 'By this token she will know that you are my husband.' And his wife
showed him his road.
Emelyán set off. He left the town behind, and came to where some soldiers were being
drilled. Emelyán stood and watched them. After drill the soldiers sat down to rest. Then
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Emelyán went up to them and asked: 'Do you know, brothers, the way to "there, don't know
where" and how I can get "that, don't know what"'
The soldiers listened to him with surprise. 'Who sent you on this errand' said they
'The King,' said he.
'We ourselves,' said they, 'from the day we became soldiers, go we "don't know where," and
never yet have we got there; and we seek we "don't know what," and cannot find it. We
cannot help you.'
Emelyán sat a while with the soldiers and then went on again. He trudged many a mile, and at
last came to a wood. In the wood was a hut, and in the hut sat an old, old woman, the mother
of peasant soldiers, spinning flax and weeping. And as she spun she did not put her fingers to
her mouth to wet them with spittle, but to her eyes to wet them with tears. When the old
woman saw Emelyán she cried out at him: 'Why have you come here' Then Emelyán gave
her the spindle, and said his wife had sent it.
The old woman softened at once, and began to question him. And Emelyán told her his whole
life: how he married the lass; how they went to live in the town; how he had worked, and
what he had done at the palace; how he built the cathedral, and made a river with ships on it,
and how the King had now told him to go to 'there, don't know where, and bring back 'that,
don't know what.'
The Grandam listened to the end, and ceased weeping. She muttered to herself: 'The time has
surely come,' and said to him: 'All right, my lad. Sit down now, and I will give you something
to eat.'
Emelyán ate, and then the Grandam told him what to do. 'Here,' said she, 'is a ball of thread;
roll it before you, and follow where it goes. You must go far till you come right to the sea.
When you get there you will see a great city. Enter the city and ask for a night's lodging at the
furthest house. There look out for what you are seeking.'
'How shall I know it when I see it, Granny' said he.
'When you see something men obey more than father or mother, that is it. Seize that, and take
it to the King. When you bring it to the King, he will say it is not right, and you must answer:
"If it is not the right thing it must be smashed," and you must beat it, and carry it to the river,
break it in pieces, and throw it into the water. Then you will get your wife back and my tears
will be dried.'
Emelyán bade farewell to the Grandam and began rolling his ball before him. It rolled and
rolled until at last it reached the sea. By the sea stood a great city, and at the further end of the
city was a big house. There Emelyán begged for a night's lodging, and was granted it. He lay
down to sleep, and in the morning awoke and heard a father rousing his son to go and cut
wood for the fire. But the son did not obey. 'It is too early,' said he, 'there is time enough.'
Then Emelyán heard the mother say, 'Go, my son, your father's bones ache; would you have
him go himself It is time to be up!'
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But the son only murmured some words and fell asleep again. Hardly was he asleep when
something thundered and rattled in the street. Up jumped the son and quickly putting on his
clothes ran out into the street. Up jumped Emelyán, too, and ran after him to see what it was
that a son obeys more than father or mother. What he saw was a man walking along the street
carrying, tied to his stomach, a thing which he beat with sticks, and that it was that rattled and
thundered so, and that the son had obeyed. Emelyán ran up and had a look at it. He saw it was
round, like a small tub, with a skin stretched over both ends, and he asked what it was called.
He was told, 'A drum.'
'And is it empty'
'Yes, it is empty.'
Emelyán was surprised. He asked them to give the thing to him, but they would not. So
Emelyán left off asking, and followed the drummer. All day he followed, and when the
drummer at last lay down to sleep, Emelyán snatched the drum from him and ran away with
it.
He ran and ran, till at last he got back to his own town. He went to see his wife, but she was
not at home. The day after he went away, the King had taken her. So Emelyán went to the
palace, and sent in a message to the King: 'He has returned who went to "there, don't know
where," and he has brought with him "that, don't know what."'
They told the King, and the King said he was to come again next day.
But Emelyán said, 'Tell the King I am here to-day, and have brought what the King wanted.
Let him come out to me, or I will go in to him!'
The King came out. 'Where have you been' said he.
Emelyán told him.
'That's not the right place,' said the King. 'What have you brought'
Emelyán pointed to the drum, but the King did not look at it.
'That is not it.'
'If it is not the right thing,' said Emelyán, 'it must be smashed, and may the devil take it!'
And Emelyán left the palace, carrying the drum and beating it. And as he beat it all the King's
army ran out to follow Emelyán, and they saluted him and waited his commands.
The King, from his window, began to shout at his army telling them not to follow Emelyán.
They did not listen to what he said, but all followed Emelyán.
When the King saw that, he gave orders that Emelyán's wife should be taken back to him, and
he sent to ask Emelyán to give him the drum.
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'It can't be done,' said Emelyán. 'I was told to smash it and to throw the splinters into the
river.'
So Emelyán went down to the river carrying the drum, and the soldiers followed him. When
he reached the river bank Emelyán smashed the drum to splinters, and threw the splinters into
the stream. And then all the soldiers ran away.
Emelyán took his wife and went home with her. And after that the King ceased to trouble
him; and so they lived happily ever after.
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