studio 1000
Diese Reihe eignet sich ideal für Sprachanfänger, die über einen kleinen Wortschatz verfügen. Lediglich die 1000 häufigsten Wörter der jeweiligen Lektüresprache werden als bekannt vorausgesetzt, die zudem als Wortlisten im PDF-Format zum Download bereitstehen. Im Gegensatz zu anderen Textausgaben für Sprachanfänger wurden diese Texte nicht vereinfacht, sondern orientieren sich grundsätzlich am Original. Darum sei diese Reihe auch fortgeschritteneren Leserinnen und Lesern ans Herz gelegt, da sich in allen historischen Texten stets auch Wörter, abweichende Schreibungen, Idiome u.ä. vorfinden, die in der heutigen Verkehrssprache wenig oder gar nicht gebräuchlich sind.
In dieser Reihe sind für Englisch bereits erschienen:
- Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
- Robert Louis Stevenson, Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
- Oscar Wilde, The Canterville Ghost, The Happy Prince and Other Tales
Die 1000 wichtigsten Wörter Englisch – PDF
studio 3000
An fortgeschrittenere Leserinnen und Leser richtet sich die Reihe studio 3000, in der immerhin die ca. 3000 häufigsten Wörter der jeweiligen Lektüresprache vorausgesetzt werden. Zugrunde gelegt wird die Auswahl des recht populären „Langenscheidt Vokabeltrainer Englisch“. Spätestens nach vier bis sechs Jahren Unterricht in einer allgemeinbildenden Schule wird dieser Wortschatz normalerweise sicher beherrscht.
In dieser Reihe sind für Englisch bereits erschienen:
- Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
- James Joyce, Dubliners
- Katherine Mansfield, Bliss and Other Stories
- Katherine Mansfield, The Garden Party and Other Stories
- Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven and Other Poems
- Edgar Allan Poe, The Fall of the House of Usher and Other Tales
- Edgar Allan Poe, The Murders in the Rue Morgue and The Purloined Letter
- Jonathan Swift, A Voyage to Lilliput - First Part of Gulliver’s Travels
![Buchcover von "Heart of Darkness" von Joseph Conrad. - Text: I. The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flut-ter of the sails, and was at rest. The flood had made, the wind was nearly calm, and being bound down the river, the only thing for it was to come to and wait for the turn of the tide. The sea–reach of the Thames stretched before us like the begin-ning of an interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness. The air was dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemed condensed into a mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth. The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. We four affectionately watched his back as he stood in the bows look-ing to seaward. On the whole river there was nothing that looked half so nautical. He resembled a pilot, which to a seaman is trust-worthiness personified. It was difficult to realize his work was not out there in the luminous estuary, but behind him, within the brooding gloom. Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond of the sea. Besides holding our hearts together through long periods of separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other’s yarns—and even convictions. The Lawyer—the best of old fellows—had, because of his many years and many virtues, the only cushion on deck, and was lying on the only rug. The Accountant had brought out already a box of dominoes, and was toying architecturally with the bones. Marlow sat cross–legged right aft, leaning against the mizzenmast. He had sunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect, and, with his arms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, resembled an idol. The Director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, made his way aft and sat down amongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily. Afterwards there was silence on board the yacht. For some reason or other we did not begin that game of dominoes. We felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marsh was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun. And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, and from glowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat, as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom brooding over a crowd of men. Forthwith a change came over the waters, and the serenity became less brilliant but more profound. The old river in its broad reach rested unruffled at the decline of day, after ages of good service done to the race that peopled its banks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of a waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth. We looked at the venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and departs for ever, but in the august light of abiding memories. And indeed nothing is easier for a man who has, as the phrase goes, “followed the sea” with reverence and affection, than to evoke the great spirit of the past upon the lower reaches of the Thames. The tidal current runs to and fro in its unceasing service, crowded with memories of men and ships it had borne to the rest of home or to the battles of the sea. It had known and served all the men of whom the nation is proud, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John Franklin, knights all, titled and untitled the great knights-errant of the sea. It had borne all the ships whose names are like jewels flashing in the night of time, from the Golden Hind returning with her rotund flanks full of treasure, to be visited by the Queen’s Highness and thus pass out of the gigantic tale, to the Erebus and Terror, bound on other conquests—and that never returned. It had known the ships and the men. They had sailed from Deptford, from Greenwich, from Erith—the adventurers and the settlers; kings’ ships and the ships of men on ’Change; captains, admirals, the dark “interlopers” of the Eastern trade, and the commissioned “generals” of East India fleets. Hunters for gold or pursuers of fame, they all had gone out on that stream, bearing the sword, and often the torch, messengers of the might within the land, bearers of a spark from the sacred fire. What greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river into the mystery of an unknown earth! … The dreams of men, the seed of commonwealths, the germs of empires. The sun set; the dusk fell on the stream, and lights began to appear along the shore. The Chapman lighthouse, a three–legged thing erect on a mud–flat, shone strongly. Lights of ships moved in the fairway—a great stir of lights going up and going down. And far-ther west on the upper reaches the place of the monstrous town was still marked ominously on the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars. “And this also,” said Marlow suddenly, “has been one of the dark places of the earth.” He was the only man of us who still “followed the sea.” The worst that could be said of him was that he did not represent his class. He was a seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one may so express it, a sedentary life. Their minds are of the stay–at–home order, and their home is always with them—the ship; and so is their country—the sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same. In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny. For the rest, after his hours of work, a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to unfold for him the secret of a whole continent, and generally he finds the secret not worth knowing. The yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut. But Marlow was not typical (if his propensity to spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination of moonshine. His remark did not seem at all surprising. It was just like Marlow. It was accepted in silence. No one took the trouble to grunt even; and presently he said, very slow:“I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago the other day. ... Light came out of this river since—you say Knights? Yes; but it is like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker—may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! But darkness was here yesterday. Imagine the feelings of a commander of a fine—what d’ye call ’em?—trireme in the Mediterranean, ordered suddenly to the north; run overland across the Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one of these craft the legionaries—a won-derful lot of handy men they must have been, too—used to build, apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, if we may believe what we read. Imagine him here—the very end of the world, a sea the colour of lead, a sky the colour of smoke, a kind of ship about as rigid as a concertina—and going up this river with stores, or orders, or what you like. Sandbanks, marshes, forests, savages, precious little to eat fit for a civilized man, nothing but Thames water to drink. No Falernian wine here, no going ashore. Here and there a military camp lost in a wilderness, like a needle in a bundle of hay—cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, and death—death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. They must have been dying like flies here. Oh, yes—he did it. Did it very well, too, no doubt, and without thinking much about it either, except afterwards to brag of what he had gone through in his time, perhaps. They were men enough to face the darkness. And perhaps he was cheered by keeping his eye on a chance of promotion to the fleet at Ravenna by and by, if he had good friends in Rome and survived the awful climate. Or think of a decent young citizen in a toga—perhaps too much dice, you know—coming out here in the train of some prefect, or tax–gatherer, or trader even, to mend his fortunes. Land in a swamp, march through the woods, and in some inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him—all that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men. There’s no initiation either into such mysteries. He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable. And it has a fascination, too, that goes to work upon him. The fascination of the abomination—you know, imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate.” He paused. “Mind,” he began again, lifting one arm from the elbow, the palm of the hand outwards, so that, with his legs folded before him, he had the pose of a Buddha preaching in European clothes and without a lotus–flower—“Mind, none of us would feel exactly like this. What saves us is efficiency—the devotion to efficiency. But these chaps were not much account, really. They were no colonists; their administration was merely a squeeze, and nothing more, I suspect. They were conquerors, and for that you want only brute force—nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others. They grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to be got. It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind—as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness. The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea—something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to ...” He broke off. Flames glided in the river, small green flames, red flames, white flames, pursuing, overtaking, joining, crossing eachother—then separating slowly or hastily. The traffic of the great city went on in the deepening night upon the sleepless river. We looked on, waiting patiently—there was nothing else to do till the end of the flood; but it was only after a long silence, when he said, in a hesitating voice: “I suppose you fellows remember I did once turn fresh–water sailor for a bit,” that we knew we were fated, before the ebb began to run, to hear about one of Marlow’s inconclusive experiences. “I don’t want to bother you much with what happened to me personally,” he began, showing in this remark the weakness of many tellers of tales who seem so often unaware of what their audience would like best to hear; “yet to understand the effect of it on me you ought to know how I got out there, what I saw, how I went up that river to the place where I first met the poor chap. It was the farthest point of navigation and the culminating point of my experience. It seemed somehow to throw a kind of light on everything about me—and into my thoughts. It was sombre enough, too—and pitiful—not extraordinary in any way—not very clear either. No, not very clear. And yet it seemed to throw a kind of light. I had then, as you remember, just returned to London after a lot of Indian Ocean, Pacific, China Seas—a regular dose of the East—six years or so, and I was loafing about, hindering you fellows in your work and invading your homes, just as though I had got a heavenly mission to civilize you. It was very fine for a time, but after a bit I did get tired of resting. Then I began to look for a ship—I should think the hardest work on earth. But the ships wouldn’t even look at me. And I got tired of that game, too. Now when I was a little chap I had a passion for maps. I would look for hours at South America, or Africa, or Australia, and lose myself in all the glories of exploration. At that time there were many blank spaces on the earth, and when I saw one that looked particularly inviting on a map (but they all look that) I would put my finger on it and say: ‘When I grow up I will go there.’ The North Pole was one of these places, I remember. Well, I haven’t been there yet, and shall not try now. The glamour’s off. Other places were scattered about the hemispheres. I have been in some of them, and ... well, we won’t talk about that. But there was one yet—the biggest, the most blank, so to speak—that I had a hankering after. True, by this time it was not a blank space any more. It had got filled since my boyhood with rivers and lakes and names. It had ceased to be a blank space of delightful mystery—a white patch for a boy to dream gloriously over. It had become a place of darkness. But there was in it one river especially, a mighty big river, that you could see on the map, resembling an immense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, its body at rest curving afar over a vast country, and its tail lost in the depths of the land. And as I looked at the map of it in a shop–window, it fascinated me as a snake would a bird—a silly little bird. Then I remembered there was a big concern, a Company for trade on that river. Dash it all! I thought to myself, they can’t trade without using some kind of craft on that lot of fresh water—steamboats! Why shouldn’t I try to get charge of one? I went on along Fleet Street, but could not shake off the idea. The snake had charmed me. You understand it was a Continental concern, that Trading society; but I have a lot of relations living on the Continent, because it’s cheap and not so nasty as it looks, they say. I am sorry to own I began to worry them. This was already a fresh departure for me. I was not used to get things that way, you know. I always went my own road and on my own legs where I had a mind to go. I wouldn’t have believed it of myself; but, then—you see—I felt somehow I must get there by hook or by crook. So I worried them. The men said ‘My dear fellow,’ and did nothing. Then—would you believe it?—I tried the women. I, Charlie Marlow, set the women to work—to get a job. Heavens! Well, you see, the notion drove me. I had an aunt, a dear enthusi-astic soul. She wrote: ‘It will be delightful. I am ready to do anything, anything for you. It is a glorious idea. I know the wife of a very high personage in the Administration, and also a man who has lots of influence with,’ &c. &c.’ She was determined to make no end of fuss to get me appointed skipper of a river steamboat, if such was my fancy. I got my appointment—of course; and I got it very quick. It appears the Company had received news that one of their captains had been killed in a scuffle with the natives. This was my chance, and it made me the more anxious to go. It was only months and months afterwards, when I made the attempt to recover what was left of the body, that I heard the original quarrel arose from a misunderstanding about some hens. Yes, two black hens. Fresleven—that was the fellow’s name, a Dane—thought himself wronged somehow in the bargain, so he went ashore and started to hammer the chief of the village with a stick. Oh, it didn’t surprise me in the least to hear this, and at the same time to be told that Fresleven was the gentlest, quietest creature that ever walked on two legs. No doubt he was; but he had been a couple of years already out there engaged in the noble cause, you know, and he probably felt the need at last of asserting his self–respect in some way. Therefore he whacked the old nigger mercilessly, while a big crowd of his people watched him, thunderstruck, till some man—I was told the chief’s son—in desperation at hearing the old chap yell, made a tentative jab with a spear at the white man—and of course it went quite easy between the shoulder–blades. Then the whole population cleared into the forest, expecting all kinds of calamities to happen, while, on the other hand, the steamer Fresleven commanded left also in a bad panic, in charge of the engineer, I believe. Afterwards nobody seemed to trouble much about Fresleven’s remains, till I got out and stepped into his shoes. I couldn’t let it rest, though; but when an opportunity offered at last to meet my predecessor, the grass growing through his ribs was tall enough to hide his bones. They were all there. The supernatural being had not been touched after he fell. And the village was deserted, the huts gaped black, rotting, all askew within the fallen enclosures. A calamity had come to it, sure enough. The people had vanished. Mad terror had scattered them, men, women, and children, through the bush, and they had never returned. What became of the hens I don’t know either. I should think the cause of progress got them, anyhow. However, through this glorious affair I got my appointment, before I had fairly begun to hope for it. I flew around like mad to get ready, and before forty–eight hours I was crossing the Channel to show myself to my employers, and sign the contract. In a very few hours I arrived in a city that always makes me think of a whited sepulchre. Prejudice no doubt. I had no difficulty in finding the Company’s offices. It was the biggest thing in the town, and everybody I met was full of it. They were going to run an over–sea empire, and make no end of coin by trade. A narrow and deserted street in deep shadow, high houses, innumerable windows with venetian blinds, a dead silence, grass sprouting right and left, immense double doors standing ponderously ajar. I slipped through one of these cracks, went up a swept and ungarnished staircase, as arid as a desert, and opened the first door I came to. Two women, one fat and the other slim, sat on straw–bottomed chairs, knitting black wool. The slim one got up and walked straight at me—still knitting with downcast eyes—and only just as I began to think of getting out of her way, as you would for a somnambulist, stood still, and looked up. Her dress was as plain as an umbrella–cover, and she turned round without a word and preceded me into a waiting–room. I gave my name, and looked about. Deal table in the middle, plain chairs all round the walls, on one end a large shining map, marked with all the colours of a rainbow. There was a vast amount of red—good to see at any time, because one knows that some real work is done in there, a deuce of a lot of blue, a little green, smears of orange, and, on the East Coast, a purple patch, to show where the jolly pioneers of progress drink the jolly lager–beer. However, I wasn’t going into any of these. I was going into the yellow. Dead in the centre. And the river was there—fascinating—deadly—like a snake. Ough! A door opened, a white–haired secretarial head, but wearing a compassionate expression, appeared, and a skinny forefinger beckoned me into the sanctuary. Its light was dim, and a heavy writing–desk squatted in the middle. From behind that structure came out an impression of pale plumpness in a frock–coat. The great man himself. He was five feet six, I should judge, and had his grip on the handle–end of ever so many millions. He shook hands, I fancy, murmured vaguely, was satisfied with my French. Bon voyage. In about forty–five seconds I found myself again in the waiting–room with the compassionate secretary, who, full of desolation and sympathy, made me sign some document. I believe I undertook amongst other things not to disclose any trade secrets. Well, I am not going to. I began to feel slightly uneasy. You know I am not used to such ceremonies, and there was something ominous in the atmosphere. It was just as though I had been let into some conspiracy—I don’t know—something not quite right; and I was glad to get out. In the outer room the two women knitted black wool feverishly. People were arriving, and the younger one was walking back and forth introducing them. The old one sat on her chair. Her flat cloth slippers were propped up on a foot–warmer, and a cat reposed on her lap. She wore a starched white affair on her head, had a wart on one cheek, and silver–rimmed spectacles hung on the tip of her nose. She glanced at me above the glasses. The swift and indifferent placidity of that look troubled me. Two youths with foolish and cheery countenances were being piloted over, and she threw at them the same quick glance of unconcerned wisdom. She seemed to know all about them and about me, too. An eerie feeling came over me. She seemed uncanny and fateful. Often far away there I thought of these two, guarding the door of Darkness, knitting black wool as for a warm pall, one introducing, introducing continuously to the unknown, the other scrutinizing the cheery and foolish faces with unconcerned old eyes. Ave! Old knitter of black wool. Morituri te salutant. Not many of those she looked at ever saw her again—not half, by a long way. There was yet a visit to the doctor. ‘A simple formality,’ assured me the secretary, with an air of taking an immense part in all my sorrows. Accordingly a young chap wearing his hat over the left eyebrow, some clerk I suppose—there must have been clerks in the business, though the house was as still as a house in a city of the dead—came from somewhere up–stairs, and led me forth. He was shabby and careless, with ink-stains on the sleeves of his jacket, and his cravat was large and billowy, under a chin shaped like the toe of an old boot. It was a little too early for the doctor, so I proposed a drink, and thereupon he developed a vein of joviality. As we sat over our vermouths he glorified the Company’s business, and by-and-by I expressed casually my surprise at him not going out there. He became very cool and collected all at once. ‘I am not such a fool as I look, quoth Plato to his disciples,’ he said sententiously, emptied his glass with great resolution, and we rose. The old doctor felt my pulse, evidently thinking of something else the while. ‘Good, good for there,’ he mumbled, and then with a certain eagerness asked me whether I would let him measure my head. Rather surprised, I said Yes, when he produced a thing like calipers and got the dimensions back and front and every way, taking notes carefully. He was an unshaven little man in a threadbare coat like a gaberdine, with his feet in slippers, and I thought him a harmless fool. ‘I always ask leave, in the interests of science, to measure the crania of those going out there,’ he said. ‘And when they come back, too?’ I asked. ‘Oh, I never see them,’ he remarked; ‘and, moreover, the changes take place inside, you know.’ He smiled, as if at some quiet joke. ‘So you are going out there. Famous. Interesting, too.’ He gave me a searching glance, and made another note. ‘Ever any madness in your family?’ he asked, in a matter–of–fact tone. I felt very annoyed. ‘Is that question in the interests of science, too?’—‘It would be,’ he said, without taking notice of my irritation, ‘interesting for science to watch the mental changes of individuals, on the spot, but ...’—‘Are you an alienist?’ I interrupted. ‘Every doctor should be—a little,’ answered that original, imperturbably. ‘I have a little theory which you Messieurs who go out there must help me to prove. This is my share in the advantages my country shall reap from the possession of such a magnificent dependency. The mere wealth I leave to others. Pardon my questions, but you are the first Englishman coming under my observation ...’ I hastened to assure him I was not in the least typical. ‘If I were,’ said I, ‘I wouldn’t be talking like this with you.’—‘What you say is rather profound, and probably erroneous,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘Avoid irritation more than exposure to the sun. Adieu. How do you English say, eh? Good–bye. Ah! Good–bye. Adieu. In the tropics one must before everything keep calm.’ ... He lifted a warning forefinger. ... ‘Du calme, du calme. Adieu.’ One thing more remained to do—say good—bye to my excellent aunt. I found her triumphant. I had a cup of tea—the last decent cup of tea for many days—and in a room that most soothingly looked just as you would expect a lady’s drawing–room to look, we had a long quiet chat by the fireside. In the course of these confidences it became quite plain to me I had been represented to the wife of the high dignitary, and goodness knows to how many more people besides, as an exceptional and gifted creature—a piece of good fortune for the Company—a man you don’t get hold of every day. Good heavens! and I was going to take charge of a two–penny–halfpenny river–steamboat with a penny whistle attached! It appeared, however, I was also one of the Workers, with a capital—you know. Something like an emissary of light, something like a lower sort of apostle. There had been a lot of such rot let loose in print and talk just about that time, and the excellent woman, living right in the rush of all that humbug, got carried off her feet. She talked about ‘weaning those ignorant millions from their horrid ways,’ till, upon my word, she made me quite uncomfortable. I ventured to hint that the Company was run for profit. ‘You forget, dear Charlie, that the labourer is worthy of his hire,’ she said, brightly. It’s queer how out of touch with truth women are. They live in a world of their own, and there has never been anything like it, and never can be. It is too beautiful altogether, and if they were to set it up it would go to pieces before the first sunset. Some confounded fact we men have been living contentedly with ever since the day of creation would start up and knock the whole thing over. After this I got embraced, told to wear flannel, be sure to write often, and so on—and I left. In the street—I don’t know why—a queer feeling came to me that I was an imposter. Odd thing that I, who used to clear out for any part of the world at twenty–four hours’ notice, with less thought than most men give to the crossing of a street, had a moment—I won’t say of hesitation, but of startled pause, before this commonplace affair. The best way I can explain it to you is by saying that, for a second or two, I felt as though, instead of going to the centre of a continent, I were about to set off for the centre of the earth. I left in a French steamer, and she called in every blamed port they have out there, for, as far as I could see, the sole purpose of landing soldiers and custom–house officers. I watched the coast. Watching a coast as it slips by the ship is like thinking about an enigma. There it is before you—smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, or savage, and always mute with an air of whispering: ‘Come and find out.’ This one was almost featureless, as if still in the making, with an aspect of monotonous grimness. The edge of a colossal jungle, so dark–green as to be almost black, fringed with white surf, ran straight, like a ruled line, far, far away along a blue sea whose glitter was blurred by a creeping mist. The sun was fierce, the land seemed to glisten and drip with steam. Here and there greyish–whitish specks showed up clustered inside the white surf, with a flag flying above them perhaps. Settlements some centuries old, and still no bigger than pinheads on the untouched expanse of their background. We pounded along, stopped, landed soldiers; went on, landed custom–house clerks to levy toll in what looked like a God–forsaken wilderness, with a tin shed and a flag–pole lost in it; landed more soldiers—to take care of the custom–house clerks, presumably. Some, I heard, got drowned in the surf; but whether they did or not, nobody seemed particularly to care. They were just flung out there, and on we went. Every day the coast looked the same, as though we had not moved; but we passed various places—trading places—with names like Gran’ Bassam, Little Popo; names that seemed to belong to some sordid farce acted in front of a sinister back–cloth. The idleness of a passenger, my isolation amongst all these men with whom I had no point of contact, the oily and languid sea, the uniform sombreness of the coast, seemed to keep me away from the truth of things, within the toil of a mournful and sense-less delusion. The voice of the surf heard now and then was a positive pleasure, like the speech of a brother. It was something natural, that had its reason, that had a meaning. Now and then a boat from the shore gave one a momentary contact with reality. It was paddled by black fellows. You could see from afar the white of their eyeballs glistening. They shouted, sang; their bodies streamed with perspiration; they had faces like grotesque masks—these chaps; but they had bone, muscle, a wild vitality, an intense energy of movement, that was as natural and true as the surf along their coast. They wanted no excuse for being there. They were a great comfort to look at. For a time I would feel I belonged still to a world of straightforward facts; but the feeling would not last long. Something would turn up to scare it away. Once, I remember, we came upon a man–of–war anchored off the coast. There wasn’t even a shed there, and she was shelling the bush. It appears the French had one of their wars going on thereabouts. Her ensign dropped limp like a rag; the muzzles of the long six–inch guns stuck out all over the low hull; the greasy, slimy swell swung her up lazily and let her down, swaying her thin masts. In the empty immensity of earth, sky, and water, there she was, incomprehensible, firing into a continent. Pop, would go one of the six–inch guns; a small flame would dart and vanish, a little white smoke would disappear, a tiny projectile would give a feeble screech—and nothing happened. Nothing could happen. There was a touch of insanity in the proceeding, a sense of lugubrious drollery in the sight; and it was not dissipated by somebody on board assuring me earnestly there was a camp of natives—he called them enemies!—hidden out of sight somewhere. We gave her her letters (I heard the men in that lonely ship were dying of fever at the rate of three a day) and went on. We called at some more places with farcical names, where the merry dance of death and trade goes on in a still and earthy atmosphere as of an overheated catacomb; all along the formless coast bordered by dangerous surf, as if Nature herself had tried to ward off intruders; in and out of rivers, streams of death in life, whose banks were rotting into mud, whose waters, thickened into slime, invaded the contorted mangroves, that seemed to writhe at us in the extremity of an impotent despair. Nowhere did we stop long enough to get a particularized impression, but the general sense of vague and oppressive wonder grew upon me. It was like a weary pilgrimage amongst hints for nightmares. It was upward of thirty days before I saw the mouth of the big river. We anchored off the seat of the government. But my work would not begin till some two hundred miles farther on. So as soon as I could I made a start for a place thirty miles higher up. I had my passage on a little sea–going steamer. Her captain was a Swede, and knowing me for a seaman, invited me on the bridge. He was a young man, lean, fair, and morose, with lanky hair and a shuffling gait. As we left the miserable little wharf, he tossed his head contemptuously at the shore. ‘Been living there?’ he asked. I said, ‘Yes.’—‘Fine lot these government chaps—are they not?’ he went on, speaking English with great precision and considerable bitterness. ‘It is funny what some people will do for a few francs a month. I wonder what becomes of that kind when it goes up country?’ I said to him I expected to see that soon. ‘So–o–o!’ he exclaimed. He shuffled athwart, keeping one eye ahead vigilantly. ‘Don’t be too sure,’ he continued. ‘The other day I took up a man who hanged himself on the road. He was a Swede, too.’—‘Hanged himself! Why, in God’s name?’ I cried. He kept on looking out watchfully. ‘Who knows? The sun too much for him, or the country perhaps.’ At last we opened a reach. A rocky cliff appeared, mounds of turned–up earth by the shore, houses on a hill, others with iron roofs, amongst a waste of excavations, or hanging to the declivity. A continuous noise of the rapids above hovered over this scene of inhabited devastation. A lot of people, mostly black and naked, moved about like ants. A jetty projected into the river. A blinding sunlight drowned all this at times in a sudden recrudescence of glare. ‘There’s your Company’s station,’ said the Swede, pointing to three wooden barrack–like structures on the rocky slope. ‘I will send your things up. Four boxes did you say? So. Farewell.’ “I came upon a boiler wallowing in the grass, then found a path leading up the hill. It turned aside for the boulders, and also for an undersized railway–truck lying there on its back with its wheels in the air. One was off. The thing looked as dead as the carcass of some animal. I came upon more pieces of decaying machinery, a stack of rusty rails. To the left a clump of trees made a shady spot, where dark things seemed to stir feebly. I blinked, the path was steep. A horn tooted to the right, and I saw the black people run. A heavy and dull detonation shook the ground, a puff of smoke came out of the cliff, and that was all. No change appeared on the face of the rock. They were building a railway. The cliff was not in the way or anything; but this objectless blasting was all the work going on. A slight clinking behind me made me turn my head. Six black men advanced in a file, toiling up the path. They walked erect and slow, balancing small baskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kept time with their footsteps. Black rags were wound round their loins, and the short ends behind waggled to and fro like tails. I could see every rib, the joints of their limbs were like knots in a rope; each had an iron collar on his neck, and all were connected together with a chain whose bights swung between them, rhythmically clinking. Another report from the cliff made me think suddenly of that ship of war I had seen firing into a continent. It was the same kind of ominous voice; but these men could by no stretch of imagination be called enemies. They were called criminals, and the outraged law, like the bursting shells, had come to them, an insoluble mystery from the sea. All their meagre breasts panted together, the violently dilated nostrils quivered, the eyes stared stonily uphill. They passed me within six inches, without a glance, with that complete, deathlike indifference of unhappy savages. Behind this raw matter one of the reclaimed, the product of the new forces at work, strolled despondently, carrying a rifle by its middle. He had a uniform jacket with one button off, and seeing a white man on the path, hoisted his weapon to his shoulder with alacrity. This was simple prudence, white men being so much alike at a distance that he could not tell who I might be. He was speedily reassured, and with a large, white, rascally grin, and a glance at his charge, seemed to take me into partnership in his exalted trust. After all, I also was a part of the great cause of these high and just proceedings. Instead of going up, I turned and descended to the left. My idea was to let that chain–gang get out of sight before I climbed the hill. You know I am not particularly tender; I’ve had to strike and to fend off. I’ve had to resist and to attack sometimes—that’s only one way of resisting—without counting the exact cost, according to the demands of such sort of life as I had blundered into. I’ve seen the devil of violence, and the devil of greed, and the devil of hot desire; but, by all the stars! these were strong, lusty, red–eyed devils, that swayed and drove men—men, I tell you. But as I stood on this hillside, I foresaw that in the blinding sunshine of that land I would become acquainted with a flabby, pretending, weak–eyed devil of a rapacious and pitiless folly. How insidious he could be, too, I was only to find out several months later and a thousand miles farther. For a moment I stood appalled, as though by a warning. Finally I descended the hill, obliquely, towards the trees I had seen. I avoided a vast artificial hole somebody had been digging on the slope, the purpose of which I found it impossible to divine. It wasn’t a quarry or a sandpit, anyhow. It was just a hole. It might have been connected with the philanthropic desire of giving the criminals something to do. I don’t know. Then I nearly fell into a very narrow ravine, almost no more than a scar in the hillside. I discovered that a lot of imported drainage–pipes for the settlement had been tumbled in there. There wasn’t one that was not broken. It was a wanton smash–up. At last I got under the trees. My purpose was to stroll into the shade for a moment; but no sooner within than it seemed to me I had stepped into the gloomy circle of some Inferno. The rapids were near, and an uninterrupted, uniform, headlong, rushing noise filled the mournful stillness of the grove, where not a breath stirred, not a leaf moved, with a mysterious sound—as though the tearing pace of the launched earth had suddenly become audible. Black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees leaning against the trunks, clinging to the earth, half coming out, half effaced within the dim light, in all the attitudes of pain, abandonment, and despair. Another mine on the cliff went off, followed by a slight shudder of the soil under my feet. The work was going on. The work! And this was the place where some of the helpers had withdrawn to die. They were dying slowly—it was very clear. They were not enemies, they were not criminals, they were nothing earthly now—nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation, lying confusedly in the greenish gloom. Brought from all the recesses of the coast in all the legality of time contracts, lost in uncongenial surroundings, fed on unfamiliar food, they sickened, became inefficient, and were then allowed to crawl away and rest. These moribund shapes were free as air—and nearly as thin. I began to distinguish the gleam of the eyes under the trees. Then, glancing down, I saw a face near my hand. The black bones reclined at full length with one shoulder against the tree, and slowly the eyelids rose and the sunken eyes looked up at me, enormous and vacant, a kind of blind, white flicker in the depths of the orbs, which died out slowly. The man seemed young—almost a boy—but you know with them it’s hard to tell. I found nothing else to do but to offer him one of my good Swede’s ship’s biscuits I had in my pocket. The fingers closed slowly on it and held—there was no other movement and no other glance. He had tied a bit of white worsted round his neck—Why? Where did he get it? Was it a badge—an ornament—a charm—a propitiatory act? Was there any idea at all connected with it? It looked startling round his black neck, this bit of white thread from beyond the seas. Near the same tree two more bundles of acute angles sat with their legs drawn up. One, with his chin propped on his knees, stared at nothing, in an intolerable and appalling manner: his brother phantom rested its forehead, as if overcome with a great weariness; and all about others were scattered in every pose of contorted collapse, as in some picture of a massacre or a pestilence. While I stood horror–struck, one of these creatures rose to his hands and knees, and went off on all–fours towards the river to drink. He lapped out of his hand, then sat up in the sunlight, crossing his shins in front of him, and after a time let his woolly head fall on his breastbone. I didn’t want any more loitering in the shade, and I made haste towards the station. When near the buildings I met a white man, in such an unexpected elegance of get–up that in the first moment I took him for a sort of vision. I saw a high starched collar, white cuffs, a light alpaca jacket, snowy trousers, a clean necktie, and varnished boots. No hat. Hair parted, brushed, oiled, under a green–lined parasol held in a big white hand. He was amazing, and had a penholder behind his ear. I shook hands with this miracle, and I learned he was the Company’s chief accountant, and that all the book–keeping was done at this station. He had come out for a moment, he said, ‘to get a breath of fresh air. The expression sounded wonderfully odd, with its suggestion of sedentary desk–life. I wouldn’t have mentioned the fellow to you at all, only it was from his lips that I first heard the name of the man who is so indissolubly connected with the memories of that time. Moreover, I respected the fellow. Yes; I respected his collars, his vast cuffs, his brushed hair. His appearance was certainly that of a hairdresser’s dummy; but in the great demoralization of the land he kept up his appearance. That’s backbone. His starched collars and got–up shirt–fronts were achievements of character. He had been out nearly three years; and, later, I could not help asking him how he managed to sport such linen. He had just the faintest blush, and said modestly: ‘I’ve been teaching one of the native women about the station. It was difficult. She had a distaste for the work.’ Thus this man had verily accomplished something. And he was devoted to his books, which were in apple–pie order. Everything else in the station was in a muddle—heads, things, buildings. Strings of dusty niggers with splay feet arrived and departed; a stream of manufactured goods, rubbishy cottons, beads, and brass–wire set into the depths of darkness, and in return came a precious trickle of ivory. I had to wait in the station for ten days—an eternity. I lived in a hut in the yard, but to be out of the chaos I would sometimes get into the accountant’s office. It was built of horizontal planks, and so badly put together that, as he bent over his high desk, he was barred from neck to heels with narrow strips of sunlight. There was no need to open the big shutter to see. It was hot there, too; big flies buzzed fiendishly, and did not sting, but stabbed. I sat generally on the floor, while, of faultless appearance (and even slightly scented), perching on a high stool, he wrote, he wrote. Sometimes he stood up for exercise. When a truckle–bed with a sick man (some invalid agent from upcountry) was put in there, he exhibited a gentle annoyance. ‘The groans of this sick person,’ he said, ‘distract my attention. And without that it is extremely difficult to guard against clerical errors in this climate.’ One day he remarked, without lifting his head, ‘In the interior you will no doubt meet Mr Kurtz.’ On my asking who Mr Kurtz was, he said he was a first–class agent; and seeing my disappointment at this information, he added slowly, laying down his pen:‘He is a very remarkable person.’ Further questions elicited from him that Mr Kurtz was at present in charge of a trading–post, a very important one, in the true ivory–country, at ‘the very bottom of there. Sends in as much ivory as all the others put together ...’ He began to write again. The sick man was too ill to groan. The flies buzzed in a great peace. Suddenly there was a growing murmur of voices and a great tramping of feet. A caravan had come in. A violent babble of uncouth sounds burst out on the other side of the planks. All the carriers were speaking together, and in the midst of the uproar the lamentable voice of the chief agent was heard ‘giving it up’ tearfully for the twentieth time that day ... He rose slowly. ‘What a frightful row,’ he said. He crossed the room gently to look at the sick man, and returning, said to me: ‘He does not hear.’—‘What! Dead?’ I asked, startled. ‘No, not yet,’ he answered, with great composure. Then, alluding with a toss of the head to the tumult in the station–yard: ‘When one has got to make correct entries, one comes to hate those savages—hate them to the death.’ He remained thoughtful for a moment. ‘When you see Mr Kurtz’ he went on, ‘tell him from me that everything here’—he glanced at the deck—‘is very satisfactory. I don’t like to write to him—with those messengers of ours you never know who may get hold of your letter—at that Central Station.’ He stared at me for a moment with his mild, bulging eyes. ‘Oh, he will go far, very far,’ he began again. ‘He will be a somebody in the Administration before long. They, above—the Council in Europe, you know—mean him to be.’ He turned to his work. The noise outside had ceased, and presently in going out I stopped at the door. In the steady buzz of flies the homeward–bound agent was lying finished and insensible; the other, bent over his books, was making correct entries of perfectly correct transactions; and fifty feet below the doorstep I could see the still tree–tops of the grove of death. Next day I left that station at last, with a caravan of sixty men, for a two–hundred–mile tramp. No use telling you much about that. Paths, paths, everywhere; a stamped–in network of paths spreading over the empty land, through the long grass, through burnt grass, through thickets, down and up chilly ravines, up and down stony hills ablaze with heat; and a solitude, a solitude, nobody, not a hut. The population had cleared out a long time ago. Well, if a lot of mysterious niggers armed with all kinds of fearful weapons suddenly took to travelling on the road between Deal and Gravesend, catching the yokels right and left to carry heavy loads for them, I fancy every farm and cottage thereabouts would get empty very soon. Only here the dwellings were gone, too. Still I passed through several abandoned villages. There’s something pathetically childish in the ruins of grass walls. Day after day, with the stamp and shuffle of sixty pair of bare feet behind me, each pair under a 60–lb. load. Camp, cook, sleep, strike camp, march. Now and then a carrier dead in harness, at rest in the long grass near the path, with an empty water–gourd and his long staff lying by his side. A great silence around and above. Perhaps on some quiet night the tremor of far–off drums, sinking, swelling, a tremor vast, faint; a sound weird, appealing, suggestive, and wild—and perhaps with as profound a meaning as the sound of bells in a Christian country. Once a white man in an unbuttoned uniform, camping on the path with an armed escort of lank Zanzibaris, very hospitable and festive—not to say drunk. Was looking after the upkeep of the road, he declared. Can’t say I saw any road or any upkeep, unless the body of a middle–aged negro, with a bullet–hole in the forehead, upon which I absolutely stumbled three miles farther on, may be considered as a permanent improvement. I had a white companion, too, not a bad chap, but rather too fleshy and with the exasperating habit of fainting on the hot hillsides, miles away from the least bit of shade and water. Annoying, you know, to hold your own coat like a parasol over a man’s head while he is coming to. I couldn’t help asking him once what he meant by coming there at all. ‘To make money, of course. What do you think?’ he said, scornfully. Then he got fever, and had to be carried in a hammock slung under a pole. As he weighed sixteen stone I had no end of rows with the carriers. They jibbed, ran away, sneaked off with their loads in the night—quite a mutiny. So, one evening, I made a speech in English with gestures, not one of which was lost to the sixty pairs of eyes before me, and the next morning I started the hammock off in front all right. An hour afterwards I came upon the whole concern wrecked in a bush—man, hammock, groans, blankets, horrors. The heavy pole had skinned his poor nose. He was very anxious for me to kill somebody, but there wasn’t the shadow of a carrier near. I remembered the old doctor—‘It would be interesting for science to watch the mental changes of individuals, on the spot.’ I felt I was becoming scientifically interesting. However, all that is to no purpose. On the fifteenth day I came in sight of the big river again, and hobbled into the Central Station. It was on a back water surrounded by scrub and forest, with a pretty border of smelly mud on one side, and on the three others enclosed by a crazy fence of rushes. A neglected gap was all the gate it had, and the first glance at the place was enough to let you see the flabby devil was running that show. White men with long staves in their hands appeared languidly from amongst the buildings, strolling up to take a look at me, and then retired out of sight somewhere. One of them, a stout, excitable chap with black moustaches, informed me with great volubility and many digressions, as soon as I told him who I was, that my steamer was at the bottom of the river. I was thunderstruck. What, how, why? Oh, it was ‘all right.’ The ‘manager himself’ was there. All quite correct. ‘Everybody had behaved splendidly! splendidly!’—‘you must,’ he said in agitation, ‘go and see the general manager at once. He is waiting!’ “I did not see the real significance of that wreck at once. I fancy I see it now, but I am not sure—not at all. Certainly the affair was too stupid—when I think of it—to be altogether natural. Still ... But at the moment it presented itself simply as a confounded nuisance. The steamer was sunk. They had started two days before in a sudden hurry up the river with the manager on board, in charge of some volunteer skipper, and before they had been out three hours they tore the bottom out of her on stones, and she sank near the south bank. I asked myself what I was to do there, now my boat was lost. As a matter of fact, I had plenty to do in fishing my command out of the river. I had to set about it the very next day. That, and the repairs when I brought the pieces to the station, took some months. My first interview with the manager was curious. He did not ask me to sit down after my twenty–mile walk that morning. He was commonplace in complexion, in features, in manners, and in voice. He was of middle size and of ordinary build. His eyes, of the usual blue, were perhaps remarkably cold, and he certainly could make his glance fall on one as trenchant and heavy as an axe. But even at these times the rest of his person seemed to disclaim the intention. Otherwise there was only an indefinable, faint expression of his lips, something stealthy—a smile—not a smile—I remember it, but I can’t explain. It was unconscious, this smile was, though just after he had said something it got intensified for an instant. It came at the end of his speeches like a seal applied on the words to make the meaning of the commonest phrase appear absolutely inscrutable. He was a common trader, from his youth up employed in these parts—nothing more. He was obeyed, yet he inspired neither love nor fear, nor even respect. He inspired uneasiness. That was it! Uneasiness. Not a definite mistrust—just uneasiness—nothing more. You have no idea how effective such a ... a ... faculty can be. He had no genius for organizing, for initiative, or for order even. That was evident in such things as the deplorable state of the station. He had no learning, and no intelligence. His position had come to him—why? Perhaps because he was never ill ... He had served three terms of three years out there ... Because triumphant health in the general rout of constitutions is a kind of power in itself. When he went home on leave he rioted on a large scale—pompously. Jack ashore—with a difference—in externals only. This one could gather from his casual talk. He originated nothing, he could keep the routine going—that’s all. But he was great. He was great by this little thing that it was impossible to tell what could control such a man. He never gave that secret away. Perhaps there was nothing within him. Such a suspicion made one pause—for out there there were no external checks. Once when various tropical diseases had laid low almost every ‘agent’ in the station, he was heard to say: ‘Men who come out here should have no entrails.’ He sealed the utterance with that smile of his, as though it had been a door opening into a darkness he had in his keeping. You fancied you had seen things—but the seal was on. When annoyed at meal–times by the constant quarrels of the white men about precedence, he ordered an immense round table to be made, for which a special house had to be built. This was the station’s mess–room. Where he sat was the first place—the rest were nowhere. One felt this to be his unalterable conviction. He was neither civil nor uncivil. He was quiet. He allowed his ‘boy’—an overfed young negro from the coast—to treat the white men, under his very eyes, with provoking insolence. He began to speak as soon as he saw me. I had been very long on the road. He could not wait. Had to start without me. The upriver stations had to be relieved. There had been so many delays already that he did not know who was dead and who was alive, and how they got on—and so on, and so on. He paid no attention to my explanations, and, playing with a stick of sealing–wax, repeated several times that the situation was ‘very grave, very grave.’ There were rumours that a very important station was in jeopardy, and its chief, Mr Kurtz, was ill. Hoped it was not true. Mr Kurtz was ... I felt weary and irritable. Hang Kurtz, I thought. I interrupted him by saying I had heard of Mr Kurtz on the coast. ‘Ah! So they talk of him down there,’ he murmured to himself. Then he began again, assuring me Mr Kurtz was the best agent he had, an exceptional man, of the greatest importance to the Company; therefore I could understand his anxiety. He was, he said, ‘very, very uneasy.’ Certainly he fidgeted on his chair a good deal, exclaimed, ‘Ah, Mr Kurtz!’ broke the stick of sealing–wax and seemed dumbfounded by the accident. Next thing he wanted to know ‘how long it would take to’ ... I interrupted him again. Being hungry, you know, and kept on my feet too. I was getting savage. ‘How can I tell?’ I said. ‘I haven’t even seen the wreck yet—some months, no doubt.’ All this talk seemed to me so futile. ‘Some months,’ he said. ‘Well, let us say three months before we can make a start. Yes. That ought to do the affair.’ I flung out of his hut (he lived all alone in a clay hut with a sort of verandah) muttering to myself my opinion of him. He was a chattering idiot. Afterwards I took it back when it was borne in upon me startlingly with what extreme nicety he had estimated the time requisite for the ‘affair.’ I went to work the next day, turning, so to speak, my back on that station. In that way only it seemed to me I could keep my hold on the redeeming facts of life. Still, one must look about sometimes; and then I saw this station, these men strolling aimlessly about in the sunshine of the yard. I asked myself sometimes what it all meant. They wandered here and there with their absurd long staves in their hands, like a lot of faithless pilgrims bewitched inside a rotten fence. The word ‘ivory’ rang in the air, was whispered, was sighed. You would think they were praying to it. A taint of imbecile rapacity blew through it all, like a whiff from some corpse. By Jove! I’ve never seen anything so unreal in my life. And outside, the silent wilderness surrounding this cleared speck on the earth struck me as something great and invincible, like evil or truth, waiting patiently for the passing away of this fantastic invasion. Oh, these months! Well, never mind. Various things happened. One evening a grass shed full of calico, cotton prints, beads, and I don’t know what else, burst into a blaze so suddenly that you would have thought the earth had opened to let an avenging fire consume all that trash. I was smoking my pipe quietly by my dismantled steamer, and saw them all cutting capers in the light, with their arms lifted high, when the stout man with moustaches came tearing down to the river, a tin pail in his hand, assured me that everybody was ‘behaving splendidly, splendidly,’ dipped about a quart of water and tore back again. I noticed there was a hole in the bottom of his pail. I strolled up. There was no hurry. You see the thing had gone off like a box of matches. It had been hopeless from the very first. The flame had leaped high, driven everybody back, lighted up everything—and collapsed. The shed was already a heap of embers glowing fiercely. A nigger was being beaten near by. They said he had caused the fire in some way; be that as it may, he was screeching most horribly. I saw him, later, for several days, sitting in a bit of shade looking very sick and trying to recover himself; afterwards he arose and went out—and the wilderness without a sound took him into its bosom again. As I approached the glow from the dark I found myself at the back of two men, talking. I heard the name of Kurtz pronounced, then the words, ‘take advantage of this unfortunate accident.’ One of the men was the manager. I wished him a good evening. ‘Did you ever see anything like it—eh? it is incredible,’ he said, and walked off. The other man remained. He was a first–class agent, young, gentlemanly, a bit reserved, with a forked little beard and a hooked nose. He was stand–offish with the other agents, and they on their side said he was the manager’s spy upon them. As to me, I had hardly ever spoken to him before. We got into talk, and by and by we strolled away from the hissing ruins. Then he asked me to his room, which was in the main building of the station. He struck a match, and I perceived that this young aristocrat had not only a silver–mounted dressing–case but also a whole candle all to himself. Just at that time the manager was the only man supposed to have any right to candles. Native mats covered the clay walls; a collection of spears, assegais, shields, knives was hung up in trophies. The business intrusted to this fellow was the making of bricks—so I had been informed; but there wasn’t a fragment of a brick anywhere in the station, and he had been there more than a year—waiting. It seems he could not make bricks without something, I don’t know what—straw maybe. Anyway, it could not be found there and as it was not likely to be sent from Europe, it did not appear clear to me what he was waiting for. An act of special creation perhaps. However, they were all waiting—all the sixteen or twenty pilgrims of them—for something; and upon my word it did not seem an uncongenial occupation, from the way they took it, though the only thing that ever came to them was disease—as far as I could see. They beguiled the time by back–biting and intriguing against each other in a foolish kind of way. There was an air of plotting about that station, but nothing came of it, of course. It was as unreal as everything else—as the philanthropic pretence of the whole concern, as their talk, as their government, as their show of work. The only real feeling was a desire to get appointed to a trading–post where ivory was to be had, so that they could earn percentages. They intrigued and slandered and hated each other only on that account—but as to effectually lifting a little finger—oh, no. By heavens! there is something after all in the world allowing one man to steal a horse while another must not look at a halter. Steal a horse straight out. Very well. He has done it. Perhaps he can ride. But there is a way of looking at a halter that would provoke the most charitable of saints into a kick. I had no idea why he wanted to be sociable, but as we chatted in there it suddenly occurred to me the fellow was trying to get at something—in fact, pumping me. He alluded constantly to Europe, to the people I was supposed to know there—putting leading questions as to my acquaintances in the sepulchral city, and so on. His little eyes glittered like mica discs—with curiosity—though he tried to keep up a bit of superciliousness. At first I was astonished, but very soon I became awfully curious to see what he would find out from me. I couldn’t possibly imagine what I had in me to make it worth his while. It was very pretty to see how he baffled himself, for in truth my body was full only of chills, and my head had nothing in it but that wretched steamboat business. It was evident he took me for a perfectly shameless prevaricator. At last he got angry, and, to conceal a movement of furious annoyance, he yawned. I rose. Then I noticed a small sketch in oils, on a panel, representing a woman, draped and blindfolded, carrying a lighted torch. The background was sombre—almost black. The movement of the woman was stately, and the effect of the torchlight on the face was sinister. It arrested me, and he stood by civilly, holding an empty half–pint champagne bottle (medical comforts) with the candle stuck in it. To my question he said Mr Kurtz had painted this—in this very station more than a year ago—while waiting for means to go to his trading post. ‘Tell me, pray,’ said I, ‘who is this Mr Kurtz?’ ‘The chief of the Inner Station,’ he answered in a short tone, looking away. ‘Much obliged,’ I said, laughing. ‘And you are the brickmaker of the Central Station. Every one knows that.’ He was silent for a while. ‘He is a prodigy,’ he said at last. ‘He is an emissary of pity and science and progress, and devil knows what else. We want,’ he began to declaim suddenly, ‘for the guidance of the cause intrusted to us by Europe, so to speak, higher intelligence, wide sympathies, a singleness of purpose.’–‘Who says that?’ I asked. ‘Lots of them,’ he replied. ‘Some even write that; and so he comes here, a special being, as you ought to know.’–‘Why ought I to know?’ I interrupted, really surprised. He paid no attention. ‘Yes. Today he is chief of the best station, next year he will be assistant–manager, two years more and ... but I daresay you know what he will be in two years’ time. You are of the new gang—the gang of virtue. The same people who sent him specially also recommended you. Oh, don’t say no. I’ve my own eyes to trust.’ Light dawned upon me. My dear aunt’s influential acquaintances were producing an unexpected effect upon that young man. I nearly burst into a laugh. ‘Do you read the Company’s confidential correspondence?’ I asked. He hadn’t a word to say. It was great fun. ‘When Mr Kurtz,’ I continued, severely, ‘is General Manager, you won’t have the opportunity.’ He blew the candle out suddenly, and we went outside. The moon had risen. Black figures strolled about listlessly, pouring water on the glow, whence proceeded a sound of hissing; steam ascended in the moonlight, the beaten nigger groaned somewhere. ‘What a row the brute makes!’ said the indefatigable man with the moustaches, appearing near us. ‘Serve him right. Transgression—punishment—bang! Pitiless, pitiless. That’s the only way. This will prevent all conflagrations for the future. I was just telling the manager ...’ He noticed my companion, and became crestfallen all at once. ‘Not in bed yet,’ he said, with a kind of servile heartiness; ‘it’s so natural. Ha! Danger—agitation.’ He vanished. I went on to the riverside, and the other followed me. I heard a scathing murmur at my ear, ‘Heap of muffs—go to.’ The pilgrims could be seen in knots gesticulating, discussing. Several had still their staves in their hands. I verily believe they took these sticks to bed with them. Beyond the fence the forest stood up spectrally in the moonlight, and through that dim stir, through the faint sounds of that lamentable courtyard, the silence of the land went home to one’s very heart—its mystery, its greatness, the amazing reality of its concealed life. The hurt nigger moaned feebly somewhere near by, and then fetched a deep sigh that made me mend my pace away from there. I felt a hand introducing itself under my arm. ‘My dear sir,’ said the fellow, ‘I don’t want to be misunderstood, and especially by you, who will see Mr Kurtz long before I can have that pleasure. I wouldn’t like him to get a false idea of my disposition ... .’ I let him run on, this papier–maché Mephistopheles, and it seemed to me that if I tried I could poke my forefinger through him, and would find nothing inside but a little loose dirt, maybe. He, don’t you see, had been planning to be assistant–manager by and by under the present man, and I could see that the coming of that Kurtz had upset them both not a little. He talked precipitately, and I did not try to stop him. I had my shoulders against the wreck of my steamer, hauled up on the slope like a carcass of some big river animal. The smell of mud, of primeval mud, by Jove! was in my nostrils, the high stillness of primeval forest was before my eyes; there were shiny patches on the black creek. The moon had spread over everything a thin layer of silver—over the rank grass, over the mud, upon the wall of matted vegetation standing higher than the wall of a temple, over the great river I could see through a sombre gap glittering, glittering, as it flowed broadly by without a murmur. All this was great, expectant, mute, while the man jabbered about himself. I wondered whether the stillness on the face of the immensity looking at us two were meant as an appeal or as a menace. What were we who had strayed in here? Could we handle that dumb thing, or would it handle us? I felt how big, how confoundedly big, was that thing that couldn’t talk, and perhaps was deaf as well. What was in there? I could see a little ivory coming out from there, and I had heard Mr Kurtz was in there. I had heard enough about it, too—God knows! Yet somehow it didn’t bring any image with it—no more than if I had been told an angel or a fiend was in there. I believed it in the same way one of you might believe there are inhabitants in the planet Mars. I knew once a Scotch sailmaker who was certain, dead sure, there were people in Mars. If you asked him for some idea how they looked and behaved, he would get shy and mutter something about ‘walking on all–fours.’ If you as much as smiled, he would—though a man of sixty— offer to fight you. I would not have gone so far as to fight for Kurtz, but I went for him near enough to a lie. You know I hate, detest, and can’t bear a lie, not because I am straighter thanthe rest of us, but simply because it appals me. There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies—which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world—what I want to forget. It makes me miserable and sick, like biting something rotten would do. Temperament, I suppose. Well, I went near enough to it by letting the young fool there believe anything he liked to imagine as to my influence in Europe. I became in an instant as much of a pretenceas the rest of the bewitched pilgrims. This simply because I had a notion it somehow would be of help to that Kurtz whom at the time I did not see—you understand. He was just a word for me. I did not see the man in the name any more than you do. Do you see him? Do you see the story? Do you see anything? It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream—making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream–sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams ...” He was silent for a while. “... No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life–sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence—that which makes its truth, its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream—alone ...” He paused again as if reflecting, then added ...“Of course in this you fellows see more than I could then. You see me, whom you know ...” It had become so pitch dark that we listeners could hardly see one another. For a long time already he, sitting apart, had been no more to us than a voice. There was not a word from anybody. The others might have been asleep, but I was awake. I listened, I listened on the watch for the sentence, for the word, that would give me the clue to the faint uneasiness inspired by this narrative that seemed to shape itself without human lips in the heavy night–air of the river. “... Yes—I let him run on,” Marlow began again, “and think what he pleased about the powers that were behind me. I did! And there was nothing behind me! There was nothing but that wretched, old, mangled steamboat I was leaning against, while he talked fluently about ‘the necessity for every man to get on.’—‘And when one comes out here, you conceive, it is not to gaze at the moon.’ Mr Kurtz was a ‘universal genius,’ but even a genius would find it easier to work with ‘adequate tools—intelligent men.’ He did not make bricks—why, there was a physical impossibility in the way—as I was well aware; and if he did secretarial work for the manager, it was because ‘no sensible man rejects wantonly the confidence of his superiors.’ Did I see it? I saw it. What more did I want? What I really wanted was rivets, by heaven! Rivets. To get on with the work—to stop the hole. Rivets I wanted. There were cases of them down at the coast—cases—piled up—burst—split! You kicked a loose rivet at every second step in that station–yard on the hillside. Rivets had rolled into the grove of death. You could fill your pockets with rivets for the trouble of stooping down—and there wasn’t one rivet to be found where it was wanted. We had plates that would do, but nothing to fasten them with. And every week the messenger, a long negro, letter–bag on shoulder and staff in hand, left our station for the coast. And several times a week a coast caravan came in with trade goods—ghastly glazed calico that made you shudder only to look at it, glass beads value about a penny a quart, confounded spotted cotton handkerchiefs. And no rivets. Three carriers could have brought all that was wanted to set that steamboat afloat. He was becoming confidential now, but I fancy my unresponsive attitude must have exasperated him at last, for he judged it necessary to inform me he feared neither God nor devil, let alone any mere man. I said I could see that very well, but what I wanted was a certain quantity of rivets—and rivets were what really Mr Kurtz wanted, if he had only known it. Now letters went to the coast every week. ... ‘My dear sir,’ he cried, ‘I write from dictation.’ I demanded rivets. There was a way—for an intelligent man. He changed his manner; became very cold, and suddenly began to talk about a hippopotamus; wondered whether sleeping on board the steamer (I stuck to my salvage night and day) I wasn’t disturbed. There was an old hippo that had the bad habit of getting out on the bank and roaming at night over the station grounds. The pilgrims used to turn out in a body and empty every rifle they could lay hands on at him. Some even had sat up o’ nights for him. All this energy was wasted, though. ‘That animal has a charmed life,’ he said; ‘but you can say this only of brutes in this country. No man—you apprehend me?—no man here bears a charmed life.’ He stood there for a moment in the moonlight with his delicate hooked nose set a little askew, and his mica eyes glittering without a wink, then, with a curt Good night, he strode off. I could see he was disturbed and considerably puzzled, which made me feel more hopeful than I had been for days. It was a great comfort to turn from that chap to my influential friend, the battered, twisted, ruined, tin–pot steamboat. I clambered on board. She rang under my feet like an empty Huntley & Palmer biscuit–tin kicked along a gutter; she was nothing so solid in make, and rather less pretty in shape, but I had expended enough hard work on her to make me love her. No influential friend would have served me better. She had given me a chance to come out a bit—to find out what I could do. No, I don’t like work. I had rather laze about and think of all the fine things that can be done. I don’t like work—no man does— but I like what is in the work—the chance to find yourself. Your own reality—for yourself, not for others—what no other man can ever know. They can only see the mere show, and never can tell what it really means. I was not surprised to see somebody sitting aft, on the deck, with his legs dangling over the mud. You see I rather chummed with the few mechanics there were in that station, whom the other pilgrims naturally despised—on account of their imperfect manners, I suppose. This was the foreman—a boiler–maker by trade—a good worker. He was a lank, bony, yellow–faced man, with big intense eyes. His aspect was worried, and his head was as bald as the palm of my hand; but his hair in falling seemed to have stuck to his chin, and had prospered in the new locality, for his beard hung down to his waist. He was a widower with six young children (he had left them in charge of a sister of his to come out there), and the passion of his life was pigeon–flying. He was an enthusiast and a connoisseur. He would rave about pigeons. After work hours he used sometimes to come over from his hut for a talk about his children and his pigeons; at work, when he had to crawl in the mud under the bottom of the steamboat, he would tie up that beard of his in a kind of white serviette he brought for the purpose. It had loops to go over his ears. In the evening he could be seen squatted on the bank rinsing that wrapper in the creek with great care, then spreading it solemnly on a bush to dry. I slapped him on the back and shouted, ‘We shall have rivets!’ He scrambled to his feet exclaiming, ‘ No! Rivets!’ as though he couldn’t believe his ears. Then in a low voice: ‘You ... eh?’ I don’t know why we behaved like lunatics. I put my finger to the side of my nose and nodded mysteriously. ‘Good for you!’ he cried, snapped his fingers above his head, lifting one foot. I tried a jig. We capered on the iron deck. A frightful clatter came out of that hulk, and the virgin forest on the other bank of the creek sent it back in a thundering roll upon the sleeping station. It must have made some of the pilgrims sit up in their hovels. A dark figure obscured the lighted doorway of the manager’s hut, vanished, then, a second or so after, the doorway itself vanished, too. We stopped, and the silence driven away by the stamping of our feet flowed back again from the recesses of the land. The great wall of vegetation, an exuberant and entangled mass of trunks, branches, leaves, boughs, festoons, motionless in the moonlight, was like a rioting invasion of soundless life, a rolling wave of plants, piled up, crested, ready to topple over the creek, to sweep every little man of us out of his little existence. And it moved not. A deadened burst of mighty splashes and snorts reached us from afar, as though an icthyosaurus had been taking a bath of glitter in the great river. ‘After all,’ said the boiler–maker in a reasonable tone, ‘why shouldn’t we get the rivets?’ Why not, indeed! I did not know of any reason why we shouldn’t. ‘They’ll come in three weeks,’ I said confidently. But they didn’t. Instead of rivets there came an invasion, an infliction, a visitation. It came in sections during the next three weeks, each section headed by a donkey carrying a white man in new clothes and tan shoes, bowing from that elevation right and left to the impressed pilgrims. A quarrelsome band of footsore sulky niggers trod on the heels of the donkey; a lot of tents, camp–stools, tin boxes, white cases, brown bales would be shot down in the courtyard, and the air of mystery would deepen a little over the muddle of the station. Five such instalments came, with their absurd air of disorderly flight with the loot of innumerable outfit shops and provision stores, that, one would think, they were lugging, after a raid, into the wilderness for equitable division. It was an inextricable mess of things decent in themselves but that human folly made look like the spoils of thieving. This devoted band called itself the Eldorado Exploring Expedition, and I believe they were sworn to secrecy. Their talk, however, was the talk of sordid buccaneers: it was reckless without hardihood, greedy without audacity, and cruel without courage; there was not an atom of foresight or of serious intention in the whole batch of them, and they did not seem aware these things are wanted for the work of the world. To tear treasure out of the bowels of the land was their desire, with no more moral purpose at the back of it than there is in burglars breaking into a safe. Who paid the expenses of the noble enterprise I don’t know; but the uncle of our manager was leader of that lot. In exterior he resembled a butcher in a poor neighbourhood, and his eyes had a look of sleepy cunning. He carried his fat paunch with ostentation on his short legs, and during the time his gang infested the station spoke to no one but his nephew. You could see these two roaming about all day long with their heads close together in an everlasting confab. I had given up worrying myself about the rivets. One’s capacity for that kind of folly is more limited than you would suppose. I said Hang!—and let things slide. I had plenty of time for meditation, and now and then I would give some thought to Kurtz. I wasn’t very interested in him. No. Still, I was curious to see whether this man, who had come out equipped with moral ideas of some sort, would climb to the top after all and how he would set about his work when there.” II.One evening as I was lying flat on the deck of my steamboat, I heard voices approaching—and there were the nephew and the uncle strolling along the bank. I laid my head on my arm again, and had nearly lost myself in a doze, when somebody said in my ear, as it were: ‘I am as harmless as a little child, but I don’t like to be dictated to. Am I the manager—or am I not? I was ordered to send him there. It’s incredible.’ ... I became aware that the two were standing on the shore alongside the forepart of the steamboat, just below my head. I did not move; it did not occur to me to move: I was sleepy. ‘It is unpleasant,’ grunted the uncle. ‘He has asked the Administration to be sent there,’ said the other, ‘with the idea of showing what he could do; and I was instructed accordingly. Look at the influence that man must have. Is it not frightful?’ They both agreed it was frightful, then made several bizarre remarks: ‘Make rain and fine weather—one man—the Council—by the nose’—bits of absurd sentences that got the better of my drowsiness, so that I had pretty near the whole of my wits about me when the uncle said: ‘The climate may do away with this difficulty for you. Is he alone there?’–‘Yes,’ answered the manager; ‘he sent his assistant down the river with a note to me in these terms: “Clear this poor devil out of the country, and don’t bother sending more of that sort. I had rather be alone than have the kind of men you can dispose of with me.” It was more than a year ago. Can you imagine such impudence!’–‘Anything since then?’ asked the other hoarsely. ‘Ivory,’ jerked the nephew; ‘lots of it—prime sort—lots—most annoying, from him.’—‘And with that?’ questioned the heavy rumble. ‘Invoice,’ was the reply fired out, so to speak. Then silence. They had been talking about Kurtz. I was broad awake by this time, but, lying perfectly at ease, remained still, having no inducement to change my position. ‘How did that ivory come all this way?’ growled the elder man, who seemed very vexed. The other explained that it had come with a fleet of canoes in charge of an English half–caste clerk Kurtz had with him; that Kurtz had apparently intended to return himself, the station being by that time bare of goods and stores, but after coming three hundred miles, had suddenly decided to go back, which he started to do alone in a small dugout with four paddlers, leaving the half–caste to continue down the river with the ivory. The two fellows there seemed astounded at anybody attempting such a thing. They were at a loss for an adequate motive. As to me, I seemed to see Kurtz for the first time. It was a distinct glimpse: the dugout, four paddling savages, and the lone white man turning his back suddenly on the headquarters, on relief, on thoughts of home—perhaps; setting his face towards the depths of the wilderness, towards his empty and desolate station. I did not know the motive. Perhaps he was just simply a fine fellow who stuck to his work for its own sake. His name, you understand, had not been pronounced once. He was ‘that man.’ The half–caste, who, as far as I could see, had conducted a difficult trip with great prudence and pluck, was invariably alluded to as ‘that scoundrel.’ The ‘scoundrel’ had reported that the ‘man’ had been very ill—had recovered imperfectly. ... The two below me moved away then a few paces, and strolled back and forth at some little distance. I heard: ‘Military post—doctor—two hundred miles—quite alone now—unavoidable delays—nine months—no news—strange rumours.’ They approached again, just as the manager was saying,‘No one, as far as I know, unless a species of wandering trader—a pestilential fellow, snapping ivory from the natives.’ Who was it they were talking about now? I gathered in snatches that this was some man supposed to be in Kurtz’s district, and of whom the manager did not approve. ‘We will not be free from unfair competition till one of these fellows is hanged for an example,’ he said. ‘Certainly,’ grunted the other; ‘get him hanged! Why not? Anything—anything can be done in this country. That’s what I say; nobody here, you understand, here, can endanger your position. And why? You stand the climate—you outlast them all. The danger is in Europe; but there before I left I took care to ...’ They moved off and whispered, then their voices rose again. ‘The extraordinary series of delays is not my fault. I did my best.’ The fat man sighed. ‘Very sad.’—‘And the pestiferous absurdity of his talk,’ continued the other; ‘he bothered me enough when he was here. “Each station should be like a beacon on the road towards better things, a centre for trade of course, but also for humanizing, improving, instructing.” Conceive you—that ass! And he wants to be manager! No, it’s——’ Here he got choked by excessive indignation, and I lifted my head the least bit. I was surprised to see how near they were—right under me. I could have spat upon their hats. They were looking on the ground, absorbed in thought. The manager was switching his leg with a slender twig: his sagacious relative lifted his head. ‘You have been well since you came out this time?’ he asked. The other gave a start. ‘Who? I? Oh! Like a charm—like a charm. But the rest—oh, my goodness! All sick. They die so quick, too, that I haven’t the time to send them out of the country—it’s incredible!’–‘Hm’m. Just so,’ grunted the uncle. ‘Ah! my boy, trust to this—I say, trust to this.’ I saw him extend his short flipper of an arm for a gesture that took in the forest, the creek, the mud, the river—seemed to beckon with a dishonouring flourish before the sunlit face of the land a treacherous appeal to the lurking death, to the hidden evil, to the profound darkness of its heart. It was so startling that I leaped to my feet and looked back at the edge of the forest, as though I had expected an answer of some sort to that black display of confidence. You know the foolish notions that come to one sometimes. The high stillness confronted these two figures with its ominous patience, waiting for the passing away of a fantastic invasion. They swore aloud together—out of sheer fright, I believe—then pretending not to know anything of my existence, turned back to the station. The sun was low; and leaning forward side by side, they seemed to be tugging painfully uphill their two ridiculous shadows of unequal length, that trailed behind them slowly over the tall grass without bending a single blade. In a few days the Eldorado Expedition went into the patient wilderness, that closed upon it as the sea closes over a diver. Long afterwards the news came that all the donkeys were dead. I know nothing as to the fate of the less valuable animals. They, no doubt, like the rest of us, found what they deserved. I did not inquire. I was then rather excited at the prospect of meeting Kurtz very soon. When I say very soon I mean it comparatively. It was just two months from the day we left the creek when we came to the bank below Kurtz’s station. Going up that river was like travelling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in the brilliance of sunshine. The long stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of overshadowed distances. On silvery sand–banks hippos and alligators sunned themselves side by side. The broadening waters flowed through a mob of wooded islands; you lost your way on that river as you would in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying to find the channel, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had known once—somewhere—far away—in another existence perhaps. There were moments when one’s past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare for yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence. And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengeful aspect. I got used to it afterwards; I did not see it any more; I had no time. I had to keep guessing at the channel; I had to discern, mostly by inspiration, the signs of hidden banks; I watched for sunken stones; I was learning to clap my teeth smartly before my heart flew out, when I shaved by a fluke some infernal sly old snag that would have ripped the life out of the tin–pot steamboat and drowned all the pilgrims; I had to keep a lookout for the signs of dead wood we could cut up in the night for next day’s steaming. When you have to attend to things of that sort, to the mere incidents of the surface, the reality—the reality, I tell you—fades. The inner truth is hidden—luckily, luckily. But I felt it all the same; I felt often its mysterious stillness watching me at my monkey tricks, just as it watches you fellows performing on your respective tight–ropes for—what is it? half–a–crown a tumble——” Try to be civil, Marlow,” growled a voice, and I knew there was at least one listener awake besides myself. “I beg your pardon. I forgot the heartache which makes up the rest of the price. And indeed what does the price matter, if the trick be well done? You do your tricks very well. And I didn’t do badly either, since I managed not to sink that steamboat on my first trip. It’s a wonder to me yet. Imagine a blindfolded man set to drive a van over a bad road. I sweated and shivered over that business considerably, I can tell you. After all, for a seaman, to scrape the bottom of the thing that’s supposed to float all the time under his care is the unpardonable sin. No one may know of it, but you never forget the thump—eh? A blow on the very heart. You remember it, you dream of it, you wake up at night and think of it—years after—and go hot and cold all over. I don’t pretend to say that steamboat floated all the time. More than once she had to wade for a bit, with twenty cannibals splashing around and pushing. We had enlisted some of these chaps on the way for a crew. Fine fellows—cannibals—in their place. They were men one could work with, and I am grateful to them. And, after all, they did not eat each other before my face: they had brought along a provision of hippo–meat which went rotten, and made the mystery of the wilderness stink in my nostrils. Phoo! I can sniff it now. I had the manager on board and three or four pilgrims with their staves—all complete. Sometimes we came upon a station close by the bank, clinging to the skirts of the unknown, and the white men rushing out of a tumble-down hovel, with great gestures of joy and surprise and welcome, seemed very strange—had the appearance of being held there captive by a spell. The word ivory would ring in the air for a while—and on we went again into the silence, along empty reaches, round the still bends, between the high walls of our winding way, reverberating in hollow claps the ponderous beat of the stern–wheel. Trees, trees, millions of trees, massive, immense, running up high; and at their foot, hugging the bank against the stream, crept the little begrimed steamboat, like a sluggish beetle crawling on the floor of a lofty portico. It made you feel very small, very lost, and yet it was not altogether depressing, that feeling. After all, if you were small, the grimy beetle crawled on—which was just what you wanted it to do. Where the pilgrims imagined it crawled to I don’t know. To some place where they expected to get something. I bet! For me it crawled towards Kurtz—exclusively; but when the steam–pipes started leaking we crawled very slow. The reaches opened before us and closed behind, as if the forest had stepped leisurely across the water to bar the way for our return. We penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness. It was very quiet there. At night sometimes the roll of drums behind the curtain of trees would run up the river and remain sustained faintly, as if hovering in the air high over our heads, till the first break of day. Whether it meant war, peace, or prayer we could not tell. The dawns were heralded by the descent of a chill stillness; the wood–cutters slept, their fires burned low; the snapping of a twig would make you start. We were wanderers on a prehistoric earth, on an earth that wore the aspect of an unknown planet. We could have fancied ourselves the first of men taking possession of an accursed inheritance, to be subdued at the cost of profound anguish and of excessive toil. But suddenly, as we struggled round a bend, there would be a glimpse of rush walls, of peaked grass–roofs, a burst of yells, a whirl of black limbs, a mass of hands clapping, of feet stamping, of bodies swaying, of eyes rolling, under the droop of heavy and motionless foliage. The steamer toiled along slowly on the edge of a black and incomprehensible frenzy. The prehistoric man was cursing us, praying to us, welcoming us—who could tell? We were cut off from the comprehension of our surroundings; we glided past like phantoms, wondering and secretly appalled, as sane men would be before an enthusiastic outbreak in a madhouse. We could not understand because we were too far and could not remember because we were travelling in the night of first ages, of those ages that are gone, leaving hardly a sign—and no memories. The earth seemed unearthly. We are accustomed to look upon the shackled form of a conquered monster, but there—there you could look at a thing monstrous and free. It was unearthly, and the men were—— No, they were not inhuman. Well, you know, that was the worst of it—this suspicion of their not being inhuman. It would come slowly to one. They howled and leaped, and spun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you was just the thought of their humanity—like yours—the thought of your remote kinship with this wild and passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough; but if you were man enough you would admit to yourself that there was in you just the faintest trace of a response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in it which you—you so remote from the night of first ages—could comprehend. And why not? The mind of man is capable of anything—because everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future. What was there after all? Joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, valour, rage—who can tell?—but truth—truth stripped of its cloak of time. Let the fool gape and shudder—the man knows, and can look on without a wink. But he must at least be as much of a man as these on the shore. He must meet that truth with his own true stuff—with his own inborn strength. Principles won’t do. Acquisitions, clothes, pretty rags—rags that would fly off at the first good shake. No; you want a deliberate belief. An appeal to me in this fiendish row—is there? Very well; I hear; I admit, but I have a voice, too, and for good or evil mine is the speech that cannot be silenced. Of course, a fool, what with sheer fright and fine sentiments, is always safe. Who’s that grunting? You wonder I didn’t go ashore for a howl and a dance? Well, no—I didn’t. Fine sentiments, you say? Fine sentiments, be hanged! I had no time. I had to mess about with white–lead and strips of woollen blanket helping to put bandages on those leaky steam–pipes—I tell you. I had to watch the steering, and circumvent those snags, and get the tin–pot along by hook or by crook. There was surface–truth enough in these things to save a wiser man. And between whiles I had to look after the savage who was fireman. He was an improved specimen; he could fire up a vertical boiler. He was there below me, and, upon my word, to look at him was as edifying as seeing a dog in a parody of breeches and a feather hat, walking on his hind–legs. A few months of training had done for that really fine chap. He squinted at the steam–gauge and at the water–gauge with an evident effort of intrepidity—and he had filed teeth, too, the poor devil, and the wool of his pate shaved into queer patterns, and three ornamental scars on each of his cheeks. He ought to have been clapping his hands and stamping his feet on the bank, instead of which he was hard at work, a thrall to strange witchcraft, full of improving knowledge. He was useful because he had been instructed; and what he knew was this—that should the water in that transparent thing disappear, the evil spirit inside the boiler would get angry through the greatness of his thirst, and take a terrible vengeance. So he sweated and fired up and watched the glass fearfully (with an impromptu charm, made of rags, tied to his arm, and a piece of polished bone, as big as a watch, stuck flatways through his lower lip), while the wooded banks slipped past us slowly, the short noise was left behind, the interminable miles of silence—and we crept on, towards Kurtz. But the snags were thick, the water was treacherous and shallow, the boiler seemed indeed to have a sulky devil in it, and thus neither that fireman nor I had any time to peer into our creepy thoughts. Some fifty miles below the Inner Station we came upon a hut of reeds, an inclined and melancholy pole, with the unrecognizable tatters of what had been a flag of some sort flying from it, and a neatly stacked wood–pile. This was unexpected. We came to the bank, and on the stack of firewood found a flat piece of board with some faded pencil–writing on it. When deciphered it said: ‘Wood for you. Hurry up. Approach cautiously.’ There was a signature, but it was illegible—not Kurtz—a much longer word. ‘Hurry up.’ Where? Up the river? ‘Approach cautiously.’ We had not done so. But the warning could not have been meant for the place where it could be only found after approach. Something was wrong above. But what—and how much? That was the question. We commented adversely upon the imbecility of that telegraphic style. The bush around said nothing, and would not let us look very far, either. A torn curtain of red twill hung in the doorway of the hut, and flapped sadly in our faces. The dwelling was dismantled; but we could see a white man had lived there not very long ago. There remained a rude table—a plank on two posts; a heap of rubbish reposed in a dark corner, and by the door I picked up a book. It had lost its covers, and the pages had been thumbed into a state of extremely dirty softness; but the back had been lovingly stitched afresh with white cotton thread, which looked clean yet. It was an extraordinary find. Its title was: ‘An Inquiry into some Points of Seamanship,’ by a man Towser, Towson—some such name—Master in his Majesty’s Navy. The matter looked dreary reading enough, with illustrative diagrams and repulsive tables of figures, and the copy was sixty years old. I handled this amazing antiquity with the greatest possible tenderness, lest it should dissolve in my hands. Within, Towson or Towser was inquiring earnestly into the breaking strain of ships’ chains and tackle, and other such matters. Not a very enthralling book; but at the first glance you could see there a singleness of intention, an honest concern for the right way of going to work, which made these humble pages, thought out so many years ago, luminous with another than a professional light. The simple old sailor, with his talk of chains and purchases, made me forget the jungle and the pilgrims in a delicious sensation of having come upon something unmistakably real. Such a book being there was wonderful enough; but still more astounding were the notes penciled in the margin, and plainly referring to the text. I couldn’t believe my eyes! They were in cipher! Yes, it looked like cipher. Fancy a man lugging with him a book of that description into this nowhere and studying it—and making notes—in cipher at that! It was an extravagant mystery. I had been dimly aware for some time of a worrying noise, and when I lifted my eyes I saw the wood–pile was gone, and the manager, aided by all the pilgrims, was shouting at me from the river-side. I slipped the book into my pocket. I assure you to leave off reading was like tearing myself away from the shelter of an old and solid friendship. I started the lame engine ahead. ‘It must be this miserable trader–this intruder,’ exclaimed the manager, looking back malevolently at the place we had left. ‘He must be English,’ I said. ‘It will not save him from getting into trouble if he is not careful,’ muttered the manager darkly. I observed with assumed innocence that no man was safe from trouble in this world. The current was more rapid now, the steamer seemed at her last gasp, the stern-wheel flopped languidly, and I caught myself listening on tiptoe for the next beat of the boat, for in sober truth I expected the wretched thing to give up every moment. It was like watching the last flickers of a life. But still we crawled. Sometimes I would pick out a tree a little way ahead to measure our progress towards Kurtz by, but I lost it invariably before we got abreast. To keep the eyes so long on one thing was too much for human patience. The manager displayed a beautiful resignation. I fretted and fumed and took to arguing with myself whether or no I would talk openly with Kurtz; but before I could come to any conclusion it occurred to me that my speech or my silence, indeed any action of mine, would be a mere futility. What did it matter what any one knew or ignored? What did it matter who was manager? One gets sometimes such a flash of insight. The essentials of this affair lay deep under the surface, beyond my reach, and beyond my power of meddling. Towards the evening of the second day we judged ourselves about eight miles from Kurtz’s station. I wanted to push on; but the manager looked grave, and told me the navigation up there was so dangerous that it would be advisable, the sun being very low already, to wait where we were till next morning. Moreover, he pointed out that if the warning to approach cautiously were to be followed, we must approach in daylight—not at dusk or in the dark. This was sensible enough. Eight miles meant nearly three hours’ steaming for us, and I could also see suspicious ripples at the upper end of the reach. Nevertheless, I was annoyed beyond expression at the delay, and most unreasonably, too, since one night more could not matter much after so many months. As we had plenty of wood, and caution was the word, I brought up in the middle of the stream. The reach was narrow, straight, with high sides like a railway cutting. The dusk came gliding into it long before the sun had set. The current ran smooth and swift, but a dumb immobility sat on the banks. The living trees, lashed together by the creepers and every living bush of the undergrowth, might have been changed into stone, even to the slenderest twig, to the lightest leaf. It was not sleep—it seemed unnatural, like a state of trance. Not the faintest sound of any kind could be heard. You looked on amazed, and began to suspect yourself of being deaf—then the night came suddenly, and struck you blind as well. About three in the morning some large fish leaped, and the loud splash made me jump as though a gun had been fired. When the sun rose there was a white fog, very warm and clammy, and more blinding than the night. It did not shift or drive; it was just there, standing all round you like something solid. At eight or nine, perhaps, it lifted as a shutter lifts. We had a glimpse of the towering multitude of trees, of the immense matted jungle, with the blazing little ball of the sun hanging over it—all perfectly still—and then the white shutter came down again, smoothly, as if sliding in greased grooves. I ordered the chain, which we had begun to heave in, to be paid out again. Before it stopped running with a muffled rattle, a cry, a very loud cry, as of infinite desolation, soared slowly in the opaque air. It ceased. A complaining clamour, modulated in savage discords, filled our ears. The sheer unexpectedness of it made my hair stir under my cap. I don’t know how it struck the others: to me it seemed as though the mist itself had screamed, so suddenly, and apparently from all sides at once, did this tumultuous and mournful uproar arise. It culminated in a hurried outbreak of almost intolerably excessive shrieking, which stopped short, leaving us stiffened in a variety of silly attitudes, and obstinately listening to the nearly as appalling and excessive silence. ‘Good God! What is the meaning——?’ stammered at my elbow one of the pilgrims,—a little fat man, with sandy hair and red whiskers, who wore side-spring boots, and pink pyjamas tucked into his socks. Two others remained open–mouthed a whole minute, then dashed into the little cabin, to rush out incontinently and stand darting scared glances, with Winchesters at ‘ready’ in their hands. What we could see was just the steamer we were on, her outlines blurred as though she had been on the point of dissolving, and a misty strip of water, perhaps two feet broad, around her—and that was all. The rest of the world was nowhere, as far as our eyes and ears were concerned. Just nowhere. Gone, disappeared; swept off without leaving a whisper or a shadow behind. I went forward, and ordered the chain to be hauled in short, so as to be ready to trip the anchor and move the steamboat at once if necessary. ‘Will they attack?’ whispered an awed voice. ‘We will be all butchered in this fog,’ murmured another. The faces twitched with the strain, the hands trembled slightly, the eyes forgot to wink. It was very curious to see the contrast of expressions of the white men and of the black fellows of our crew, who were as much strangers to that part of the river as we, though their homes were only eight hundred miles away. The whites, of course greatly discomposed, had besides a curious look of being painfully shocked by such an outrageous row. The others had an alert, naturally interested expression; but their faces were essentially quiet, even those of the one or two who grinned as they hauled at the chain. Several exchanged short, grunting phrases, which seemed to settle the matter to their satisfaction. Their headman, a young, broad–chested black, severely draped in dark–blue fringed cloths, with fierce nostrils and his hair all done up artfully in oily ringlets, stood near me. ‘Aha!’ I said, just for good fellowship’s sake. ‘Catch ’im,’ he snapped, with a bloodshot widening of his eyes and a flash of sharp teeth–‘catch ’im. Give ’im to us.’– ‘To you, eh?’ I asked; ‘what would you do with them?’–‘Eat ’im!’ he said curtly, and, leaning his elbow on the rail, looked out into the fog in a dignified and profoundly pensive attitude. I would no doubt have been properly horrified, had it not occurred to me that he and his chaps must be very hungry: that they must have been growing increasingly hungry for at least this month past. They had been engaged for six months (I don’t think a single one of them had any clear idea of time, as we at the end of countless ages have. They still belonged to the beginnings of time—had no inherited experience to teach them as it were), and of course, as long as there was a piece of paper written over in accordance with some farcical law or other made down the river, it didn’t enter anybody’s head to trouble how they would live. Certainly they had brought with them some rotten hippo–meat, which couldn’t have lasted very long, anyway, even if the pilgrims hadn’t, in the midst of a shocking hullabaloo, thrown a considerable quantity of it overboard. It looked like a high–handed proceeding; but it was really a case of legitimate self–defence. You can’t breathe dead hippo waking, sleeping, and eating, and at the same time keep your precarious grip on existence. Besides that, they had given them every week three pieces of brass wire, each about nine inches long; and the theory was they were to buy their provisions with that currency in riverside villages. You can see how that worked. There were either no villages, or the people were hostile, or the director, who like the rest of us fed out of tins, with an occasional old he–goat thrown in, didn’t want to stop the steamer for some more or less recondite reason. So, unless they swallowed the wire itself, or made loops of it to snare the fishes with, I don’t see what good their extravagant salary could be to them. I must say it was paid with a regularity worthy of a large and honourable trading company. For the rest, the only thing to eat—though it didn’t look eatable in the least—I saw in their possession was a few lumps of some stuff like half–cooked dough, of a dirty lavender colour, they kept wrapped in leaves, and now and then swallowed a piece of, but so small that it seemed done more for the looks of the thing than for any serious purpose of sustenance. Why in the name of all the gnawing devils of hunger they didn’t go for us—they were thirty to five—and have a good tuck in for once, amazes me now when I think of it. They were big powerful men, with not much capacity to weigh the consequences, with courage, with strength, even yet, though their skins were no longer glossy and their muscles no longer hard. And I saw that something restraining, one of those human secrets that baffle probability, had come into play there. I looked at them with a swift quickening of interest—not because it occurred to me I might be eaten by them before very long, though I own to you that just then I perceived—in a new light, as it were—how unwholesome the pilgrims looked, and I hoped, yes, I positively hoped, that my aspect was not so—what shall I say?—so—unappetizing: a touch of fantastic vanity which fitted well with the dream–sensation that pervaded all my days at that time. Perhaps I had a little fever, too. One can’t live with one’s finger everlastingly on one’s pulse. I had often ‘a little fever,’ or a little touch of other things—the playful paw–strokes of the wilderness, the preliminary trifling before the more serious onslaught which came in due course. Yes; I looked at them as you would on any human being, with a curiosity of their impulses, motives, capacities, weaknesses, when brought to the test of an inexorable physical necessity. Restraint! What possible restraint? Was it superstition, disgust, patience, fear—or some kind of primitive honour? No fear can stand up to hunger, no patience can wear it out, disgust simply does not exist where hunger is; and as to superstition, beliefs, and what you may call principles, they are less than chaff in a breeze. Don’t you know the devilry of lingering starvation, its exasperating torment, its black thoughts, its sombre and brooding ferocity? Well, I do. It takes a man all his inborn strength to fight hunger properly. It’s really easier to face bereavement, dishonour, and the perdition of one’s soul—than this kind of prolonged hunger. Sad, but true. And these chaps, too, had no earthly reason for any kind of scruple. Restraint! I would just as soon have expected restraint from a hyena prowling amongst the corpses of a battlefield. But there was the fact facing me—the fact dazzling, to be seen, like the foam on the depths of the sea, like a ripple on an unfathomable enigma, a mystery greater—when I thought of it—than the curious, inexplicable note of desperate grief in this savage clamour that had swept by us on the river–bank, behind the blind whiteness of the fog. Two pilgrims were quarreling in hurried whispers as to which bank. ‘Left.’—‘no, no; how can you? Right, right, of course.’—‘It is very serious,’ said the manager’s voice behind me; ‘I would be desolated if anything should happen to Mr Kurtz before we came up.’ I looked at him, and had not the slightest doubt he was sincere. He was just the kind of man who would wish to preserve appearances. That was his restraint. But when he muttered something about going on at once, I did not even take the trouble to answer him. I knew, and he knew, that it was impossible. Were we to let go our hold of the bottom, we would be absolutely in the air—in space. We wouldn’t be able to tell where we were going to—whether up or down stream, or across—till we fetched against one bank or the other—and then we wouldn’t know at first which it was. Of course I made no move. I had no mind for a smash–up. You couldn’t imagine a more deadly place for a shipwreck. Whether we drowned at once or not, we were sure to perish speedily in one way or another. ‘I authorize you to take all the risks,’ he said, after a short silence. ‘I refuse to take any,’ I said shortly; which was just the answer he expected, though its tone might have surprised him. ‘Well, I must defer to your judgment. You are captain,’ he said with marked civility. I turned my shoulder to him in sign of my appreciation, and looked into the fog. How long would it last? It was the most hopeless lookout. The approach to this Kurtz grubbing for ivory in the wretched bush was beset by as many dangers as though he had been an enchanted princess sleeping in a fabulous castle. ‘Will they attack, do you think?’ asked the manager, in a confidential tone. I did not think they would attack, for several obvious reasons. The thick fog was one. If they left the bank in their canoes they would get lost in it, as we would be if we attempted to move. Still, I had also judged the jungle of both banks quite impenetrable—and yet eyes were in it, eyes that had seen us. The riverside bushes were certainly very thick; but the undergrowth behind was evidently penetrable. However, during the short lift I had seen no canoes anywhere in the reach—certainly not abreast of the steamer. But what made the idea of attack inconceivable to me was the nature of the noise—of the cries we had heard. They had not the fierce character boding immediate hostile intention. Unexpected, wild, and violent as they had been, they had given me an irresistible impression of sorrow. The glimpse of the steamboat had for some reason filled those savages with unrestrained grief. The danger, if any, I expounded, was from our proximity to a great human passion let loose. Even extreme grief may ultimately vent itself in violence—but more generally takes the form of apathy. ... You should have seen the pilgrims stare! They had no heart to grin, or even to revile me: but I believe they thought me gone mad—with fright, maybe. I delivered a regular lecture. My dear boys, it was no good bothering. Keep a look-out? Well, you may guess I watched the fog for the signs of lifting as a cat watches a mouse; but for anything else our eyes were of no more use to us than if we had been buried miles deep in a heap of cotton–wool. It felt like it, too—choking, warm, stifling. Besides, all I said, though it sounded extravagant, was absolutely true to fact. What we afterwards alluded to as an attack was really an attempt at repulse. The action was very far from being aggressive—it was not even defensive, in the usual sense: it was undertaken under the stress of desperation, and in its essence was purely protective. It developed itself, I should say, two hours after the fog lifted, and its commencement was at a spot, roughly speaking, about a mile and a half below Kurtz’s station. We had just floundered and flopped round a bend, when I saw an islet, a mere grassy hummock of bright green, in the middle of the stream. It was the only thing of the kind; but as we opened the reach more, I perceived it was the head of a long sand–bank, or rather of a chain of shallow patches stretching down the middle of the river. They were discoloured, just awash, and the whole lot was seen just under the water, exactly as a man’s backbone is seen running down the middle of his back under the skin. Now, as far as I did see, I could go to the right or to the left of this. I didn’t know either channel, of course. The banks looked pretty well alike, the depth appeared the same; but as I had been informed the station was on the west side, I naturally headed for the western passage. No sooner had we fairly entered it than I became aware it was much narrower than I had supposed. To the left of us there was the long uninterrupted shoal, and to the right a high, steep bank heavily overgrown with bushes. Above the bush the trees stood in serried ranks. The twigs overhung the current thickly, and from distance to distance a large limb of some tree projected rigidly over the stream. It was then well on in the afternoon, the face of the forest was gloomy, and a broad strip of shadow had already fallen on the water. In this shadow we steamed up—very slowly, as you may imagine. I sheered her well inshore—the water being deepest near the bank, as the sounding–pole informed me. One of my hungry and forbearing friends was sounding in the bows just below me. This steamboat was exactly like a decked scow. On the deck, there were two little teak-wood houses, with doors and windows. The boiler was in the fore–end, and the machinery right astern. Over the whole there was a light roof, supported on stanchions. The funnel projected through that roof, and in front of the funnel a small cabin built of light planks served for a pilot–house. It contained a couch, two camp–stools, a loaded Martini–Henry leaning in one corner, a tiny table, and the steering–wheel. It had a wide door in front and a broad shutter at each side. All these were always thrown open, of course. I spent my days perched up there on the extreme fore–end of that roof, before the door. At night I slept, or tried to, on the couch. An athletic black belonging to some coast tribe and educated by my poor predecessor, was the helmsman. He sported a pair of brass earrings, wore a blue cloth wrapper from the waist to the ankles, and thought all the world of himself. He was the most unstable kind of fool I had ever seen. He steered with no end of a swagger while you were by; but if he lost sight of you, he became instantly the prey of an abject funk, and would let that cripple of a steamboat get the upper hand of him in a minute. I was looking down at the sounding–pole, and feeling much annoyed to see at each try a little more of it stick out of that river, when I saw my poleman give up on the business suddenly, and stretch himself flat on the deck, without even taking the trouble to haul his pole in. He kept hold on it though, and it trailed in the water. At the same time the fireman, whom I could also see below me, sat down abruptly before his furnace and ducked his head. I was amazed. Then I had to look at the river mighty quick, because there was a snag in the fairway. Sticks, little sticks, were flying about—thick: they were whizzing before my nose, dropping below me, striking behind me against my pilot–house. All this time the river, the shore, the woods, were very quiet—perfectly quiet. I could only hear the heavy splashing thump of the stern–wheel and the patter of these things. We cleared the snag clumsily. Arrows, by Jove! We were being shot at! I stepped in quickly to close the shutter on the landside. That fool–helmsman, his hands on the spokes, was lifting his knees high, stamping his feet, champing his mouth, like a reined–in horse. Confound him! And we were staggering within ten feet of the bank. I had to lean right out to swing the heavy shutter, and I saw a face amongst the leaves on the level with my own, looking at me very fierce and steady; and then suddenly, as though a veil had been removed from my eyes, I made out, deep in the tangled gloom, naked breasts, arms, legs, glaring eyes—the bush was swarming with human limbs in movement, glistening, of bronze colour. The twigs shook, swayed, and rustled, the arrows flew out of them, and then the shutter came to. ‘Steer her straight,’ I said to the helmsman. He held his head rigid, face forward; but his eyes rolled, he kept on lifting and setting down his feet gently, his mouth foamed a little. ‘Keep quiet!’ I said in a fury. I might just as well have ordered a tree not to sway in the wind. I darted out. Below me there was a great scuffle of feet on the iron deck; confused exclamations; a voice screamed: ‘Can you turn back?’ I caught sight of a V–shaped ripple on the water ahead. What? Another snag! A fusillade burst out under my feet. The pilgrims had opened with their Winchesters, and were simply squirting lead into that bush. A deuce of a lot of smoke came up and drove slowly forward. I swore at it. Now I couldn’t see the ripple or the snag either. I stood in the doorway, peering, and the arrows came in swarms. They might have been poisoned, but they looked as though they wouldn’t kill a cat. The bush began to howl. Our wood–cutters raised a warlike whoop; the report of a rifle just at my back deafened me. I glanced over my shoulder, and the pilot–house was yet full of noise and smoke when I madea dash at the wheel. The fool-nigger had dropped everything, to throw the shutter open and let off that Martini-Henry. He stood before the wide opening, glaring, and I yelled at him to come back, while I straightened the sudden twist out of that steamboat. There was no room to turn even if I had wanted to, the snag was somewhere very near ahead in that confounded smoke, there was no time to lose, so I just crowded her into the bank—right into the bank, where I knew the water was deep. We tore slowly along the overhanging bushes in a whirl of broken twigs and flying leaves. The fusillade below stopped short, as I had foreseen it would when the squirts got empty. I threw my head back to a glinting whizz that traversed the pilot-house, in at one shutter-hole and out at the other. Looking past that mad helmsman, who was shaking the empty rifle and yelling at the shore, I saw vague forms of men running bent double, leaping, gliding, distinct, incomplete, evanescent. Something big appeared in the air before the shutter, the rifle went overboard, and the man stepped back swiftly, looked at me over his shoulder in an extraordinary, profound, familiar manner, and fell upon my feet. The side of his head hit the wheel twice, and the end of what appeared a long cane clattered round and knocked over a little camp-stool. It looked as though after wrenching that thing from somebody ashore he had lost his balance in the effort. The thin smoke had blown away, we were clear of the snag, and looking ahead I could see that in another hundred yards or so I would be free to sheer off, away from the bank; but my feet felt so very warm and wet that I had to look down. The man had rolled on his back and stared straight up at me; both his hands clutched that cane. It was the shaft of a spear that, either thrown or lunged through the opening, had caught him in the side, just below the ribs; the blade had gone in out of sight, after making a frightful gash; my shoes were full; a pool of blood lay very still, gleaming dark-red under the wheel; his eyes shone with an amazing lustre. The fusillade burst out again. He looked at me anxiously, gripping the spear like something precious, with an air of being afraid I would try to take it away from him. I had to make an effort to free my eyes from his gaze and attend to the steering. With one hand I felt above my head for the line of the steam-whistle, and jerked out screech after screech hurriedly. The tumult of angry and warlike yells was checked instantly, and then from the depths of the woods went out such a tremulous and prolonged wail of mournful fear and utter despair as may be imagined to follow the flight of the last hope from the earth. There was a great commotion in the bush; the shower of arrows stopped, a few dropping shots rang out sharply—then silence, in which the languid beat of the stern–wheel came plainly to my ears. I put the helm hard astarboard at the moment when the pilgrim in pink pyjamas, very hot and agitated, appeared in the doorway. ‘The manager sends me ...’ he began in an official tone, and stopped short. ‘Good God!’ he said, glaring at the wounded man. We two whites stood over him, and his lustrous and inquiring glance enveloped us both. I declare it looked as though he would presently put to us some questions in an understandable language; but he died without uttering a sound, without moving a limb, without twitching a muscle. Only in the very last moment, as though in response to some sign we could not see, to some whisper we could not hear, he frowned heavily, and that frown gave to his black death-mask an inconceivably somber, brooding, and menacing expression. The lustre of inquiring glance faded swiftly into vacant glassiness. ‘Can you steer?’ I asked the agent eagerly. He looked very dubious; but I made a grab at his arm, and he understood at once I meant him to steer whether or no. To tell you the truth, I was morbidly anxious to change my shoes and socks. ‘He is dead,’ murmured the fellow, immensely impressed. ‘No doubt about it,’ said I, tugging like mad at the shoe-laces. ‘And by the way, I suppose Mr Kurtz is dead as well by this time.’ For the moment that was the dominant thought. There was a sense of extreme disappointment, as though I had found out I had been striving after something altogether without a substance. I couldn’t have been more disgusted if I had travelled all this way for the sole purpose of talking with Mr Kurtz. Talking with … I flung one shoe overboard, and became aware that that was exactly what I had been looking forward to—a talk with Kurtz. I made the strange discovery that I had never imagined him as doing, you know, but as discoursing. I didn’t say to myself: ‘Now I will never see him,’ or ‘Now I will never shake him by the hand,’ but, ‘Now I will never hear him.’ The man presented himself as a voice. Not of course that I did not connect him with some sort of action. Hadn’t I been told in all the tones of jealousy and admiration that he had collected, bartered, swindled, or stolen more ivory than all the other agents together. That was not the point. The point was in his being a gifted creature, and that of all his gifts the one that stood out preeminently, that carried with it a sense of real presence, was his ability to talk, his words—the gift of expression, the bewildering, the illuminating, the most exalted and the most contemptible, the pulsating stream of light, or the deceitful flow from the heart of an impenetrable darkness. The other shoe went flying unto the devil-god of that river. I thought: ‘By Jove! it’s all over. We are too late; he has vanished—the gift has vanished, by means of some spear, arrow, or club. I will never hear that chap speak after all’—and my sorrow had a startling extravagance of emotion, even such as I had noticed in the howling sorrow of these savages in the bush. I couldn’t have felt more of lonely desolation somehow, had I been robbed of a belief or had missed my destiny in life. … Why do you sigh in this beastly way, somebody? Absurd? Well, absurd. Good Lord! mustn’t a man ever ... Here, give me some tobacco.” … There was a pause of profound stillness, then a match flared, and Marlow’s lean face appeared, worn, hollow, with downward folds and dropped eyelids, with an aspect of concentrated attention; and as he took vigorous draws at his pipe, it seemed to retreat and advance out of the night in the regular flicker of tiny flame. The match went out. “Absurd!” he cried. “This is the worst of trying to tell ... Here you all are, each moored with two good addresses, like a hulk with two anchors, a butcher round one corner, a policeman round another, excellent appetites, and temperature normal—you hear—normal from year’s end to year’s end. And you say: Absurd! Absurd be—exploded! Absurd! My dear boys, what can you expect from a man who out of sheer nervousness had just flung overboard a pair of new shoes! Now I think of it, it is amazing I did not shed tears. I am, upon the whole, proud of my fortitude. I was cut to the quick at the idea of having lost the inestimable privilege of listening to the gifted Kurtz. Of course I was wrong. The privilege was waiting for me. Oh, yes, I heard more than enough. And I was right, too. A voice. He was very little more than a voice. And I heard—him—it—this voice—other voices—all of them were so little more than voices—and the memory of that time itself lingers around me, impalpable, like a dying vibration of one immense jabber, silly, atrocious, sordid, savage, or simply mean, without any kind of sense. Voices, voices—even the girl herself—now ...” He was silent for a long time. “I laid the ghost of his gifts at last with a lie,” he began, suddenly. “Girl! What? Did I mention a girl? Oh, she is out of it—completely. They—the women, I mean—are out of it—should be out of it. We must help them to stay in that beautiful world of their own, lest ours gets worse. Oh, she had to be out of it. You should have heard the disinterred body of Mr Kurtz saying: ‘My Intended.’ You would have perceived directly then how completely she was out of it. And the lofty frontal bone of Mr Kurtz! They say the hair goes on growing sometimes, but this—ah—specimen, was impressively bald. The wilderness had patted him on the head, and, behold, it was like a ball—an ivory ball; it had caressed him, and—lo!—he had withered; it had taken him, loved him, embraced him, got into his veins, consumed his flesh, and sealed his soul to its own by the inconceivable ceremonies of some devilish initiation. He was its spoiled and pampered favorite. Ivory? I should think so. Heaps of it, stacks of it. The old mud shanty was bursting with it. You would think there was not a single tusk left either above or below the ground in the whole country. ‘Mostly fossil,’ the manager had remarked, disparagingly. It was no more fossil than I am; but they call it fossil when it is dug up. It appears these niggers do bury the tusks sometimes—but evidently they couldn’t bury this parcel deep enough to save the gifted Mr Kurtz from his fate. We filled the steamboat with it, and had to pile a lot on the deck. Thus he could see and enjoy as long as he could see, because the appreciation of this favour had remained with him to the last. You should have heard him say: ‘My ivory.’ Oh, yes, I heard him. ‘My Intended, my ivory, my station, my river, my——’ everything belonged to him. It made me hold my breath in expectation of hearing the wilderness burst into a prodigious peal of laughter that would shake the fixed stars in their places. Everything belonged to him—but that was a trifle. The thing was to know what he belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him for their own. That was the reflection that made you creepy all over. It was impossible—it was not good for one either—trying to imagine. He had taken a high seat amongst the devils of the land—I mean literally. You can’t understand. How could you?—with solid pavement under your feet, surrounded by kind neighbours ready to cheer you or to fall on you, stepping delicately between the butcher and the policeman, in the holy terror of scandal and gallows and lunatic asylums—how can you imagine what particular region of the first ages a man’s untrammeled feet may take him into by the way of solitude—utter solitude without a policeman—by the way of silence—utter silence, where no warning voice of a kind neighbour can be heard whispering of public opinion? These little things make all the great difference. When they are gone you must fall back upon your own innate strength, upon your own capacity for faithfulness. Of course you may be too much of a fool to go wrong—too dull even to know you are being assaulted by the powers of darkness. I take it, no fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the devil; the fool is too much of a fool, or the devil too much of a devil—I don’t know which. Or you may be such a thunderingly exalted creature as to be altogether deaf and blind to anything but heavenly sights and sounds. Then the earth for you is only a standing place—and whether to be like this is your loss or your gain I won’t pretend to say. But most of us are neither one nor the other. The earth for us is a place to live in, where we must put up with sights, with sounds, with smells, too, by Jove!—breathe dead hippo, so to speak, and not be contaminated. And there, don’t you see? Your strength comes in, the faith in your ability for the digging of unostentatious holes to bury the stuff in—your power of devotion, not to yourself, but to an obscure, back–breaking business. And that’s difficult enough. Mind, I am not trying to excuse or even explain—I am trying to account to myself for—for—Mr Kurtz—for the shade of Mr Kurtz. This initiated wraith from the back of Nowhere honoured me with its amazing confidence before it vanished altogether. This was because it could speak English to me. The original Kurtz had been educated partly in England, and—as he was good enough to say himself—his sympathies were in the right place. His mother was half–English, his father was half–French. All Europe contributed to the making of Kurtz; and by and by I learned that, most appropriately, the International Society for the Suppression of Savage Customs had intrusted him with the making of a report, for its future guidance. And he had written it, too. I’ve seen it. I’ve read it. It was eloquent, vibrating with eloquence, but too high–strung, I think. Seventeen pages of close writing he had found time for! But this must have been before his—let us say—nerves, went wrong, and caused him to preside at certain midnight dances ending with unspeakable rites, which—as far as I reluctantly gathered from what I heard at various times—were offered up to him—do you understand?—to Mr Kurtz himself. But it was a beautiful piece of writing. The opening paragraph, however, in the light of later information, strikes me now as ominous. He began with the argument that we whites, from the point of development we had arrived at, ‘must necessarily appear to them [savages] in the nature of supernatural beings—we approach them with the might of a deity,’ and so on, and so on. ‘By the simple exercise of our will we can exert a power for good practically unbounded,’ etc., etc. From that point he soared and took me with him. The peroration was magnificent, though difficult to remember, you know. It gave me the notion of an exotic Immensity ruled by an august Benevolence. It made me tingle with enthusiasm. This was the unbounded power of eloquence—of words—of burning noble words. There were no practical hints to interrupt the magic current of phrases, unless a kind of note at the foot of the last page, scrawled evidently much later, in an unsteady hand, may be regarded as the exposition of a method. It was very simple, and at the end of that moving appeal to every altruistic sentiment it blazed at you, luminous and terrifying, like a flash of lightning in a serene sky: ‘Exterminate all the brutes!’ The curious part was that he had apparently forgotten all about that valuable postscriptum, because, later on, when he in a sense came to himself, he repeatedly entreated me to take good care of ‘my pamphlet’ (he called it), as it was sure to have in the future a good influence upon his career. I had full information about all these things, and, besides, as it turned out, I was to have the care of his memory. I’ve done enough for it to give me the indisputable right to lay it, if I choose, for an everlasting rest in the dust–bin of progress, amongst all the sweepings and, figuratively speaking, all the dead cats of civilization. But then, you see, I can’t choose. He won’t be forgotten. Whatever he was, he was not common. He had the power to charm or frighten rudimentary souls into an aggravated witch–dance in his honour; he could also fill the small souls of the pilgrims with bitter misgivings: he had one devoted friend at least, and he had conquered one soul in the world that was neither rudimentary nor tainted with self–seeking. No; I can’t forget him, though I am not prepared to affirm the fellow was exactly worth the life we lost in getting to him. I missed my late helmsman awfully,—I missed him even while his body was still lying in the pilot–house. Perhaps you will think it passing strange this regret for a savage who was no more account than a grain of sand in a black Sahara. Well, don’t you see, he had done something, he had steered; for months I had him at my back—a help—an instrument. It was a kind of partnership. He steered for me—I had to look after him, I worried about his deficiencies, and thus a subtle bond had been created, of which I only became aware when it was suddenly broken. And the intimate profundity of that look he gave me when he received his hurt remains to this day in my memory—like a claim of distant kinship affirmed in a supreme moment. Poor fool! If he had only left that shutter alone. He had no restraint, no restraint—just like Kurtz—a tree swayed by the wind. As soon as I had put on a dry pair of slippers, I dragged him out, after first jerking the spear out of his side, which operation I confess I performed with my eyes shut tight. His heels leaped together over the little doorstep; his shoulders were pressed to my breast; I hugged him from behind desperately. Oh! he was heavy, heavy; heavier than any man on earth, I should imagine. Then without more ado I tipped him overboard. The current snatched him as though he had been a wisp of grass, and I saw the body roll over twice before I lost sight of it for ever. All the pilgrims and the manager were then congregated on the awning–deck about the pilot–house, chattering at each other like a flock of excited magpies, and there was a scandalized murmur at my heartless promptitude. What they wanted to keep that body hanging about for I can’t guess. Embalm it, maybe. But I had also heard another, and a very ominous, murmur on the deck below. My friends the wood–cutters were likewise scandalized, and with a better show of reason—though I admit that the reason itself was quite inadmissible. Oh, quite! I had made up my mind that if my late helmsman was to be eaten, the fishes alone should have him. He had been a very second–rate helmsman while alive, but now he was dead he might have become a first–class temptation, and possibly cause some startling trouble. Besides, I was anxious to take the wheel, the man in pink pyjamas showing himself a hopeless duffer at the business. This I did directly the simple funeral was over. We were going half–speed, keeping right in the middle of the stream, and I listened to the talk about me. They had given up Kurtz, they had given up the station; Kurtz was dead, and the station had been burnt—and so on—and so on. The red–haired pilgrim was besidehimself with the thought that at least this poor Kurtz had been properly revenged. ‘Say! We must have made a glorious slaughter of them in the bush. Eh? What do you think? Say?’ He positively danced, the bloodthirsty little gingery beggar. And he had nearly fainted when he saw the wounded man! I could not help saying:‘You made a glorious lot of smoke, anyhow.’ I had seen, from the way the tops of the bushes rustled and flew, that almost all the shots had gone too high. You can’t hit anything unless you take aim and fire from the shoulder; but these chaps fired from the hip with their eyes shut. The retreat, I maintained—and I was right—was caused by the screeching of the steam whistle. Upon this they forgot Kurtz, and began to howl at me with indignant protests. The manager stood by the wheel murmuring confidentially about the necessity of getting well away down the river before dark at all events, when I saw in the distance a clearing on the riverside and the outlines of some sort of building. ‘What’s this?’ I asked. He clapped his hands in wonder. ‘The station!’ he cried. I edged in at once, still going half–speed. Through my glasses I saw the slope of a hill interspersed with rare trees and perfectly free from undergrowth. A long decaying building on the summit was half buried in the high grass; the large holes in the peaked roof gaped black from afar; the jungle and the woods made a background. There was no enclosure or fence of any kind; but there had been one apparently, for near the house half–a–dozen slim posts remained in a row, roughly trimmed, and with their upper ends ornamented with round carved balls. The rails, or whatever there had been between, had disappeared. Of course the forest surrounded all that. The river–bank was clear, and on the waterside I saw a white man under a hat like a cart–wheel beckoning persistently with his whole arm. Examining the edge of the forest above and below, I was almost certain I could see movements—human forms gliding here and there. I steamed past prudently, then stopped the engines and let her drift down. The man on the shore began to shout, urging us to land. ‘We have been attacked,’ screamed the manager. ‘I know—I know. It’s all right,’ yelled back the other, as cheerful as you please. ‘Come along. It’s all right. I am glad.’ His aspect reminded me of something I had seen—something funny I had seen somewhere. As I maneuvered to get alongside, I was asking myself: ‘What does this fellow look like?’ Suddenly I got it. He looked like a harlequin. His clothes had been made of some stuff that was brown holland probably, but it was covered with patches all over, with bright patches, blue, red, and yellow—patches on the back, patches on the front, patches on elbows, on knees; coloured binding around his jacket, scarlet edging at the bottom of his trousers; and the sunshine made him look extremely gay and wonderfully neat withal, because you could see how beautifully all this patching had been done. A beardless, boyish face, very fair, no features to speak of, nose peeling, little blue eyes, smiles and frowns chasing each other over that open countenance like sunshine and shadow on a wind–swept plain. ‘Look out, captain!’ he cried; ‘there’s a snag lodged in here last night.’ What! Another snag? I confess I swore shamefully. I had nearly holed my cripple, to finish off that charming trip. The harlequin on the bank turned his little pug–nose up to me. ‘You English?’ he asked, all smiles. ‘Are you?’ I shouted from the wheel. The smiles vanished, and he shook his head as if sorry for my disappointment. Then he brightened up. ‘Never mind!’ he cried encouragingly. ‘Are we in time?’ I asked. ‘He is up there,’ he replied, with a toss of the head up the hill, and becoming gloomy all of a sudden. His face was like the autumn sky, overcast one moment and bright the next. When the manager, escorted by the pilgrims, all of them armed to the teeth, had gone to the house this chap came on board. ‘I say, I don’t like this. These natives are in the bush,’ I said. He assured me earnestly it was all right. ‘They are simple people,’ he added; ‘well, I am glad you came. It took me all my time to keep them off.’—‘But you said it was all right,’ I cried. ‘Oh, they meant no harm,’ he said; and as I stared he corrected himself: ‘Not exactly.’ Then vivaciously: ‘My faith, your pilot–house wants a clean–up!’ In the next breath he advised me to keep enough steam on the boiler to blow the whistle in case of any trouble. ‘One good screech will do more for you than all your rifles. They are simple people,’ he repeated. He rattled away at such a rate he quite overwhelmed me. He seemed to be trying to make up for lots of silence, and actually hinted, laughing, that such was the case. ‘Don’t you talk with Mr Kurtz?’ I said. ‘You don’t talk with that man—you listen to him,’ he exclaimed with severe exaltation. ‘But now—’ He waved his arm, and in the twinkling of an eye was in the uttermost depths of despondency. In a moment he came up again with a jump, possessed himself of both my hands, shook them continuously, while he gabbled: ‘Brother sailor ... honour ... pleasure ... delight ... introduce myself ... Russian ... son of an arch–priest ... Government of Tambov ... What? Tobacco! English tobacco; the excellent English tobacco! Now, that’s brotherly. Smoke? Where’s a sailor that does not smoke?” The pipe soothed him, and gradually I made out he had run away from school, had gone to sea in a Russian ship; ran away again; served some time in English ships; was now reconciled with the arch–priest. He made a point of that. ‘But when one is young one must see things, gather experience, ideas; enlarge the mind.’—‘Here!’ I interrupted. ‘You can never tell! Here I have met Mr Kurtz,’ he said, youthfully solemn and reproachful. I held my tongue after that. It appears he had persuaded a Dutch trading–house on the coast to fit him out with stores and goods, and had started for the interior with a light heart and no more idea of what would happen to him than a baby. He had been wandering about that river for nearly two years alone, cut off from everybody and everything. ‘I am not so young as I look. I am twenty–five,’ he said. ‘At first old Van Shuyten would tell me to go to the devil,’ he narrated with keen enjoyment; ‘but I stuck to him, and talked and talked, till at last he got afraid I would talk the hind–leg off his favorite dog, so he gave me some cheap things and a few guns, and told me he hoped he would never see my face again. Good old Dutchman, Van Shuyten. I’ve sent him one small lot of ivory a year ago, so that he can’t call me a little thief when I get back. I hope he got it. And for the rest I don’t care. I had some wood stacked for you. That was my old house. Did you see?’ I gave him Towson’s book. He made as though he would kiss me, but restrained himself. ‘The only book I had left, and I thought I had lost it,’ he said, looking at it ecstatically. ‘So many accidents happen to a man going about alone, you know. Canoes get upset sometimes—and sometimes you’ve got to clear out so quick when the people get angry.’ He thumbed the pages. ‘You made notes in Russian?’ I asked. He nodded. ‘I thought they were written in cipher,’ I said. He laughed, then became serious. ‘I had lots of trouble to keep these people off,’ he said. ‘Did they want to kill you?’ I asked. ‘Oh, no!’ he cried, and checked himself. ‘Why did they attack us?’ I pursued. He hesitated, then said shamefacedly, ‘They don’t want him to go.’—‘Don’t they?’ I said curiously. He nodded a nod full of mystery and wisdom. ‘I tell you,’ he cried, ‘this man has enlarged my mind.’ He opened his arms wide, staring at me with his little blue eyes that were perfectly round.” III.I looked at him, lost in astonishment. There he was before me, in motley, as though he had absconded from a troupe of mimes, enthusiastic, fabulous. His very existence was improbable, inexplicable, and altogether bewildering. He was an insoluble problem. It was inconceivable how he had existed, how he had succeeded in getting so far, how he had managed to remain—why he did not instantly disappear. ‘I went a little farther,’ he said, ‘then still a little farther—till I had gone so far that I don’t know how I’ll ever get back. Never mind. Plenty time. I can manage. You take Kurtz away quick—quick—I tell you.’ The glamour of youth enveloped his parti–colored rags, his destitution, his loneliness, the essential desolation of his futile wanderings. For months—for years—his life hadn’t been worth a day’s purchase; and there he was gallantly, thoughtlessly alive, to all appearances indestructible solely by the virtue of his few years and of his unreflecting audacity. I was seduced into something like admiration—like envy. Glamour urged him on, glamour kept him unscathed. He surely wanted nothing from the wilderness but space to breathe in and to push on through. His need was to exist, and to move onwards at the greatest possible risk, and with a maximum of privation. If the absolutely pure, uncalculating, unpractical spirit of adventure had ever ruled a human being, it ruled this be-patched youth. I almost envied him the possession of this modest and clear flame. It seemed to have consumed all thought of self so completely, that even while he was talking to you, you forgot that it was he—the man before your eyes—who had gone through these things. I did not envy his devotion to Kurtz, though. He had not meditated over it. It came to him, and he accepted it with a sort of eager fatalism. I must say that to me it appeared about the most dangerous thing in every way he had come upon so far. They had come together unavoidably, like two ships becalmed near each other, and lay rubbing sides at last. I suppose Kurtz wanted an audience, because on a certain occasion, when encamped in the forest, they had talked all night, or more probably Kurtz had talked. ‘We talked of everything,’ he said, quite transported at the recollection. ‘I forgot there was such a thing as sleep. The night did not seem to last an hour. Everything! Everything! ... Of love, too.’–‘Ah, he talked to you of love!’ I said, much amused. ‘It isn’t what you think,’ he cried, almost passionately. ‘It was in general. He made me see things—things.’ He threw his arms up. We were on deck at the time, and the headman of my wood–cutters, lounging near by, turned upon him his heavy and glittering eyes. I looked around, and I don’t know why, but I assure you that never, never before, did this land, this river, this jungle, the very arch of this blazing sky, appear to me so hopeless and so dark, so impenetrable to human thought, so pitiless to human weakness. ‘And, ever since, you have been with him, of course?’ I said. On the contrary. It appears their intercourse had been very much broken by various causes. He had, as he informed me proudly, managed to nurse Kurtz through two illnesses (he alluded to it as you would to some risky feat), but as a rule Kurtz wandered alone, far in the depths of the forest. ‘Very often coming to this station, I had to wait days and days before he would turn up,’ he said. ‘Ah, it was worth waiting for!—sometimes.’—‘What was he doing? exploring or what?’ I asked. ‘Oh, yes, of course;’ he had discovered lots of villages, a lake, too—he did not know exactly in what direction; it was dangerous to inquire too much—but mostly his expeditions had been for ivory. ‘But he had no goods to trade with by that time,’ I objected. ‘There’s a good lot of cartridges left even yet,’ he answered, looking away. ‘To speak plainly, he raided the country,’ I said. He nodded. ‘Not alone, surely!’ He muttered something about the villages round that lake. ‘Kurtz got the tribe to follow him, did he?’ I suggested. He fidgeted a little. ‘They adored him,’ he said. The tone of these words was so extraordinary that I looked at him searchingly. It was curious to see his mingled eagerness and reluctance to speak of Kurtz. The man filled his life, occupied his thoughts, swayed his emotions. ‘What can you expect?’ he burst out; ‘he came to them with thunder and lightning, you know—and they had never seen anything like it—and very terrible. He could be very terrible. You can’t judge Mr Kurtz as you would an ordinary man. No, no, no! Now—just to give you an idea—I don’t mind telling you, he wanted to shoot me, too, one day—but I don’t judge him.’–‘Shoot you!’ I cried ‘What for?’–‘Well, I had a small lot of ivory the chief of that village near my house gave me. You see I used to shoot game for them. Well, he wanted it, and wouldn’t hear reason. He declared he would shoot me unless I gave him the ivory and then cleared out of the country, because he could do so, and had a fancy for it, and there was nothing on earth to prevent him killing whom he jolly well pleased. And it was true, too. I gave him the ivory. What did I care! But I didn’t clear out. No, no. I couldn’t leave him. I had to be careful, of course, till we got friendly again for a time. He had his second illness then. Afterwards I had to keep out of the way; but I didn’t mind. He was living for the most part in those villages on the lake. When he came down to the river, sometimes he would take to me, and sometimes it was better for me to be careful. This man suffered too much. He hated all this, and somehow he couldn’t get away. When I had a chance I begged him to try and leave while there was time; I offered to go back with him. And he would say yes, and then he would remain; go off on another ivory hunt; disappear for weeks; forget himself amongst these people—forget himself—you know.’—‘Why! he’s mad,’ I said. He protested indignantly. Mr Kurtz couldn’t be mad. If I had heard him talk, only two days ago, I wouldn’t dare hint at such a thing ...I had taken up my binoculars while we talked, and was looking at the shore, sweeping the limit of the forest at each side and at the back of the house. The consciousness of there being people in that bush, so silent, so quiet—as silent and quiet as the ruined house on the hill—made me uneasy. There was no sign on the face of nature of this amazing tale that was not so much told as suggested to me in desolate exclamations, completed by shrugs, in interrupted phrases, in hints ending in deep sighs. The woods were unmoved, like a mask—heavy, like the closed door of a prison—they looked with their air of hidden knowledge, of patient expectation, of unapproachable silence. The Russian was explaining to me that it was only lately that Mr Kurtz had come down to the river, bringing along with him all the fighting men of that lake tribe. He had been absent for several months—getting himself adored, I suppose—and had come down unexpectedly, with the intention to all appearance of making a raid either across the river or down stream. Evidently the appetite for more ivory had got the better of the—what shall I say?—less material aspirations. However he had got much worse suddenly. ‘I heard he was lying helpless, and so I came up—took my chance,’ said the Russian. ‘Oh, he is bad, very bad.’ I directed my glass to the house. There were no signs of life, but there was the ruined roof, the long mud wall peeping above the grass, with three little square window–holes, no two of the same size; all this brought within reach of my hand, as it were. And then I made a brusque movement, and one of the remaining posts of that vanished fence leaped up in the field of my glass. You remember I told you I had been struck at the distance by certain attempts at ornamentation, rather remarkable in the ruinous aspect of the place. Now I had suddenly a nearer view, and its first result was to make me throw my head back as if before a blow. Then I went carefully from post to post with my glass, and I saw my mistake. These round knobs were not ornamental but symbolic; they were expressive and puzzling, striking and disturbing—food for thought and also for vultures if there had been any looking down from the sky; but at all events for such ants as were industrious enough to ascend the pole. They would have been even more impressive, those heads on the stakes, if their faces had not been turned to the house. Only one, the first I had made out, was facing my way. I was not so shocked as you may think. The start back I had given was really nothing but a movement of surprise. I had expected to see a knob of wood there, you know. I returned deliberately to the first I had seen—and there it was, black, dried, sunken, with closed eyelids—a head that seemed to sleep at the top of that pole, and, with the shrunken dry lips showing a narrow white line of the teeth, was smiling, too, smiling continuously at some endless and jocose dream of that eternal slumber. I am not disclosing any trade secrets. In fact, the manager said afterwards that Mr Kurtz’s methods had ruined the district. I have no opinion on that point, but I want you clearly to understand that there was nothing exactly profitable in these heads being there. They only showed that Mr Kurtz lacked restraint in the gratification of his various lusts, that there was something wanting in him—some small matter which, when the pressing need arose, could not be found under his magnificent eloquence. Whether he knew of this deficiency himself I can’t say. I think the knowledge came to him at last—only at the very last. But the wilderness had found him out early, and had taken on him a terrible vengeance for the fantastic invasion. I think it had whispered to him things about himself which he did not know, things of which he had no conception till he took counsel with this great solitude—and the whisper had proved irresistibly fascinating. It echoed loudly within him because he was hollow at the core. … I put down the glass, and the head that had appeared near enough to be spoken to seemed at once to have leaped away from me into inaccessible distance. The admirer of Mr Kurtz was a bit crestfallen. In a hurried, indistinct voice he began to assure me he had not dared to take these—say, symbols—down. He was not afraid of the natives; they would not stir till Mr Kurtz gave the word. His ascendancy was extraordinary. The camps of these people surrounded the place, and the chiefs came every day to see him. They would crawl. … ‘I don’t want to know anything of the ceremonies used when approaching Mr Kurtz,’ I shouted. Curious, this feeling that came over me that such details would be more intolerable than those heads drying on the stakes under Mr Kurtz’s windows. After all, that was only a savage sight, while I seemed at one bound to have been transported into some lightless region of subtle horrors, where pure, uncomplicated savagery was a positive relief, being something that had a right to exist—obviously—in the sunshine. The young man looked at me with surprise. I suppose it did not occur to him that Mr Kurtz was no idol of mine. He forgot I hadn’t heard any of these splendid monologues on, what was it? on love, justice, conduct of life—or what not. If it had come to crawling before Mr Kurtz, he crawled as much as the veriest savage of them all. I had no idea of the conditions, he said: these heads were the heads of rebels. I shocked him excessively by laughing. Rebels! What would be the next definition I was to hear? There had been enemies, criminals, workers—and these were rebels. Those rebellious heads looked very subdued to me on their sticks. ‘You don’t know how such a life tries a man like Kurtz,’ cried Kurtz’s last disciple. ‘Well, and you?’ I said. ‘I! I! I am a simple man. I have no great thoughts. I want nothing from anybody. How can you compare me to …?’ His feelings were too much for speech, and suddenly he broke down. ‘I don’t understand,’ he groaned. ‘I’ve been doing my best to keep him alive, and that’s enough. I had no hand in all this. I have no abilities. There hasn’t been a drop of medicine or a mouthful of invalid food for months here. He was shamefully abandoned. A man like this, with such ideas. Shamefully! Shamefully! I—I—haven’t slept for the last ten nights. …’ His voice lost itself in the calm of the evening. The long shadows of the forest had slipped downhill while we talked, had gone far beyond the ruined hovel, beyond the symbolic row of stakes. All this was in the gloom, while we down there were yet in the sunshine, and the stretch of the river abreast of the clearing glittered in a still and dazzling splendor, with a murky and overshadowed bend above and below. Not a living soul was seen on the shore. The bushes did not rustle. Suddenly round the corner of the house a group of men appeared, as though they had come up from the ground. They waded waist–deep in the grass, in a compact body, bearing an improvised stretcher in their midst. Instantly, in the emptiness of the landscape, a cry arose whose shrillness pierced the still air like a sharp arrow flying straight to the very heart of the land; and, as if by enchantment, streams of human beings—of naked human beings—with spears in their hands, with bows, with shields, with wild glances and savage movements, were poured into the clearing by the dark–faced and pensive forest. The bushes shook, the grass swayed for a time, and then everything stood still in attentive immobility. ‘Now, if he does not say the right thing to them we are all done for,’ said the Russian at my elbow. The knot of men with the stretcher had stopped, too, half-way to the steamer, as if petrified. I saw the man on the stretcher sit up, lank and with an uplifted arm, above the shoulders of the bearers. ‘Let us hope that the man who can talk so well of love in general will find some particular reason to spare us this time,’ I said. I resented bitterly the absurd danger of our situation, as if to be at the mercy of that atrocious phantom had been a dishonouring necessity. I could not hear a sound, but through my glasses I saw the thin arm extended commandingly, the lower jaw moving, the eyes of that apparition shining darkly far in its bony head that nodded with grotesque jerks. Kurtz—Kurtz—that means ‘short’ in German—don’t it? Well, the name was as true as everything else in his life—and death. He looked at least seven feet long. His covering had fallen off, and his body emerged from it pitiful and appalling as from a winding–sheet. I could see the cage of his ribs all astir, the bones of his arm waving. It was as though an animated image of death carved out of old ivory had been shaking its hand with menaces at a motionless crowd of men made of dark and glittering bronze. I saw him open his mouth wide—it gave him a weirdly voracious aspect, as though he had wanted to swallow all the air, all the earth, all the men before him. A deep voice reached me faintly. He must have been shouting. He fell back suddenly. The stretcher shook as the bearers staggered forward again, andalmost at the same time I noticed that the crowd of savages was vanishing without any perceptible movement of retreat, as if the forest that had ejected these beings so suddenly had drawn them in again as the breath is drawn in a long aspiration. Some of the pilgrims behind the stretcher carried his arms— two shotguns, a heavy rifle, and a light revolver–carbine—the thunderbolts of that pitiful Jupiter. The manager bent over him murmuring as he walked beside his head. They laid him down in one of the little cabins—just a room for a bed place and a camp–stool or two, you know. We had brought his belated correspondence, and a lot of torn envelopes and open letters littered his bed. His hand roamed feebly amongst these papers. I was struck by the fire of his eyes and the composed languor of his expression. It was not so much the exhaustion of disease. He did not seem in pain. This shadow looked satiated and calm, as though for the moment it had had its fill of all the emotions. He rustled one of the letters, and looking straight in my face said, ‘I am glad.’ Somebody had been writing to him about me. These special recommendations were turning up again. The volume of tone he emitted without effort, almost without the trouble of moving his lips, amazed me. A voice! a voice! It was grave, profound, vibrating, while the man did not seem capable of a whisper. However, he had enough strength in him—factitious no doubt—to very nearly make an end of us, as you shall hear directly. The manager appeared silently in the doorway; I stepped out at once and he drew the curtain after me. The Russian, eyed curiously by the pilgrims, was staring at the shore. I followed the direction of his glance. Dark human shapes could be made out in the distance, flitting indistinctly against the gloomy border of the forest, and near the river two bronze figures, leaning on tall spears, stood in the sunlight under fantastic head–dresses of spotted skins, warlike and still in statuesque repose. And from right to left along the lighted shore moved a wild and gorgeous apparition of a woman. She walked with measured steps, draped in striped and fringed cloths, treading the earth proudly, with a slight jingle and flash of barbarous ornaments. She carried her head high; her hair was done in the shape of a helmet; she had brass leggings to the knee, brass wire gauntlets to the elbow, a crimson spot on her tawny cheek, innumerable necklaces of glass beads on her neck; bizarre things, charms, gifts of witch–men, that hung about her, glittered and trembled at every step. She must have had the value of several elephant tusks upon her. She was savage and superb, wild–eyed and magnificent; there was something ominous and stately in her deliberate progress. And in the hush that had fallen suddenly upon the whole sorrowful land, the immense wilderness, the colossal body of the fecund and mysterious life seemed to look at her, pensive, as though it had been looking at the image of its own tenebrous and passionate soul. She came abreast of the steamer, stood still, and faced us. Her long shadow fell to the water’s edge. Her face had a tragic and fierce aspect of wild sorrow and of dumb pain mingled with the fear of some struggling, half–shaped resolve. She stood looking at us without a stir, and like the wilderness itself, with an air of brooding over an inscrutable purpose. A whole minute passed, and then she made a step forward. There was a low jingle, a glint of yellow metal, a sway of fringed draperies, and she stopped as if her heart had failed her. The young fellow by my side growled.The pilgrims murmured at my back. She looked at us all as if her life had depended upon the unswerving steadiness of her glance. Suddenly she opened her bared arms and threw them up rigid above her head, as though in an uncontrollable desire to touch the sky, and at the same time the swift shadows darted out on the earth, swept around on the river, gathering the steamer into a shadowy embrace. A formidable silence hung over the scene. She turned away slowly, walked on, following the bank, and passed into the bushes to the left. Once only her eyes gleamed back at us in the dusk of the thickets before she disappeared. ‘If she had offered to come aboard I really think I would have tried to shoot her,’ said the man of patches, nervously. ‘I have been risking my life every day for the last fortnight to keep her out of the house. She got in one day and kicked up a row about those miserable rags I picked up in the storeroom to mend my clothes with. I wasn’t decent. At least it must have been that, for she talked like a fury to Kurtz for an hour, pointing at me now and then. I don’t understand the dialect of this tribe. Luckily for me, I fancy Kurtz felt too ill that day to care, or there would have been mischief. I don’t understand ... No—it’s too much for me. Ah, well, it’s all over now.’ At this moment I heard Kurtz’s deep voice behind the curtain: ‘Save me!—save the ivory, you mean. Don’t tell me. Save me! Why, I’ve had to save you. You are interrupting my plans now. Sick! Sick! Not so sick as you would like to believe. Never mind. I’ll carry my ideas out yet—I will return. I’ll show you what can be done. You with your little peddling notions—you are interfering with me. I will return. I ...’ The manager came out. He did me the honour to take me under the arm and lead me aside. ‘He is very low, very low,’ he said. He considered it necessary to sigh, but neglected to be consistently sorrowful. ‘We have done all we could for him—haven’t we? But there is no disguising the fact, Mr Kurtz has done more harm than good to the Company. He did not see the time was not ripe for vigorous action. Cautiously, cautiously—that’s my principle. We must be cautious yet. The district is closed to us for a time. Deplorable! Upon the whole, the trade will suffer. I don’t deny there is a remarkable quantity of ivory—mostly fossil. We must save it, at all events—but look how precarious the position is—and why? Because the method is unsound.’—‘Do you,’ saidI, looking at the shore, ‘call it “unsound method?”’—‘Without doubt,’ he exclaimed hotly. ‘Don’t you?’ ... ‘No method at all,’ I murmured after a while. ‘Exactly,’ he exulted. ‘I anticipated this. Shows a complete want of judgment. It is my duty to point it out in the proper quarter.’—‘Oh,’ said I, ‘that fellow—what’s his name?—the brickmaker, will make a readable report for you.’ He appeared confounded for a moment. It seemed to me I had never breathed an atmosphere so vile, and I turned mentally to Kurtz for relief—positively for relief. ‘Nevertheless I think Mr Kurtz is a remarkable man,’ I said with emphasis. He started, dropped on me a heavy glance, said very quietly: ‘He was,’ and turned his back on me. My hour of favour was over; I found myself lumped along with Kurtz as a partisan of methods for which the time was not ripe: I was unsound! Ah! but it was something to have at least a choice of nightmares. I had turned to the wilderness really, not to Mr Kurtz, who, I was ready to admit, was as good as buried. And for a moment it seemed to me as if I also were buried in a vast grave full of unspeakable secrets. I felt an intolerable weight oppressing my breast, the smell of the damp earth, the unseen presence of victorious corruption, the darkness of an impenetrable night ... . The Russian tapped me on the shoulder. I heard him mumbling and stammering something about ‘brother seaman—couldn’t conceal—knowledge of matters that would affect Mr Kurtz’s reputation.’ I waited. For him evidently Mr Kurtz was not in his grave; I suspect that for him Mr Kurtz was one of the immortals. ‘Well!’ said I at last, ‘speak out. As it happens, I am Mr Kurtz’s friend—in a way.’ He stated with a good deal of formality that had we not been ‘of the same profession,’ he would have kept the matter to himself without regard to consequences. ‘He suspected there was an active ill–will towards him on the part of these white men that ...’ —‘You are right,’ I said, remembering a certain conversation I had overheard. ‘The manager thinks you ought to be hanged.’ He showed a concern at this intelligence which amused me at first. ‘I had better get out of the way quietly,’ he said earnestly. ‘I can do no more for Kurtz now, and they would soon find some excuse. What’s to stop them? There’s a military post three hundred miles from here.’—‘Well, upon my word,’ said I, ‘perhaps you had better go if you have any friends amongst the savages near by.’—‘Plenty,’ he said. ‘They are simple people—and I want nothing, you know.’ He stood biting his lip, then: ‘I don’t want any harm to happen to these whites here, but of course I was thinking of Mr Kurtz’s reputation—but you are a brother seaman and ...’—‘All right,’ said I, after a time. ‘Mr Kurtz’s reputation is safe with me.’ I did not know how truly I spoke. He informed me, lowering his voice, that it was Kurtz who had ordered the attack to be made on the steamer. ‘He hated sometimes the idea of being taken away—and then again ... But I don’t understand these matters. I am a simple man. He thought it would scare you away—that you would give it up, thinking him dead. I could not stop him. Oh, I had an awful time of it this last month.’—‘Very well,’ I said. ‘He is all right now.’—‘Ye–e–es,’ he muttered, not very convinced apparently. ‘Thanks,’ said I; ‘I shall keep my eyes open.’—‘But quiet–eh?’ he urged anxiously. ‘It would be awful for his reputation if anybody here ...’ I promised a complete discretion with great gravity. ‘I have a canoe and three black fellows waiting not very far. I am off. Could you give me a few Martini–Henry cartridges?’ I could, and did, with proper secrecy. He helped himself, with a wink at me, to a handful of my tobacco. ‘Between sailors—you know—good English tobacco.’ At the door of the pilot–house he turned round—‘I say, haven’t you a pair of shoes you could spare?’ He raised one leg. ‘Look.’ The soles were tied with knotted strings sandalwise under his bare feet. I rooted out an old pair, at which he looked with admiration before tucking it under his left arm. One of his pockets (bright red) was bulging with cartridges, from the other (dark blue) peeped ‘Towson’s Inquiry,’ &c., &c. He seemed to think himself excellently well equipped for a renewed encounter with the wilderness. ‘Ah! I’ll never, never meet such a man again. You ought to have heard him recite poetry—his own, too, it was, he told me. Poetry!’ He rolled his eyes at the recollection of these delights. ‘Oh, he enlarged my mind!’—‘Good–by,’ said I. He shook hands and vanished in the night. Sometimes I ask myself whether I had ever really seen him—whether it was possible to meet such a phenomenon! ... When I woke up shortly after midnight his warning came to my mind with its hint of danger that seemed, in the starred darkness, real enough to make me get up for the purpose of having a look round. On the hill a big fire burned, illuminating fitfully a crooked corner of the station–house. One of the agents with a picket of a few of our blacks, armed for the purpose, was keeping guard over the ivory; but deep within the forest, red gleams that wavered, that seemed to sink and rise from the ground amongst confused columnar shapes of intense blackness, showed the exact position of the camp where Mr Kurtz’s adorers were keeping their uneasy vigil. The monotonous beating of a big drum filled the air with muffled shocks and a lingering vibration. A steady droning sound of many men chanting each to himself some weird incantation came out from the black, flat wall of the woods as the humming of bees comes out of a hive, and had a strange narcotic effect upon my half–awake senses. I believe I dozed off leaning over the rail, till an abrupt burst of yells, an overwhelming outbreak of a pent–up and mysterious frenzy, woke me up in a bewildered wonder. It was cut short all at once, and the low droning went on with an effect of audible and soothing silence. I glanced casually into the little cabin. A light was burning within, but Mr Kurtz was not there. I think I would have raised an outcry if I had believed my eyes. But I didn’t believe them at first—the thing seemed so impossible. The fact is I was completely unnerved by a sheer blank fright, pure abstract terror, unconnected with any distinct shape of physical danger. What made this emotion so overpowering was—how shall I define it?—the moral shock I received, as if something altogether monstrous, intolerable to thought and odious to the soul, had been thrust upon me unexpectedly. This lasted of course the merest fraction of a second, and then the usual sense of commonplace, deadly danger, the possibility of a sudden onslaught and massacre, or something of the kind, which I saw impending, was positively welcome and composing. It pacified me, in fact, so much that I did not raise an alarm. There was an agent buttoned up inside an ulster and sleeping on a chair on deck within three feet of me. The yells had not awakened him; he snored very slightly; I left him to his slumbers and leaped ashore. I did not betray Mr Kurtz—it was ordered I should never betray him—it was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice. I was anxious to deal with this shadow by myself alone—and to this day I don’t know why I was so jealous of sharing with any one the peculiar blackness of that experience. As soon as I got on the bank I saw a trail—a broad trail through the grass. I remember the exultation with which I said to myself: ‘He can’t walk—he is crawling on all–fours—I’ve got him.’ The grass was wet with dew. I strode rapidly with clenched fists. I fancy I had some vague notion of falling upon him and giving him a drubbing. I don’t know. I had some imbecile thoughts. The knitting old woman with the cat obtruded herself upon my memory as a most improper person to be sitting at the other end of such an affair. I saw a row of pilgrims squirting lead in the air out of Winchesters held to the hip. I thought I would never get back to the steamer, and imagined myself living alone and unarmed in the woods to an advanced age. Such silly things—you know. And I remember I confounded the beat of the drum with the beating of my heart, and was pleased at its calm regularity. I kept to the track though—then stopped to listen. The night was very clear; a dark blue space, sparkling with dew and starlight, in which black things stood very still. I thought I could see a kind of motion ahead of me. I was strangely cocksure of everything that night. I actually left the track and ran in a wide semicircle (I verily believe chuckling to myself) so as to get in front of that stir, of that motion I had seen—if indeed I had seen anything. I was circumventing Kurtz as though it had been a boyish game. I came upon him, and, if he had not heard me coming, I would have fallen over him, too, but he got up in time. He rose, unsteady, long, pale, indistinct, like a vapour exhaled by the earth, and swayed slightly, misty and silent before me; while at my back the fires loomed between the trees, and the murmur of manyvoices issued from the forest. I had cut him off cleverly; but when actually confronting him I seemed to come to my senses, I saw the danger in its right proportion. It was by no means over yet. Suppose he began to shout? Though he could hardly stand, there was still plenty of vigour in his voice. ‘Go away—hide yourself,’ he said, in that profound tone. It was very awful. I glanced back. We were within thirty yards from the nearest fire. A black figure stood up, strode on long black legs, waving long black arms, across the glow. It had horns—antelope horns, I think—on its head. Some sorcerer, some witch–man, no doubt: it looked fiendlike enough. ‘Do you know what you are doing?’ I whispered. ‘Perfectly,’ he answered, raising his voice for that single word: it sounded to me far off and yet loud, like a hail through a speaking–trumpet. If he makes a row we are lost, I thought to myself. This clearly was not a case for fisticuffs, even apart from the very natural aversion I had to beat that Shadow—this wandering and tormented thing. ‘You will be lost,’ I said—‘utterly lost.’ One gets sometimes such a flash of inspiration, you know. I did say the right thing, though indeed he could not have been more irretrievably lost than he was at this very moment, when the foundations of our intimacy were being laid—to endure—to endure—even to the end—even beyond. ‘I had immense plans,’ he muttered irresolutely. ‘Yes,’ said I; ‘but if you try to shout I’ll smash your head with ...’ There was not a stick or a stone near. ‘I will throttle you for good,’ I corrected myself. ‘I was on the threshold of great things,’ he pleaded, in a voice of longing, with a wistfulness of tone that made my blood run cold. ‘And now for this stupid scoundrel ...’—‘Your success in Europe is assured in any case,’ I affirmed steadily. I did not want to have the throttling of him, you understand—and indeed it would have been very little use for any practical purpose. I tried to break the spell—the heavy, mute spell of the wilderness—that seemed to draw him to its pitiless breast by the awakening of forgotten and brutal instincts, by the memory of gratified and monstrous passions. This alone, I was convinced, had driven him out to the edge of the forest, to the bush, towards the gleam of fires, the throb of drums, the drone of weird incantations; this alone had beguiled his unlawful soul beyond the bounds of permitted aspirations. And, don’t you see, the terror of the position was not in being knocked on the head—though I had a very lively sense of that danger, too—but in this, that I had to deal with a being to whom I could not appeal in the name of anything high or low. I had, even like the niggers, to invoke him—himself—his own exalted and incredible degradation. There was nothing either above or below him, and I knew it. He had kicked himself loose of the earth. Confound the man! he had kicked the very earth to pieces. He was alone, and I before him did not know whether I stood on the ground or floated in the air. I’ve been telling you what we said—repeating the phrases we pronounced—but what’s the good? They were common everyday words—the familiar, vague sounds exchanged on every waking day of life. But what of that? They had behind them, to my mind, the terrific suggestiveness of words heard in dreams, of phrases spoken in nightmares. Soul! If anybody ever struggled with a soul, I am the man. And I wasn’t arguing with a lunatic either. Believe me or not, his intelligence was perfectly clear—concentrated, it is true, upon himself with horrible intensity, yet clear; and therein was my only chance—barring, of course, the killing him there and then, which wasn’t so good, on account of unavoidable noise. But his soul was mad. Being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself, and, by heavens! I tell you, it had gone mad. I had—for my sins, I suppose—to go through the ordeal of looking into it myself. No eloquence could have been so withering to one’s belief in mankind as his final burst of sincerity. He struggled with himself, too. I saw it—I heard it. I saw the inconceivable mystery of a soul that knew no restraint, no faith, and no fear, yet struggling blindly with itself. I kept my head pretty well; but when I had him at last stretched on the couch, I wiped my forehead, while my legs shook under me as though I had carried half a ton on my back down that hill. And yet I had only supported him, his bony arm clasped round my neck—and he was not much heavier than a child. When next day we left at noon, the crowd, of whose presence behind the curtain of trees I had been acutely conscious all the time, flowed out of the woods again, filled the clearing, covered the slope with a mass of naked, breathing, quivering, bronze bodies. I steamed up a bit, then swung down stream, and two thousand eyes followed the evolutions of the splashing, thumping, fierce river–demon beating the water with its terrible tail and breathing black smoke into the air. In front of the first rank, along the river, three men, plastered with bright red earth from head to foot, strutted to and fro restlessly. When we came abreast again, they faced the river, stamped their feet, nodded their horned heads, swayed their scarlet bodies; they shook towards the fierce river–demon a bunch of black feathers, a mangy skin with a pendent tail—something that looked a dried gourd; they shouted periodically together strings of amazing words that resembled no sounds of human language; and the deep murmurs of the crowd, interrupted suddenly, were like the responses of some satanic litany. We had carried Kurtz into the pilot–house: there was more air there. Lying on the couch, he stared through the open shutter. There was an eddy in the mass of human bodies, and the woman with helmeted head and tawny cheeks rushed out to the very brink of the stream. She put out her hands, shouted something, and all that wild mob took up the shout in a roaring chorus of articulated, rapid, breathless utterance. ‘Do you understand this?’ I asked. He kept on looking out past me with fiery, longing eyes, with a mingled expression of wistfulness and hate. He made no answer, but I saw a smile, a smile of indefinable meaning, appear on his colourless lips that a moment after twitched convulsively. ‘Do I not?’ he said slowly, gasping, as if the words had been torn out of him by a supernatural power. I pulled the string of the whistle, and I did this because I saw the pilgrims on deck getting out their rifles with an air of anticipating a jolly lark. At the sudden screech there was a movement of abject terror through that wedged mass of bodies. ‘Don’t! don’t! you frighten them away,’ cried some one on deck disconsolately. I pulled the string time after time. They broke and ran, they leaped, they crouched, they swerved, they dodged the flying terror of the sound. The three red chaps had fallen flat, face down on the shore, as though they had been shot dead. Only the barbarous and superb woman did not so much as flinch, and stretched tragically her bare arms after us over the sombre and glittering river. And then that imbecile crowd down on the deck started their little fun, and I could see nothing more for smoke. The brown current ran swiftly out of the heart of darkness, bearing us down towards the sea with twice the speed of our upward progress; and Kurtz’s life was running swiftly, too, ebbing, ebbing out of his heart into the sea of inexorable time. The manager was very placid, he had no vital anxieties now, he took us both in with a comprehensive and satisfied glance: the ‘affair’ had come off as well as could be wished. I saw the time approaching when I would be left alone of the party of ‘unsound method.’ The pilgrims looked upon me with disfavour. I was, so to speak, numbered with the dead. It is strange how I accepted this unforeseen partnership, this choice of nightmares forced upon me in the tenebrous land invaded by these mean and greedy phantoms. Kurtz discoursed. A voice! a voice! It rang deep to the very last. It survived his strength to hide in the magnificent folds of eloquence the barren darkness of his heart. Oh, he struggled! he struggled! The wastes of his weary brain were haunted by shadowy images now—images of wealth and fame revolving obsequiously round his unextinguishable gift of noble and lofty expression. My Intended, my station, my career, my ideas—these were the subjects for the occasional utterances of elevated sentiments. The shade of the original Kurtz frequented the bedside of the hollow sham, whose fate it was to be buried presently in the mould of primeval earth. But both the diabolic love and the unearthly hate of the mysteries it had penetrated fought for the possession of that soul satiated with primitive emotions, avid of lying fame, of sham distinction, of all the appearances of success and power. Sometimes he was contemptibly childish. He desired to have kings meet him at railway–stations on his return from some ghastly Nowhere, where he intended to accomplish great things. ‘You show them you have in you something that is really profitable, and then there will be no limits to the recognition of your ability,’ he would say. ‘Of course you must take care of the motives—right motives—always.’ The long reaches that were like one and the same reach, monotonous bends that were exactly alike, slipped past the steamer with their multitude of secular trees looking patiently after this grimy fragment of another world, the forerunner of change, of conquest, of trade, of massacres, of blessings. I looked ahead—piloting. ‘Close the shutter,’ said Kurtz suddenly one day; ‘I can’t bear to look at this.’ I did so. There was a silence. ‘Oh, but I will wring your heart yet!’ he cried at the invisible wilderness. We broke down—as I had expected—and had to lie up for repairs at the head of an island. This delay was the first thing that shook Kurtz’s confidence. One morning he gave me a packet of papers and a photograph—the lot tied together with a shoe–string. ‘Keep this for me,’ he said. ‘This noxious fool’ (meaning the manager) ‘is capable of prying into my boxes when I am not looking.’ In the afternoon I saw him. He was lying on his back with closed eyes, and I withdrew quietly, but I heard him mutter, ‘Live rightly, die, die ...’ I listened. There was nothing more. Was he rehearsing some speech in his sleep, or was it a fragment of a phrase from some newspaper article? He had been writing for the papers and meant to do so again, ‘for the furthering of my ideas. It’s a duty.’ His was an impenetrable darkness. I looked at him as you peer down at a man who is lying at the bottom of a precipice where the sun never shines. But I had not much time to give him, because I was helping the engine–driver to take to pieces the leaky cylinders, to straighten a bent connecting–rod, and in other such matters. I lived in an infernal mess of rust, filings, nuts, bolts, spanners, hammers, ratchet–drills—things I abominate, because I don’t get on with them. I tended the little forge we fortunately had aboard; I toiled wearily in a wretched scrap–heap—unless I had the shakes too bad to stand. One evening coming in with a candle I was startled to hear him say a little tremulously: ‘I am lying here in the dark waiting for death.’ The light was within a foot of his eyes. I forced myself to murmur: ‘Oh, nonsense!’ and stood over him as if transfixed. Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have never seen before, and hope never to see again. Oh, I wasn’t touched. I was fascinated. It was as though a veil had been rent. I saw on that ivory face the expression of sombre pride, of ruthless power, of craven terror—of an intense and hopeless despair. Did he live his life again in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of complete knowledge? He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision—he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath: ‘The horror! The horror!’ I blew the candle out and left the cabin. The pilgrims were dining in the mess–room, and I took my place opposite the manager, who lifted his eyes to give me a questioning glance, which I successfully ignored. He leaned back, serene, with that peculiar smile of his sealing the unexpressed depths of his meanness. A continuous shower of small flies streamed upon the lamp, upon the cloth, upon our hands and faces. Suddenly the manager’s boy put his insolent black head in the doorway, and said in a tone of scathing contempt: ‘Mistah Kurtz—he dead.’ All the pilgrims rushed out to see. I remained, and went on with my dinner. I believe I was considered brutally callous. However, I did not eat much. There was a lamp in there—light, don’t you know—and outside it was so beastly, beastly dark. I went no more near the remarkable man who had pronounced a judgment upon the adventures of his soul on this earth. The voice was gone. What else had been there? But I am of course aware that next day the pilgrims buried something in a muddy hole. And then they very nearly buried me. However, as you see, I did not go to join Kurtz there and then. I did not. I remained to dream the nightmare out to the end, and to show my loyalty to Kurtz once more. Destiny. My destiny! Droll thing life is—that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself—that comes too late—a crop of unextinguishable regrets. I have wrestled with death. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an impalpable greyness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamour, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid skepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary. If such is the form of ultimate wisdom, then life is a greater riddle than some of us think it to be. I was within a hair’s breadth of the last opportunity for pronouncement, and I found with humiliation that probably I would have nothing to say. This is the reason why I affirm that Kurtz was a remarkable man. He had something to say. He said it. Since I had peeped over the edge myself, I understand better the meaning of his stare, that could not see the flame of the candle, but was wide enough to embrace the whole universe, piercing enough to penetrate all the hearts that beat in the darkness. He had summed up—he had judged. ‘The horror!’ He was a remarkable man. After all, this was the expression of some sort of belief; it had candour, it had conviction, it had a vibrating note of revolt in its whisper, it had the appalling face of a glimpsed truth—the strange commingling of desire and hate. And it is not my own extremity I remember best—a vision of greyness without form filled with physical pain, and a careless contempt for the evanescence of all things—even of this pain itself. No! It is his extremity that I seem to have lived through. True, he had made that last stride, he had stepped over the edge, while I had been permitted to draw back my hesitating foot. And perhaps in this is the whole difference; perhaps all the wisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just compressed into that inappreciable moment of time in which we step over the threshold of the invisible. Perhaps! I like to think my summing–up would not have been a word of careless contempt. Better his cry—much better. It was an affirmation, a moral victory paid for by innumerable defeats, by abominable terrors, by abominable satisfactions. But it was a victory! That is why I have remained loyal to Kurtz to the last, and even beyond, when a long time after I heard once more, not his own voice, but the echo of his magnificent eloquence thrown to me from a soul as translucently pure as a cliff of crystal. No, they did not bury me, though there is a period of time which I remember mistily, with a shuddering wonder, like a passage through some inconceivable world that had no hope in it and no desire. I found myself back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretense, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew. Their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face of a danger it is unable to comprehend. I had no particular desire to enlighten them, but I had some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in their faces so full of stupid importance. I daresay I was not very well at that time. I tottered about the streets—there were various affairs to settle—grinning bitterly at perfectly respectable persons. I admit my behavior was inexcusable, but then my temperature was seldom normal in these days. My dear aunt’s endeavors to ‘nurse up my strength’ seemed altogether beside the mark. It was not my strength that wanted nursing, it was my imagination that wanted soothing. I kept the bundle of papers given me by Kurtz, not knowing exactly what to do with it. His mother had died lately, watched over, as I was told, by his Intended. A clean–shaved man, with an official manner and wearing gold–rimmed spectacles, called on me one day and made inquiries, at first circuitous, afterwards suavely pressing, about what he was pleased to denominate certain ‘documents.’ I was not surprised, because I had had two rows with the manager on the subject out there. I had refused to give up the smallest scrap out of that package, and I took the same attitude with the spectacled man. He became darkly menacing at last, and with much heat argued that the Company had the right to every bit of information about its ‘territories.’ And said he: ‘Mr Kurtz’s knowledge of unexplored regions must have been necessarily extensive and peculiar—owing to his great abilities and to the deplorable circumstances in which he had been placed: therefore ...’ I assured him Mr Kurtz’s knowledge, however extensive, did not bear upon the problems of commerce or administration. He invoked then the name of science. ‘It would be an incalculable loss if,’ &c., &c. I offered him the report on the ‘Suppression of Savage Customs,’ with the postscriptum torn off. He took it up eagerly, but ended by sniffing at it with an air of contempt. ‘This is not what we had a right to expect,’ he remarked. ‘Expect nothing else,’ I said. ‘There are only private letters.’ He withdrew upon some threat of legal proceedings, and I saw him no more; but another fellow, calling himself Kurtz’s cousin, appeared two days later, and was anxious to hear all the details about his dear relative’s last moments. Incidentally he gave me to understand that Kurtz had been essentially a great musician. ‘There was the making of an immense success,’ said the man, who was an organist, I believe, with lank grey hair flowing over a greasy coat–collar. I had no reason to doubt his statement; and to this day I am unable to say what was Kurtz’s profession, whether he ever had any—which was the greatest of his talents. I had taken him for a painter who wrote for the papers, or else for a journalist who could paint—but even the cousin (who took snuff during the interview) could not tell me what he had been—exactly. He was a universal genius—on that point I agreed with the old chap, who thereupon blew his nose noisily into a large cotton handkerchief and withdrew in senile agitation, bearing off some family letters and memoranda without importance. Ultimately a journalist anxious to know something of the fate of his ‘dear colleague’ turned up. This visitor informed me Kurtz’s proper sphere ought to have been politics ‘on the popular side.’ He had furry straight eyebrows, bristly hair cropped short, an eyeglass on a broad ribbon, and, becoming expansive, confessed his opinion that Kurtz really couldn’t write a bit—‘but heavens! how that man could talk. He electrified large meetings. He had faith—don’t you see?—he had the faith. He could get himself to believe anything—anything. He would have been a splendid leader of an extreme party.’—‘What party?’ I asked. ‘Any party,’ answered the other. ‘He was an—an—extremist.’ Did I not think so? I assented. Did I know, he asked, with a sudden flash of curiosity, ‘what it was that had induced him to go out there?’—‘Yes,’ said I, and forthwith handed him the famous Report for publication, if he thought fit. He glanced through it hurriedly, mumbling all the time, judged ‘it would do,’ and took himself off with this plunder. Thus I was left at last with a slim packet of letters and the girl’s portrait. She struck me as beautiful—I mean she had a beautiful expression. I know that the sunlight can be made to lie, too, yet one felt that no manipulation of light and pose could have conveyed the delicate shade of truthfulness upon those features. She seemed ready to listen without mental reservation, without suspicion, without a thought for herself. I concluded I would go and give her back her portrait and those letters myself. Curiosity? Yes; and also some other feeling perhaps. All that had been Kurtz’s had passed out of my hands: his soul, his body, his station, his plans, his ivory, his career. There remained only his memory and his Intended—and I wanted to give that up, too, to the past, in a way—to surrender personally all that remained of him with me to that oblivion which is the last word of our common fate. I don’t defend myself. I had no clear perception of what it was I really wanted. Perhaps it was an impulse of unconscious loyalty, or the fulfilment of one of those ironic necessities that lurk in the facts of human existence. I don’t know. I can’t tell. But I went. I thought his memory was like the other memories of the dead that accumulate in every man’s life—a vague impress on the brain of shadows that had fallen on it in their swift and final passage; but before the high and ponderous door, between the tall houses of a street as still and decorous as a well–kept alley in a cemetery, I had a vision of him on the stretcher, opening his mouth voraciously, as if to devour all the earth with all its mankind. He lived then before me; he lived as much as he had ever lived—a shadow insatiable of splendid appearances, of frightful realities; a shadow darker than the shadow of the night, and draped nobly in the folds of a gorgeous eloquence. The vision seemed to enter the house with me—the stretcher, the phantom–bearers, the wild crowd of obedient worshippers, the gloom of the forests, the glitter of the reach between the murky bends, the beat of the drum, regular and muffled like the beating of a heart—the heart of a conquering darkness. It was a moment of triumph for the wilderness, an invading and vengeful rush which, it seemed to me, I would have to keep back alone for the salvation of another soul. And the memory of what I had heard him say afar there, with the horned shapes stirring at my back, in the glow of fires, within the patient woods, those broken phrases came back to me, were heard again in their ominous and terrifying simplicity. I remembered his abject pleading, his abject threats, the colossal scale of his vile desires, the meanness, the torment, the tempestuous anguish of his soul. And later on I seemed to see his collected languid manner, when he said one day: ‘This lot of ivory now is really mine. The Company did not pay for it. I collected it myself at a very great personal risk. I am afraid they will try to claim it as theirs though. H’m. It is a difficult case. What do you think I ought to do—resist? Eh? I want no more than justice.’ ... He wanted no more than justice—no more than justice. I rang the bell before a mahogany door on the first floor, and while I waited he seemed to stare at me out of the glassy panel—stare with that wide and immense stare embracing, condemning, loathing all the universe. I seemed to hear the whispered cry: “The horror! The horror!” The dusk was falling. I had to wait in a lofty drawing–room with three long windows from floor to ceiling that were like three luminous and bedraped columns. The bent gilt legs and backs of the furniture shone in indistinct curves. The tall marble fireplace had a cold and monumental whiteness. A grand piano stood massively in a corner; with dark gleams on the flat surfaces like a sombre and polished sarcophagus. A high door opened—closed. I rose. She came forward, all in black, with a pale head, floating towards me in the dusk. She was in mourning. It was more than a year since his death, more than a year since the news came; she seemed as though she would remember and mourn forever. She took both my hands in hers and murmured: ‘I had heard you were coming.’ I noticed she was not very young—I mean not girlish. She had a mature capacity for fidelity, for belief, for suffering. The room seemed to have grown darker, as if all the sad light of the cloudy evening had taken refuge on her forehead. This fair hair, this pale visage, this pure brow, seemed surrounded by an ashy halo from which the dark eyes looked out at me. Their glance was guileless, profound, confident, and trustful. She carried her sorrowful head as though she were proud of that sorrow, as though she would say: ‘I—I alone know how to mourn for him as he deserves.’ But while we were still shaking hands, such a look of awful desolation came upon her face that I perceived she was one of those creatures that are not the playthings of Time. For her he had died only yesterday. And, by Jove! the impression was so powerful that for me, too, he seemed to have died only yesterday—nay, this very minute. I saw her and him in the same instant of time—his death and her sorrow—I saw her sorrow in the very moment of his death. Do you understand? I saw them together—I heard them together. She had said, with a deep catch of the breath: ‘I have survived’ while my strained ears seemed to hear distinctly, mingled with her tone of despairing regret, the summing up whisper of his eternal condemnation. I asked myself what I was doing there, with a sensation of panic in my heart as though I had blundered into a place of cruel and absurd mysteries not fit for a human being to behold. She motioned me to a chair. We sat down. I laid the packet gently on the little table, and she put her hand over it ... ‘You knew him well,’ she murmured, after a moment of mourning silence. ‘Intimacy grows quickly out there,’ I said. ‘I knew him as well as it is possible for one man to know another.’ ‘And you admired him,’ she said. ‘It was impossible to know him and not to admire him. Was it?’ ‘He was a remarkable man,’ I said, unsteadily. Then before the appealing fixity of her gaze, that seemed to watch for more words on my lips, I went on: ‘It was impossible not to ...’ ‘Love him,’ she finished eagerly, silencing me into an appalled dumbness. ‘How true! how true! But when you think that no one knew him so well as I! I had all his noble confidence. I knew him best.’ ‘You knew him best,’ I repeated. And perhaps she did. But with every word spoken the room was growing darker, and only her forehead, smooth and white, remained illumined by the inextinguishable light of belief and love. ‘You were his friend,’ she went on. ‘His friend,’ she repeated, a little louder. ‘You must have been, if he had given you this, and sent you to me. I feel I can speak to you—and oh! I must speak. I want you—you who have heard his last words—to know I have been worthy of him ... It is not pride ... Yes! I am proud to know I understood him better than any one on earth—he told me so himself. And since his mother died I have had no one—no one—to—to ...’ I listened. The darkness deepened. I was not even sure whether he had given me the right bundle. I rather suspect he wanted me to take care of another batch of his papers which, after his death, I saw the manager examining under the lamp. And the girl talked, easing her pain in the certitude of my sympathy; she talked as thirsty men drink. I had heard that her engagement with Kurtz had been disapproved by her people. He wasn’t rich enough or something. And indeed I don’t know whether he had not been a pauper all his life. He had given me some reason to infer that it was his impatience of comparative poverty that drove him out there. ‘... Who was not his friend who had heard him speak once?’ she was saying. ‘He drew men towards him by what was best in them.’ She looked at me with intensity. ‘It is the gift of the great,’ she went on, and the sound of her low voice seemed to have the accompaniment of all the other sounds, full of mystery, desolation, and sorrow, I had ever heard—the ripple of the river, the soughing of the trees swayed by the wind, the murmurs of the crowds, the faint ring of incomprehensible words cried from afar, the whisper of a voice speaking from beyond the threshold of an eternal darkness. ‘But you have heard him! You know!’ she cried. ‘Yes, I know,’ I said with something like despair in my heart, but bowing my head before the faith that was in her, before that great and saving illusion that shone with an unearthly glow in the darkness, in the triumphant darkness from which I could not have defended her—from which I could not even defend myself. ‘What a loss to me—to us!’—she corrected herself with beautiful generosity; then added in a murmur: ‘To the world.’ By the last gleams of twilight I could see the glitter of her eyes, full of tears—of tears that would not fall. ‘I have been very happy—very fortunate—very proud,’ she went on. ‘Too fortunate. Too happy for a little while. And now I am unhappy for—for life.’ She stood up; her fair hair seemed to catch all the remaining light in a glimmer of gold. I rose, too. ‘And of all this,’ she went on mournfully, ‘of all his promise, and of all his greatness, of his generous mind, of his noble heart, nothing remains—nothing but a memory. You and I ...’ ‘We shall always remember him,’ I said hastily. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘It is impossible that all this should be lost—that such a life should be sacrificed to leave nothing—but sorrow. You know what vast plans he had. I knew of them, too—I could not perhaps understand—but others knew of them. Something must remain. His words, at least, have not died.’ ‘His words will remain,’ I said. ‘And his example,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Men looked up to him—his goodness shone in every act. His example ...’ ‘True,’ I said; ‘his example, too. Yes, his example. I forgot that.’ ‘But I do not. I cannot—I cannot believe—not yet. I cannot believe that I shall never see him again, that nobody will see him again, never, never, never.’ She put out her arms as if after a retreating figure, stretching them back and with clasped pale hands across the fading and narrow sheen of the window. Never see him! I saw him clearly enough then. I shall see this eloquent phantom as long as I live, and I shall see her, too, a tragic and familiar Shade, resembling in this gesture another one, tragic also, and bedecked with powerless charms, stretching bare brown arms over the glitter of the infernal stream, the stream of darkness. She said suddenly very low: ‘He died as he lived.’ ‘His end,’ said I, with dull anger stirring in me, ‘was in every way worthy of his life.’ ‘And I was not with him,’ she murmured. My anger subsided before a feeling of infinite pity. ‘Everything that could be done ...’ I mumbled. ‘Ah, but I believed in him more than any one on earth—more than his own mother, more than—himself. He needed me! Me! I would have treasured every sigh, every word, every sign, every glance.’ “I felt like a chill grip on my chest. ‘Don’t,’ I said, in a muffled voice. ‘Forgive me. I—I have mourned so long in silence—in silence ... You were with him—to the last? I think of his loneliness. Nobody near to understand him as I would have understood. Perhaps no one to hear ...’ ‘To the very end,’ I said, shakily. ‘I heard his very last words ...’ I stopped in a fright. ‘Repeat them,’ she murmured in a heart–broken tone. ‘I want—I want—something—something—to—to live with.’ I was on the point of crying at her: ‘Don’t you hear them?’ The dusk was repeating them in a persistent whisper all around us, in a whisper that seemed to swell menacingly like the first whisper of a rising wind. ‘The horror! The horror!’ ‘His last word—to live with,’ she insisted. ‘Don’t you understand I loved him—I loved him—I loved him!’ I pulled myself together and spoke slowly. ‘The last word he pronounced was—your name.’ I heard a light sigh and then my heart stood still, stopped dead short by an exulting and terrible cry, by the cry of inconceivable triumph and of unspeakable pain. ‘I knew it—I was sure!’ ... She knew. She was sure. I heard her weeping; she had hidden her face in her hands. It seemed to me that the house would collapse before I could escape, that the heavens would fall upon my head. But nothing happened. The heavens do not fall for such a trifle. Would they have fallen, I wonder, if I had rendered Kurtz that justice which was his due? Hadn’t he said he wanted only justice? But I couldn’t. I could not tell her. It would have been too dark—too dark altogether ...” Marlow ceased, and sat apart, indistinct and silent, in the pose of a meditating Buddha. Nobody moved for a time. “We have lost the first of the ebb,” said the Director suddenly. I raised my head. The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed sombre under an overcast sky—seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness.](assets/img/conrad_heart_of_darkness_cover-sm.png)
![Buchcover von "The Garden Party and Other Stories" von Katherine Mansfield. - Text: At the Bay I Very early morning. The sun was not yet risen, and the whole of Crescent Bay was hidden under a white sea-mist. The big bushcovered hills at the back were smothered. You could not see where they ended and the paddocks and bungalows began. The sandy road was gone and the paddocks and bungalows the other side of it; there were no white dunes covered with reddish grass beyond them; there was nothing to mark which was beach and where was the sea. A heavy dew had fallen. The grass was blue. Big drops hung on the bushes and just did not fall; the silvery, fluffy toi-toi was limp on its long stalks, and all the marigolds and the pinks in the bungalow gardens were bowed to the earth with wetness. Drenched were the cold fuchsias, round pearls of dew lay on the flat nasturtium leaves. It looked as though the sea had beaten up softly in the darkness, as though one immense wave had come rippling, rippling—how far? Perhaps if you had waked up in the middle of the night you might have seen a big fish flicking in at the window and gone again ... Ah-Aah! sounded the sleepy sea. And from the bush there came the sound of little streams flowing, quickly, lightly, slipping between the smooth stones, gushing into ferny basins and out again; and there was the splashing of big drops on large leaves, and something else—what was it?—a faint stirring and shaking, the snapping of a twig and then such silence that it seemed some one was listening. Round the corner of Crescent Bay, between the piled-up masses of broken rock, a flock of sheep came pattering. They were huddled together, a small, tossing, woolly mass, and their thin, sticklike legs trotted along quickly as if the cold and the quiet had frightened them. Behind them an old sheep-dog, his soaking paws covered with sand, ran along with his nose to the ground, but carelessly, as if thinking of something else. And then in the rocky gateway the shepherd himself appeared. He was a lean, upright old man, in a frieze coat that was covered with a web of tiny drops, velvet trousers tied under the knee, and a wide-awake with a folded blue handkerchief round the brim. One hand was crammed into his belt, the other grasped a beautifully smooth yellow stick. And as he walked, taking his time, he kept up a very soft light whistling, an airy, far-away fluting that sounded mournful and tender. The old dog cut an ancient caper or two and then drew up sharp, ashamed of his levity, and walked a few dignified paces by his master’s side. The sheep ran forward in little pattering rushes; they began to bleat, and ghostly flocks and herds answered them from under the sea. “Baa! Baaa!” For a time they seemed to be always on the same piece of ground. There ahead was stretched the sandy road with shallow puddles; the same soaking bushes showed on either side and the same shadowy palings. Then something immense came into view; an enormous shock-haired giant with his arms stretched out. It was the big gum-tree outside Mrs Stubbs’s shop, and as they passed by there was a strong whiff of eucalyptus. And now big spots of light gleamed in the mist. The shepherd stopped whistling; he rubbed his red nose and wet beard on his wet sleeve and, screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of the sea. The sun was rising. It was marvellous how quickly the mist thinned, sped away, dissolved from the shallow plain, rolled up from the bush and was gone as if in a hurry to escape; big twists and curls jostled and shouldered each other as the silvery beams broadened. The far-away sky—a bright, pure blue— was reflected in the puddles, and the drops, swimming along the telegraph poles, flashed into points of light. Now the leaping, glittering sea was so bright it made one’s eyes ache to look at it. The shepherd drew a pipe, the bowl as small as an acorn, out of his breast pocket, fumbled for a chunk of speckled tobacco, pared off a few shavings and stuffed the bowl. He was a grave, fine-looking old man. As he lit up and the blue smoke wreathed his head, the dog, watching, looked proud of him. “Baa! Baaa!” The sheep spread out into a fan. They were just clear of the summer colony before the first sleeper turned over and lifted a drowsy head; their cry sounded in the dreams of little children ... who lifted their arms to drag down, to cuddle the darling little woolly lambs of sleep. Then the first inhabitant appeared; it was the Burnells’ cat Florrie, sitting on the gatepost, far too early as usual, looking for their milk-girl. When she saw the old sheep-dog she sprang up quickly, arched her back, drew in her tabby head, and seemed to give a little fastidious shiver. “Ugh! What a coarse, revolting creature!” said Florrie. But the old sheep-dog, not looking up, waggled past, flinging out his legs from side to side. Only one of his ears twitched to prove that he saw, and thought her a silly young female. The breeze of morning lifted in the bush and the smell of leaves and wet black earth mingled with the sharp smell of the sea. Myriads of birds were singing. A goldfinch flew over the shepherd’s head and, perching on the tiptop of a spray, it turned to the sun, ruffling its small breast feathers. And now they had passed the fisherman’s hut, passed the charred-looking little whare where Leila the milk-girl lived with her old Gran. The sheep strayed over a yellow swamp and Wag, the sheep-dog, padded after, rounded them up and headed them for the steeper, narrower rocky pass that led out of Crescent Bay and towards Daylight Cove. “Baa! Baaa!” Faint the cry came as they rocked along the fast-drying road. The shepherd put away his pipe, dropping it into his breast-pocket so that the little bowl hung over. And straightway the soft airy whistling began again. Wag ran out along a ledge of rock after something that smelled, and ran back again disgusted. Then pushing, nudging, hurrying, the sheep rounded the bend and the shepherd followed after out of sight. II A few moments later the back door of one of the bungalows opened, and a figure in a broad-striped bathing suit flung down the paddock, cleared the stile, rushed through the tussock grass into the hollow, staggered up the sandy hillock, and raced for dear life over the big porous stones, over the cold, wet pebbles, on to the hard sand that gleamed like oil. Splish-Splosh! Splish-Splosh! The water bubbled round his legs as Stanley Burnell waded out exulting. First man in as usual! He’d beaten them all again. And he swooped down to souse his head and neck. “Hail, brother! All hail. Thou Mighty One!” A velvety bass voice came booming over the water. Great Scott! Damnation take it! Stanley lifted up to see a dark head bobbing far out and an arm lifted. It was Jonathan Trout— there before him! “Glorious morning!” sang the voice. “Yes, very fine!” said Stanley briefly. Why the dickens didn’t the fellow stick to his part of the sea? Why should he come barging over to this exact spot? Stanley gave a kick, a lunge and struck out, swimming overarm. But Jonathan was a match for him. Up he came, his black hair sleek on his forehead, his short beard sleek. “I had an extraordinary dream last night!” he shouted. What was the matter with the man? This mania for conversation irritated Stanley beyond words. And it was always the same—always some piffle about a dream he’d had, or some cranky idea he’d got hold of, or some rot he’d been reading. Stanley turned over on his back and kicked with his legs till he was a living waterspout. But even then ... “I dreamed I was hanging over a terrifically high cliff, shouting to some one below.” You would be! thought Stanley. He could stick no more of it. He stopped splashing. “Look here, Trout,” he said, “I’m in rather a hurry this morning.” “You’re what?” Jonathan was so surprised—or pretended to be— that he sank under the water, then reappeared again blowing. “All I mean is,” said Stanley, “I’ve no time to—to—to fool about. I want to get this over. I’m in a hurry. I’ve work to do this morning—see?” Jonathan was gone before Stanley had finished. “Pass, friend!” said the bass voice gently, and he slid away through the water with scarcely a ripple ... . But curse the fellow! He’d ruined Stanley’s bathe. What an unpractical idiot the man was! Stanley struck out to sea again, and then as quickly swam in again, and away he rushed up the beach. He felt cheated. Jonathan stayed a little longer in the water. He floated, gently moving his hands like fins, and letting the sea rock his long, skinny body. It was curious, but in spite of everything he was fond of Stanley Burnell. True, he had a fiendish desire to tease him sometimes, to poke fun at him, but at bottom he was sorry for the fellow. There was something pathetic in his determination to make a job of everything. You couldn’t help feeling he’d be caught out one day, and then what an almighty cropper he’d come! At that moment an immense wave lifted Jonathan, rode past him, and broke along the beach with a joyful sound. What a beauty! And now there came another. That was the way to live—carelessly, recklessly, spending oneself. He got on to his feet and began to wade towards the shore, pressing his toes into the firm, wrinkled sand. To take things easy, not to fight against the ebb and flow of life, but to give way to it—that was what was needed. It was this tension that was all wrong. To live—to live! And the perfect morning, so fresh and fair, basking in the light, as though laughing at its own beauty, seemed to whisper, “Why not?” But now he was out of the water Jonathan turned blue with cold. He ached all over; it was as though some one was wringing the blood out of him. And stalking up the beach, shivering, all his muscles tight, he too felt his bathe was spoilt. He’d stayed in too long. III Beryl was alone in the living-room when Stanley appeared, wearing a blue serge suit, a stiff collar and a spotted tie. He looked almost uncannily clean and brushed; he was going to town for the day. Dropping into his chair, he pulled out his watch and put it beside his plate. “I’ve just got twenty-five minutes,” he said. “You might go and see if the porridge is ready, Beryl?” “Mother’s just gone for it,” said Beryl. She sat down at the table and poured out his tea. “Thanks!” Stanley took a sip. “Hallo!” he said in an astonished voice, “you’ve forgotten the sugar.” “Oh, sorry!” But even then Beryl didn’t help him; she pushed the basin across. What did this mean? As Stanley helped himself his blue eyes widened; they seemed to quiver. He shot a quick glance at his sister-in-law and leaned back. “Nothing wrong, is there?” he asked carelessly, fingering his collar. Beryl’s head was bent; she turned her plate in her fingers. “Nothing,” said her light voice. Then she too looked up, and smiled at Stanley. “Why should there be?” “O-oh! No reason at all as far as I know. I thought you seemed rather——” At that moment the door opened and the three little girls appeared, each carrying a porridge plate. They were dressed alike in blue jerseys and knickers; their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair plaited and pinned up in what was called a horse’s tail. Behind them came Mrs Fairfield with the tray. “Carefully, children,” she warned. But they were taking the very greatest care. They loved being allowed to carry things. “Have you said good morning to your father?” “Yes, grandma.” They settled themselves on the bench opposite Stanley and Beryl. “Good morning, Stanley!” Old Mrs Fairfield gave him his plate. “Morning, mother! How’s the boy?” “Splendid! He only woke up once last night. What a perfect morning!” The old woman paused, her hand on the loaf of bread, to gaze out of the open door into the garden. The sea sounded. Through the wide-open window streamed the sun on to the yellow varnished walls and bare floor. Everything on the table flashed and glittered. In the middle there was an old salad bowl filled with yellow and red nasturtiums. She smiled, and a look of deep content shone in her eyes. “You might cut me a slice of that bread, mother,” said Stanley. “I’ve only twelve and a half minutes before the coach passes. Has anyone given my shoes to the servant girl?” “Yes, they’re ready for you.” Mrs Fairfield was quite unruffled. “Oh, Kezia! Why are you such a messy child!” cried Beryl despairingly. “Me, Aunt Beryl?” Kezia stared at her. What had she done now? She had only dug a river down the middle of her porridge, filled it, and was eating the banks away. But she did that every single morning, and no one had said a word up till now. “Why can’t you eat your food properly like Isabel and Lottie?” How unfair grown-ups are! “But Lottie always makes a floating island, don’t you, Lottie?” “I don’t,” said Isabel smartly. “I just sprinkle mine with sugar and put on the milk and finish it. Only babies play with their food.” Stanley pushed back his chair and got up. “Would you get me those shoes, mother? And, Beryl, if you’ve finished, I wish you’d cut down to the gate and stop the coach. Run in to your mother, Isabel, and ask her where my bowler hat’s been put. Wait a minute—have you children been playing with my stick?” “No, father!” “But I put it here,” Stanley began to bluster. “I remember distinctly putting it in this corner. Now, who’s had it? There’s no time to lose. Look sharp! The stick’s got to be found.” Even Alice, the servant-girl, was drawn into the chase. “You haven’t been using it to poke the kitchen fire with by any chance?” Stanley dashed into the bedroom where Linda was lying. “Most extraordinary thing. I can’t keep a single possession to myself. They’ve made away with my stick, now!” “Stick, dear? What stick?” Linda’s vagueness on these occasions could not be real, Stanley decided. Would nobody sympathize with him? “Coach! Coach, Stanley!” Beryl’s voice cried from the gate. Stanley waved his arm to Linda. “No time to say good-bye!” he cried. And he meant that as a punishment to her. He snatched his bowler hat, dashed out of the house, and swung down the garden path. Yes, the coach was there waiting, and Beryl, leaning over the open gate, was laughing up at somebody or other just as if nothing had happened. The heartlessness of women! The way they took it for granted it was your job to slave away for them while they didn’t even take the trouble to see that your walking-stick wasn’t lost. Kelly trailed his whip across the horses. “Good-bye, Stanley,” called Beryl, sweetly and gaily. It was easy enough to say goodbye! And there she stood, idle, shading her eyes with her hand. The worst of it was Stanley had to shout good-bye too, for the sake of appearances. Then he saw her turn, give a little skip and run back to the house. She was glad to be rid of him! Yes, she was thankful. Into the living-room she ran and called “He’s gone!” Linda cried from her room: “Beryl! Has Stanley gone?” Old Mrs Fairfield appeared, carrying the boy in his little flannel coatee. “Gone?” “Gone!” Oh, the relief, the difference it made to have the man out of the house. Their very voices were changed as they called to one another; they sounded warm and loving and as if they shared a secret. Beryl went over to the table. “Have another cup of tea, mother. It’s still hot.” She wanted, somehow, to celebrate the fact that they could do what they liked now. There was no man to disturb them; the whole perfect day was theirs. “No, thank you, child,” said old Mrs Fairfield, but the way at that moment she tossed the boy up and said “a-goos-a-goos-a-ga!” to him meant that she felt the same. The little girls ran into the paddock like chickens let out of a coop. Even Alice, the servant-girl, washing up the dishes in the kitchen, caught the infection and used the precious tank water in a perfectly reckless fashion. “Oh, these men!” said she, and she plunged the teapot into the bowl and held it under the water even after it had stopped bubbling, as if it too was a man and drowning was too good for them. IV “Wait for me, Isa-bel! Kezia, wait for me!” There was poor little Lottie, left behind again, because she found it so fearfully hard to get over the stile by herself. When she stood on the first step her knees began to wobble; she grasped the post. Then you had to put one leg over. But which leg? She never could decide. And when she did finally put one leg over with a sort of stamp of despair—then the feeling was awful. She was half in the paddock still and half in the tussock grass. She clutched the post desperately and lifted up her voice. “Wait for me!” “No, don’t you wait for her, Kezia!” said Isabel. “She’s such a little silly. She’s always making a fuss. Come on!” And she tugged Kezia’s jersey. “You can use my bucket if you come with me,” she said kindly. “It’s bigger than yours.” But Kezia couldn’t leave Lottie all by herself. She ran back to her. By this time Lottie was very red in the face and breathing heavily. “Here, put your other foot over,” said Kezia. “Where?” Lottie looked down at Kezia as if from a mountain height. “Here where my hand is.” Kezia patted the place. “Oh, there do you mean?” Lottie gave a deep sigh and put the second foot over. “Now—sort of turn round and sit down and slide,” said Kezia. “But there’s nothing to sit down on, Kezia,” said Lottie. She managed it at last, and once it was over she shook herself and began to beam. “I’m getting better at climbing over stiles, aren’t I, Kezia?” Lottie’s was a very hopeful nature. The pink and the blue sunbonnet followed Isabel’s bright red sunbonnet up that sliding, slipping hill. At the top they paused to decide where to go and to have a good stare at who was there already. Seen from behind, standing against the skyline, gesticulating largely with their spades, they looked like minute puzzled explorers. The whole family of Samuel Josephs was there already with their lady-help, who sat on a camp-stool and kept order with a whistle that she wore tied round her neck, and a small cane with which she directed operations. The Samuel Josephs never played by themselves or managed their own game. If they did, it ended in the boys pouring water down the girls’ necks or the girls trying to put little black crabs into the boys’ pockets. So Mrs S. J. and the poor lady-help drew up what she called a “brogramme” every morning to keep them “abused and out of bischief.” It was all competitions or races or round games. Everything began with a piercing blast of the lady-help’s whistle and ended with another. There were even prizes—large, rather dirty paper parcels which the lady-help with a sour little smile drew out of a bulging string kit. The Samuel Josephs fought fearfully for the prizes and cheated and pinched one another’s arms—they were all expert pinchers. The only time the Burnell children ever played with them Kezia had got a prize, and when she undid three bits of paper she found a very small rusty button-hook. She couldn’t understand why they made such a fuss ... But they never played with the Samuel Josephs now or even went to their parties. The Samuel Josephs were always giving children’s parties at the Bay and there was always the same food. A big washhand basin of very brown fruit-salad, buns cut into four and a washhand jug full of something the lady-help called “Limmonadear.” And you went away in the evening with half the frill torn off your frock or something spilled all down the front of your open-work pinafore, leaving the Samuel Josephs leaping like savages on their lawn. No! They were too awful. On the other side of the beach, close down to the water, two little boys, their knickers rolled up, twinkled like spiders. One was digging, the other pattered in and out of the water, filling a small bucket. They were the Trout boys, Pip and Rags. But Pip was so busy digging and Rags was so busy helping that they didn’t see their little cousins until they were quite close. “Look!” said Pip. “Look what I’ve discovered.” And he showed them an old, wet, squashed-looking boot. The three little girls stared. “Whatever are you going to do with it?” asked Kezia. “Keep it, of course!” Pip was very scornful. “It’s a find—see?” Yes, Kezia saw that. All the same ... “There’s lots of things buried in the sand,” explained Pip. “They get chucked up from wrecks. Treasure. Why—you might find—” “But why does Rags have to keep on pouring water in?” asked Lottie. “Oh, that’s to moisten it,” said Pip, “to make the work a bit easier. Keep it up, Rags.” And good little Rags ran up and down, pouring in the water that turned brown like cocoa. “Here, shall I show you what I found yesterday?” said Pip mysteriously, and he stuck his spade into the sand. “Promise not to tell.” They promised. “Say, cross my heart straight dinkum.” The little girls said it. Pip took something out of his pocket, rubbed it a long time on the front of his jersey, then breathed on it and rubbed it again. “Now turn round!” he ordered. They turned round. “All look the same way! Keep still! Now!” And his hand opened; he held up to the light something that flashed, that winked, that was a most lovely green. “It’s a nemeral,” said Pip solemnly. “Is it really, Pip?” Even Isabel was impressed. The lovely green thing seemed to dance in Pip’s fingers. Aunt Beryl had a nemeral in a ring, but it was a very small one. This one was as big as a star and far more beautiful. V As the morning lengthened whole parties appeared over the sand-hills and came down on the beach to bathe. It was understood that at eleven o’clock the women and children of the summer colony had the sea to themselves. First the women undressed, pulled on their bathing dresses and covered their heads in hideous caps like sponge bags; then the children were unbuttoned. The beach was strewn with little heaps of clothes and shoes; the big summer hats, with stones on them to keep them from blowing away, looked like immense shells. It was strange that even the sea seemed to sound differently when all those leaping, laughing figures ran into the waves. Old Mrs Fairfield, in a lilac cotton dress and a black hat tied under the chin, gathered her little brood and got them ready. The little Trout boys whipped their shirts over their heads, and away the five sped, while their grandma sat with one hand in her knitting-bag ready to draw out the ball of wool when she was satisfied they were safely in. The firm compact little girls were not half so brave as the tender, delicate-looking little boys. Pip and Rags, shivering, crouching down, slapping the water, never hesitated. But Isabel, who could swim twelve strokes, and Kezia, who could nearly swim eight, only followed on the strict understanding they were not to be splashed. As for Lottie, she didn’t follow at all. She liked to be left to go in her own way, please. And that way was to sit down at the edge of the water, her legs straight, her knees pressed together, and to make vague motions with her arms as if she expected to be wafted out to sea. But when a bigger wave than usual, an old whiskery one, came lolloping along in her direction, she scrambled to her feet with a face of horror and flew up the beach again. [...] “Here, mother, keep those for me, will you?” Two rings and a thin gold chain were dropped into Mrs Fairfield’s lap. “Yes, dear. But aren’t you going to bathe here?” “No-o,” Beryl drawled. She sounded vague. “I’m undressing farther along. I’m going to bathe with Mrs Harry Kember.” “Very well.” But Mrs Fairfield’s lips set. She disapproved of Mrs Harry Kember. Beryl knew it. Poor old mother, she smiled, as she skimmed over the stones. Poor old mother! Old! Oh, what joy, what bliss it was to be young ... “You look very pleased,” said Mrs Harry Kember. She sat hunched up on the stones, her arms round her knees, smoking. “It’s such a lovely day,” said Beryl, smiling down at her. “Oh, my dear!” Mrs Harry Kember’s voice sounded as though she knew better than that. But then her voice always sounded as though she knew something more about you than you did yourself. She was a long, strange-looking woman with narrow hands and feet. Her face, too, was long and narrow and exhaustedlooking; even her fair curled fringe looked burnt out and withered. She was the only woman at the Bay who smoked, and she smoked incessantly, keeping the cigarette between her lips while she talked, and only taking it out when the ash was so long you could not understand why it did not fall. When she was not playing bridge—she played bridge every day of her life—she spent her time lying in the full glare of the sun. She could stand any amount of it; she never had enough. All the same, it did not seem to warm her. Parched, withered, cold, she lay stretched on the stones like a piece of tossed-up driftwood. The women at the Bay thought she was very, very fast. Her lack of vanity, her slang, the way she treated men as though she was one of them, and the fact that she didn’t care twopence about her house and called the servant Gladys “Glad-eyes,” was disgraceful. Standing on the veranda steps Mrs Kember would call in her indifferent, tired voice, “I say. Glad-eyes, you might heave me a handkerchief if I’ve got one, will you?” And Glad-eyes, a red bow in her hair instead of a cap, and white shoes, came running with an impudent smile. It was an absolute scandal! True, she had no children, and her husband ... Here the voices were always raised; they became fervent. How can he have married her? How can he, how can he? It must have been money, of course, but even then! Mrs Kember’s husband was at least ten years younger than she was, and so incredibly handsome that he looked like a mask or a most perfect illustration in an American novel rather than a man. Black hair, dark blue eyes, red lips, a slow sleepy smile, a fine tennis player, a perfect dancer, and with it all a mystery. Harry Kember was like a man walking in his sleep. Men couldn’t stand him, they couldn’t get a word out of the chap; he ignored his wife just as she ignored him. How did he live? Of course there were stories, but such stories! They simply couldn’t be told. The women he’d been seen with, the places he’d been seen in ... but nothing was ever certain, nothing definite. Some of the women at the Bay privately thought he’d commit a murder one day. Yes, even while they talked to Mrs Kember and took in the awful concoction she was wearing, they saw her, stretched as she lay on the beach; but cold, bloody, and still with a cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth. Mrs Kember rose, yawned, unsnapped her belt buckle, and tugged at the tape of her blouse. And Beryl stepped out of her skirt and shed her jersey, and stood up in her short white petticoat, and her camisole with ribbon bows on the shoulders. “Mercy on us,” said Mrs Harry Kember, “what a little beauty you are!” “Don’t!” said Beryl softly; but, drawing off one stocking and then the other, she felt a little beauty. “My dear—why not?” said Mrs Harry Kember, stamping on her own petticoat. Really—her underclothes! A pair of blue cotton knickers and a linen bodice that reminded one somehow of a pillow-case ... “And you don’t wear stays, do you?” She touched Beryl’s waist, and Beryl sprang away with a small affected cry. Then “Never!” she said firmly. “Lucky little creature,” sighed Mrs Kember, unfastening her own. Beryl turned her back and began the complicated movements of some one who is trying to take off her clothes and to pull on her bathing-dress all at one and the same time. “Oh, my dear—don’t mind me,” said Mrs Harry Kember. “Why be shy? I shan’t eat you. I shan’t be shocked like those other ninnies.” And she gave her strange neighing laugh and grimaced at the other women. But Beryl was shy. She never undressed in front of anybody. Was that silly? Mrs Harry Kember made her feel it was silly, even something to be ashamed of. Why be shy indeed! She glanced quickly at her friend standing so boldly in her torn chemise and lighting a fresh cigarette; and a quick, bold, evil feeling started up in her breast. Laughing recklessly, she drew on the limp, sandy-feeling bathing-dress that was not quite dry and fastened the twisted buttons. “That’s better,” said Mrs Harry Kember. They began to go down the beach together. “Really, it’s a sin for you to wear clothes, my dear. Somebody’s got to tell you some day.” The water was quite warm. It was that marvellous transparent blue, flecked with silver, but the sand at the bottom looked gold; when you kicked with your toes there rose a little puff of golddust. Now the waves just reached her breast. Beryl stood, her arms outstretched, gazing out, and as each wave came she gave the slightest little jump, so that it seemed it was the wave which lifted her so gently. “I believe in pretty girls having a good time,” said Mrs Harry Kember. “Why not? Don’t you make a mistake, my dear. Enjoy yourself.” And suddenly she turned turtle, disappeared, and swam away quickly, quickly, like a rat. Then she flicked round and began swimming back. She was going to say something else. Beryl felt that she was being poisoned by this cold woman, but she longed to hear. But oh, how strange, how horrible! As Mrs Harry Kember came up close she looked, in her black waterproof bathing-cap, with her sleepy face lifted above the water, just her chin touching, like a horrible caricature of her husband. VI In a steamer chair, under a manuka tree that grew in the middle of the front grass patch, Linda Burnell dreamed the morning away. She did nothing. She looked up at the dark, close, dry leaves of the manuka, at the chinks of blue between, and now and again a tiny yellowish flower dropped on her. Pretty—yes, if you held one of those flowers on the palm of your hand and looked at it closely, it was an exquisite small thing. Each pale yellow petal shone as if each was the careful work of a loving hand. The tiny tongue in the centre gave it the shape of a bell. And when you turned it over the outside was a deep bronze colour. But as soon as they flowered, they fell and were scattered. You brushed them off your frock as you talked; the horrid little things got caught in one’s hair. Why, then, flower at all? Who takes the trouble—or the joy—to make all these things that are wasted, wasted ... It was uncanny. On the grass beside her, lying between two pillows, was the boy. Sound asleep he lay, his head turned away from his mother. His fine dark hair looked more like a shadow than like real hair, but his ear was a bright, deep coral. Linda clasped her hands above her head and crossed her feet. It was very pleasant to know that all these bungalows were empty, that everybody was down on the beach, out of sight, out of hearing. She had the garden to herself; she was alone. Dazzling white the picotees shone; the golden-eyed marigolds glittered; the nasturtiums wreathed the veranda poles in green and gold flame. If only one had time to look at these flowers long enough, time to get over the sense of novelty and strangeness, time to know them! But as soon as one paused to part the petals, to discover the under-side of the leaf, along came Life and one was swept away. And, lying in her cane chair, Linda felt so light; she felt like a leaf. Along came Life like a wind and she was seized and shaken; she had to go. Oh dear, would it always be so? Was there no escape? ... Now she sat on the veranda of their Tasmanian home, leaning against her father’s knee. And he promised, “As soon as you and I are old enough, Linny, we’ll cut off somewhere, we’ll escape. Two boys together. I have a fancy I’d like to sail up a river in China.” Linda saw that river, very wide, covered with little rafts and boats. She saw the yellow hats of the boatmen and she heard their high, thin voices as they called ... “Yes, papa.” But just then a very broad young man with bright ginger hair walked slowly past their house, and slowly, solemnly even, uncovered. Linda’s father pulled her ear teasingly, in the way he had. “Linny’s beau,” he whispered. “Oh, papa, fancy being married to Stanley Burnell!” Well, she was married to him. And what was more she loved him. Not the Stanley whom every one saw, not the everyday one; but a timid, sensitive, innocent Stanley who knelt down every night to say his prayers, and who longed to be good. Stanley was simple. If he believed in people—as he believed in her, for instance—it was with his whole heart. He could not be disloyal; he could not tell a lie. And how terribly he suffered if he thought anyone—she—was not being dead straight, dead sincere with him! “This is too subtle for me!” He flung out the words, but his open, quivering, distraught look was like the look of a trapped beast. But the trouble was—here Linda felt almost inclined to laugh, though Heaven knows it was no laughing matter—she saw her Stanley so seldom. There were glimpses, moments, breathing spaces of calm, but all the rest of the time it was like living in a house that couldn’t be cured of the habit of catching on fire, on a ship that got wrecked every day. And it was always Stanley who was in the thick of the danger. Her whole time was spent in rescuing him, and restoring him, and calming him down, and listening to his story. And what was left of her time was spent in the dread of having children. Linda frowned; she sat up quickly in her steamer chair and clasped her ankles. Yes, that was her real grudge against life; that was what she could not understand. That was the question she asked and asked, and listened in vain for the answer. It was all very well to say it was the common lot of women to bear children. It wasn’t true. She, for one, could prove that wrong. She was broken, made weak, her courage was gone, through child-bearing. And what made it doubly hard to bear was, she did not love her children. It was useless pretending. Even if she had had the strength she never would have nursed and played with the little girls. No, it was as though a cold breath had chilled her through and through on each of those awful journeys; she had no warmth left to give them. As to the boy—well, thank Heaven, mother had taken him; he was mother’s, or Beryl’s, or anybody’s who wanted him. She had hardly held him in her arms. She was so indifferent about him that as he lay there ... Linda glanced down. The boy had turned over. He lay facing her, and he was no longer asleep. His dark-blue, baby eyes were open; he looked as though he was peeping at his mother. And suddenly his face dimpled; it broke into a wide, toothless smile, a perfect beam, no less. “I’m here!” that happy smile seemed to say. “Why don’t you like me?” There was something so quaint, so unexpected about that smile that Linda smiled herself. But she checked herself and said to the boy coldly, “I don’t like babies.” “Don’t like babies?” The boy couldn’t believe her. “Don’t like me?” He waved his arms foolishly at his mother. Linda dropped off her chair on to the grass. “Why do you keep on smiling?” she said severely. “If you knew what I was thinking about, you wouldn’t.” But he only squeezed up his eyes, slyly, and rolled his head on the pillow. He didn’t believe a word she said. “We know all about that!” smiled the boy. Linda was so astonished at the confidence of this little creature ... Ah no, be sincere. That was not what she felt; it was something far different, it was something so new, so ... The tears danced in her eyes; she breathed in a small whisper to the boy, “Hallo, my funny!” But by now the boy had forgotten his mother. He was serious again. Something pink, something soft waved in front of him. He made a grab at it and it immediately disappeared. But when he lay back, another, like the first, appeared. This time he determined to catch it. He made a tremendous effort and rolled right over. VII The tide was out; the beach was deserted; lazily flopped the warm sea. The sun beat down, beat down hot and fiery on the fine sand, baking the grey and blue and black and white-veined pebbles. It sucked up the little drop of water that lay in the hollow of the curved shells; it bleached the pink convolvulus that threaded through and through the sand-hills. Nothing seemed to move but the small sand-hoppers. Pit-pit-pit! They were never still. Over there on the weed-hung rocks that looked at low tide like shaggy beasts come down to the water to drink, the sunlight seemed to spin like a silver coin dropped into each of the small rock pools. They danced, they quivered, and minute ripples laved the porous shores. Looking down, bending over, each pool was like a lake with pink and blue houses clustered on the shores; and oh! the vast mountainous country behind those houses—the ravines, the passes, the dangerous creeks and fearful tracks that led to the water’s edge. Underneath waved the sea-forest—pink thread-like trees, velvet anemones, and orange berry-spotted weeds. Now a stone on the bottom moved, rocked, and there was a glimpse of a black feeler; now a thread-like creature wavered by and was lost. Something was happening to the pink, waving trees; they were changing to a cold moonlight blue. And now there sounded the faintest “plop.” Who made that sound? What was going on down there? And how strong, how damp the seaweed smelt in the hot sun ... The green blinds were drawn in the bungalows of the summer colony. Over the verandas, prone on the paddock, flung over the fences, there were exhausted-looking bathing-dresses and rough striped towels. Each back window seemed to have a pair of sandshoes on the sill and some lumps of rock or a bucket or a collection of pawa shells. The bush quivered in a haze of heat; the sandy road was empty except for the Trouts’ dog Snooker, who lay stretched in the very middle of it. His blue eye was turned up, his legs stuck out stiffly, and he gave an occasional desperatesounding puff, as much as to say he had decided to make an end of it and was only waiting for some kind cart to come along. “What are you looking at, my grandma? Why do you keep stopping and sort of staring at the wall?” Kezia and her grandmother were taking their siesta together. The little girl, wearing only her short drawers and her under-bodice, her arms and legs bare, lay on one of the puffed-up pillows of her grandma’s bed, and the old woman, in a white ruffled dressing-gown, sat in a rocker at the window, with a long piece of pink knitting in her lap. This room that they shared, like the other rooms of the bungalow, was of light varnished wood and the floor was bare. The furniture was of the shabbiest, the simplest. The dressing-table, for instance, was a packing-case in a sprigged muslin petticoat, and the mirror above was very strange; it was as though a little piece of forked lightning was imprisoned in it. On the table there stood a jar of sea-pinks, pressed so tightly together they looked more like a velvet pincushion, and a special shell which Kezia had given her grandma for a pin-tray, and another even more special which she had thought would make a very nice place for a watch to curl up in. “Tell me, grandma,” said Kezia. The old woman sighed, whipped the wool twice round her thumb, and drew the bone needle through. She was casting on. “I was thinking of your Uncle William, darling,” she said quietly. “My Australian Uncle William?” said Kezia. She had another. “Yes, of course.” “The one I never saw?” “That was the one.” “Well, what happened to him?” Kezia knew perfectly well, but she wanted to be told again. “He went to the mines, and he got a sunstroke there and died,” said old Mrs Fairfield. Kezia blinked and considered the picture again ... A little man fallen over like a tin soldier by the side of a big black hole. “Does it make you sad to think about him, grandma?” She hated her grandma to be sad. It was the old woman’s turn to consider. Did it make her sad? To look back, back. To stare down the years, as Kezia had seen her doing. To look after them as a woman does, long after they were out of sight. Did it make her sad? No, life was like that. “No, Kezia.” “But why?” asked Kezia. She lifted one bare arm and began to draw things in the air. “Why did Uncle William have to die? He wasn’t old.” Mrs Fairfield began counting the stitches in threes. “It just happened,” she said in an absorbed voice. “Does everybody have to die?” asked Kezia. “Everybody!” “Me?” Kezia sounded fearfully incredulous. “Some day, my darling.” “But, grandma.” Kezia waved her left leg and waggled the toes. They felt sandy. “What if I just won’t?” The old woman sighed again and drew a long thread from the ball. “We’re not asked, Kezia,” she said sadly. “It happens to all of us sooner or later.” Kezia lay still thinking this over. She didn’t want to die. It meant she would have to leave here, leave everywhere, for ever, leave—leave her grandma. She rolled over quickly. “Grandma,” she said in a startled voice. “What, my pet!” “You’re not to die.” Kezia was very decided. “Ah, Kezia”—her grandma looked up and smiled and shook her head—“don’t let’s talk about it.” “But you’re not to. You couldn’t leave me. You couldn’t not be there.” This was awful. “Promise me you won’t ever do it, grandma,” pleaded Kezia. The old woman went on knitting. “Promise me! Say never!” But still her grandma was silent. Kezia rolled off the bed; she couldn’t bear it any longer, and lightly she leapt on to her grandma’s knees, clasped her hands round the old woman’s throat and began kissing her, under the chin, behind the ear, and blowing down her neck. “Say never ... say never ... say never” She gasped between the kisses. And then she began, very softly and lightly, to tickle her grandma. “Kezia!” The old woman dropped her knitting. She swung back in the rocker. She began to tickle Kezia. “Say never, say never, say never,” gurgled Kezia, while they lay there laughing in each other’s arms. “Come, that’s enough, my squirrel! That’s enough, my wild pony!” said old Mrs Fairfield, setting her cap straight. “Pick up my knitting.“ Both of them had forgotten what the “never” was about. VIII The sun was still full on the garden when the back door of the Burnells’ shut with a bang, and a very gay figure walked down the path to the gate. It was Alice, the servant-girl, dressed for her afternoon out. She wore a white cotton dress with such large red spots on it, and so many that they made you shudder, white shoes and a leghorn turned up under the brim with poppies. Of course she wore gloves, white ones, stained at the fastenings with ironmould, and in one hand she carried a very dashed-looking sunshade which she referred to as her perishall. Beryl, sitting in the window, fanning her freshly-washed hair, thought she had never seen such a guy. If Alice had only blacked her face with a piece of cork before she started out, the picture would have been complete. And where did a girl like that go to in a place like this? The heart-shaped Fijian fan beat scornfully at that lovely bright mane. She supposed Alice had picked up some horrible common larrikin and they’d go off into the bush together. Pity to make herself so conspicuous; they’d have hard work to hide with Alice in that rig-out. But no, Beryl was unfair. Alice was going to tea with Mrs Stubbs, who’d sent her an “invite” by the little boy who called for orders. She had taken ever such a liking to Mrs Stubbs ever since the first time she went to the shop to get something for her mosquitoes. “Dear heart!” Mrs Stubbs had clapped her hand to her side. “I never seen anyone so eaten. You might have been attacked by canningbals.” Alice did wish there’d been a bit of life on the road though. Made her feel so queer, having nobody behind her. Made her feel all weak in the spine. She couldn’t believe that some one wasn’t watching her. And yet it was silly to turn round; it gave you away. She pulled up her gloves, hummed to herself and said to the distant gum-tree, “Shan’t be long now.” But that was hardly company. Mrs Stubbs’s shop was perched on a little hillock just off the road. It had two big windows for eyes, a broad veranda for a hat, and the sign on the roof, scrawled Mrs STUBBS’S, was like a little card stuck rakishly in the hat crown. On the veranda there hung a long string of bathing-dresses, clinging together as though they’d just been rescued from the sea rather than waiting to go in, and beside them there hung a cluster of sand-shoes so extraordinarily mixed that to get at one pair you had to tear apart and forcibly separate at least fifty. Even then it was the rarest thing to find the left that belonged to the right. So many people had lost patience and gone off with one shoe that fitted and one that was a little too big ... Mrs Stubbs prided herself on keeping something of everything. The two windows, arranged in the form of precarious pyramids, were crammed so tight, piled so high, that it seemed only a conjuror could prevent them from toppling over. In the left-hand corner of one window, glued to the pane by four gelatine lozenges, there was—and there had been from time immemorial—a notice. LOST! HANSOME GOLE BROOCH SOLID GOLD ON OR NEAR BEACH REWARD OFFERED Alice pressed open the door. The bell jangled, the red serge curtains parted, and Mrs Stubbs appeared. With her broad smile and the long bacon knife in her hand, she looked like a friendly brigand. Alice was welcomed so warmly that she found it quite difficult to keep up her “manners.” They consisted of persistent little coughs and hems, pulls at her gloves, tweaks at her skirt, and a curious difficulty in seeing what was set before her or understanding what was said. Tea was laid on the parlour table—ham, sardines, a whole pound of butter, and such a large johnny cake that it looked like an advertisement for somebody’s baking-powder. But the Primus stove roared so loudly that it was useless to try to talk above it. Alice sat down on the edge of a basket-chair while Mrs Stubbs pumped the stove still higher. Suddenly Mrs Stubbs whipped the cushion off a chair and disclosed a large brown-paper parcel. “I’ve just had some new photers taken, my dear,” she shouted cheerfully to Alice. “Tell me what you think of them.” In a very dainty, refined way Alice wet her finger and put the tissue back from the first one. Life! How many there were! There were three dozzing at least. And she held hers up to the light. Mrs Stubbs sat in an arm-chair, leaning very much to one side. There was a look of mild astonishment on her large face, and well there might be. For though the arm-chair stood on a carpet, to the left of it, miraculously skirting the carpet-border, there was a dashing waterfall. On her right stood a Grecian pillar with a giant fern-tree on either side of it, and in the background towered a gaunt mountain, pale with snow. “It is a nice style, isn’t it?” shouted Mrs Stubbs; and Alice had just screamed “Sweetly” when the roaring of the Primus stove died down, fizzled out, ceased, and she said “Pretty” in a silence that was frightening. “Draw up your chair, my dear,” said Mrs Stubbs, beginning to pour out. “Yes,” she said thoughtfully, as she handed the tea, “but I don’t care about the size. I’m having an enlargemint. All very well for Christmas cards, but I never was the one for small photers myself. You get no comfort out of them. To say the truth, I find them dis’eartening.” Alice quite saw what she meant. “Size,” said Mrs Stubbs. “Give me size. That was what my poor dear husband was always saying. He couldn’t stand anything small. Gave him the creeps. And, strange as it may seem, my dear”—here Mrs Stubbs creaked and seemed to expand herself at the memory—“it was dropsy that carried him off at the larst. Many’s the time they drawn one and a half pints from ’im at the ’ospital ... It seemed like a judgmint.” Alice burned to know exactly what it was that was drawn from him. She ventured, “I suppose it was water.” But Mrs Stubbs fixed Alice with her eyes and replied meaningly, “It was liquid my dear.” Liquid! Alice jumped away from the word like a cat and came back to it, nosing and wary. “That’s ’im!” said Mrs Stubbs, and she pointed dramatically to the life-size head and shoulders of a burly man with a dead white rose in the button-hole of his coat that made you think of a curl of cold mutting fat. Just below, in silver letters on a red cardboard ground, were the words, “Be not afraid, it is I.” “It’s ever such a fine face,” said Alice faintly. The pale-blue bow on the top of Mrs Stubbs’s fair frizzy hair quivered. She arched her plump neck. What a neck she had! It was bright pink where it began and then it changed to warm apricot, and that faded to the colour of a brown egg and then to a deep creamy. “All the same, my dear,” she said surprisingly, “freedom’s best!” Her soft, fat chuckle sounded like a purr. “Freedom’s best,” said Mrs Stubbs again. Freedom! Alice gave a loud, silly little titter. She felt awkward. Her mind flew back to her own kitching. Ever so queer! She wanted to be back in it again. IX A strange company assembled in the Burnells’ washhouse after tea. Round the table there sat a bull, a rooster, a donkey that kept forgetting it was a donkey, a sheep and a bee. The washhouse was the perfect place for such a meeting because they could make as much noise as they liked, and nobody ever interrupted. It was a small tin shed standing apart from the bungalow. Against the wall there was a deep trough and in the corner a copper with a basket of clothes-pegs on top of it. The little window, spun over with cobwebs, had a piece of candle and a mouse-trap on the dusty sill. There were clothes-lines criss-crossed overhead and, hanging from a peg on the wall, a very big, a huge, rusty horseshoe. The table was in the middle with a form at either side. “You can’t be a bee, Kezia. A bee’s not an animal. It’s a ninseck.” “Oh, but I do want to be a bee frightfully,” wailed Kezia ... A tiny bee, all yellow-furry, with striped legs. She drew her legs up under her and leaned over the table. She felt she was a bee. “A ninseck must be an animal,” she said stoutly. “It makes a noise. It’s not like a fish.” “I’m a bull, I’m a bull!” cried Pip. And he gave such a tremendous bellow—how did he make that noise?—that Lottie looked quite alarmed. “I’ll be a sheep,” said little Rags. “A whole lot of sheep went past this morning.” “How do you know?” “Dad heard them. Baa!” He sounded like the little lamb that trots behind and seems to wait to be carried. “Cock-a-doodle-do!” shrilled Isabel. With her red cheeks and bright eyes she looked like a rooster. “What’ll I be?” Lottie asked everybody, and she sat there smiling, waiting for them to decide for her. It had to be an easy one. “Be a donkey, Lottie.” It was Kezia’s suggestion. “Hee-haw! You can’t forget that.” “Hee-haw!” said Lottie solemnly. “When do I have to say it?” “I’ll explain, I’ll explain,” said the bull. It was he who had the cards. He waved them round his head. “All be quiet! All listen!” And he waited for them. “Look here, Lottie.” He turned up a card. “It’s got two spots on it—see? Now, if you put that card in the middle and somebody else has one with two spots as well, you say ‘Hee-haw,’ and the card’s yours.” “Mine?” Lottie was round-eyed. “To keep?” “No, silly. Just for the game, see? Just while we’re playing.” The bull was very cross with her. “Oh, Lottie, you are a little silly,” said the proud rooster. Lottie looked at both, of them. Then she hung her head; her lip quivered. “I don’t not want to play,” she whispered. The others glanced at one another like conspirators. All of them knew what that meant. She would go away and be discovered somewhere standing with her pinny thrown over her head, in a corner, or against a wall, or even behind a chair. “Yes, you do, Lottie. It’s quite easy,” said Kezia. And Isabel, repentant, said exactly like a grown-up, “Watch me, Lottie, and you’ll soon learn.” “Cheer up, Lot,” said Pip. “There, I know what I’ll do. I’ll give you the first one. It’s mine, really, but I’ll give it to you. Here you are.” And he slammed the card down in front of Lottie. Lottie revived at that. But now she was in another difficulty. “I haven’t got a hanky,” she said; “I want one badly, too.” “Here, Lottie, you can use mine.” Rags dipped into his sailor blouse and brought up a very wet-looking one, knotted together. “Be very careful,” he warned her. “Only use that corner. Don’t undo it. I’ve got a little starfish inside I’m going to try and tame.” “Oh, come on, you girls,” said the bull. “And mind—you’re not to look at your cards. You’ve got to keep your hands under the table till I say ‘Go.’” Smack went the cards round the table. They tried with all their might to see, but Pip was too quick for them. It was very exciting, sitting there in the washhouse; it was all they could do not to burst into a little chorus of animals before Pip had finished dealing. “Now, Lottie, you begin.” Timidly Lottie stretched out a hand, took the top card off her pack, had a good look at it—it was plain she was counting the spots—and put it down. “No, Lottie, you can’t do that. You mustn’t look first. You must turn it the other way over.” “But then everybody will see it the same time as me,” said Lottie. The game proceeded. Mooe-ooo-er! The bull was terrible. He charged over the table and seemed to eat the cards up. Bss-ss! said the bee. Cock-a-doodle-do! Isabel stood up in her excitement and moved her elbows like wings. Baa! Little Rags put down the King of Diamonds and Lottie put down the one they called the King of Spain. She had hardly any cards left. “Why don’t you call out, Lottie?” “I’ve forgotten what I am,” said the donkey woefully. “Well, change! Be a dog instead! Bow-wow!” “Oh yes. That’s much easier.” Lottie smiled again. But when she and Kezia both had a one Kezia waited on purpose. The others made signs to Lottie and pointed. Lottie turned very red; she looked bewildered, and at last she said, “Hee-haw! Ke-zia.” “Ss! Wait a minute!” They were in the very thick of it when the bull stopped them, holding up his hand. “What’s that? What’s that noise?” “What noise? What do you mean?” asked the rooster. “Ss! Shut up! Listen!” They were mouse-still. “I thought I heard a—a sort of knocking,” said the bull. “What was it like?” asked the sheep faintly. No answer. The bee gave a shudder. “Whatever did we shut the door for?” she said softly. Oh, why, why had they shut the door? While they were playing, the day had faded; the gorgeous sunset had blazed and died. And now the quick dark came racing over the sea, over the sand-hills, up the paddock. You were frightened to look in the corners of the washhouse, and yet you had to look with all your might. And somewhere, far away, grandma was lighting a lamp. The blinds were being pulled down; the kitchen fire leapt in the tins on the mantelpiece. “It would be awful now,” said the bull, “if a spider was to fall from the ceiling on to the table, wouldn’t it?” “Spiders don’t fall from ceilings.” “Yes, they do. Our Min told us she’d seen a spider as big as a saucer, with long hairs on it like a gooseberry.” Quickly all the little heads were jerked up; all the little bodies drew together, pressed together. “Why doesn’t somebody come and call us?” cried the rooster. Oh, those grown-ups, laughing and snug, sitting in the lamp-light, drinking out of cups! They’d forgotten about them. No, not really forgotten. That was what their smile meant. They had decided to leave them there all by themselves. Suddenly Lottie gave such a piercing scream that all of them jumped off the forms, all of them screamed too. “A face—a face looking!” shrieked Lottie. It was true, it was real. Pressed against the window was a pale face, black eyes, a black beard. “Grandma! Mother! Somebody!” But they had not got to the door, tumbling over one another, before it opened for Uncle Jonathan. He had come to take the little boys home. X He had meant to be there before, but in the front garden he had come upon Linda walking up and down the grass, stopping to pick off a dead pink or give a top-heavy carnation something to lean against, or to take a deep breath of something, and then walking on again, with her little air of remoteness. Over her white frock she wore a yellow, pink-fringed shawl from the Chinaman’s shop. “Hallo, Jonathan!” called Linda. And Jonathan whipped off his shabby panama, pressed it against his breast, dropped on one knee, and kissed Linda’s hand. “Greeting, my Fair One! Greeting, my Celestial Peach Blossom!” boomed the bass voice gently. “Where are the other noble dames?” “Beryl’s out playing bridge and mother’s giving the boy his bath ... Have you come to borrow something?” The Trouts were for ever running out of things and sending across to the Burnells’ at the last moment. But Jonathan only answered, “A little love, a little kindness;” and he walked by his sister-in-law’s side. Linda dropped into Beryl’s hammock under the manuka-tree, and Jonathan stretched himself on the grass beside her, pulled a long stalk and began chewing it. They knew each other well. The voices of children cried from the other gardens. A fisherman’s light cart shook along the sandy road, and from far away they heard a dog barking; it was muffled as though the dog had its head in a sack. If you listened you could just hear the soft swish of the sea at full tide sweeping the pebbles. The sun was sinking. “And so you go back to the office on Monday, do you, Jonathan?” asked Linda. “On Monday the cage door opens and clangs to upon the victim for another eleven months and a week,” answered Jonathan. Linda swung a little. “It must be awful,” she said slowly. “Would ye have me laugh, my fair sister? Would ye have me weep?” Linda was so accustomed to Jonathan’s way of talking that she paid no attention to it. “I suppose,” she said vaguely, “one gets used to it. One gets used to anything.” “Does one? Hum!” The “Hum” was so deep it seemed to boom from underneath the ground. “I wonder how it’s done,” brooded Jonathan; “I’ve never managed it.” Looking at him as he lay there, Linda thought again how attractive he was. It was strange to think that he was only an ordinary clerk, that Stanley earned twice as much money as he. What was the matter with Jonathan? He had no ambition; she supposed that was it. And yet one felt he was gifted, exceptional. He was passionately fond of music; every spare penny he had went on books. He was always full of new ideas, schemes, plans. But nothing came of it all. The new fire blazed in Jonathan; you almost heard it roaring softly as he explained, described and dilated on the new thing; but a moment later it had fallen in and there was nothing but ashes, and Jonathan went about with a look like hunger in his black eyes. At these times he exaggerated his absurd manner of speaking, and he sang in church—he was the leader of the choir—with such fearful dramatic intensity that the meanest hymn put on an unholy splendour. “It seems to me just as imbecile, just as infernal, to have to go to the office on Monday,” said Jonathan, “as it always has done and always will do. To spend all the best years of one’s life sitting on a stool from nine to five, scratching in somebody’s ledger! It’s a queer use to make of one’s ... one and only life, isn’t it? Or do I fondly dream?” He rolled over on the grass and looked up at Linda. “Tell me, what is the difference between my life and that of an ordinary prisoner. The only difference I can see is that I put myself in jail and nobody’s ever going to let me out. That’s a more intolerable situation than the other. For if I’d been—pushed in, against my will—kicking, even—once the door was locked, or at any rate in five years or so, I might have accepted the fact and begun to take an interest in the flight of flies or counting the warder’s steps along the passage with particular attention to variations of tread and so on. But as it is, I’m like an insect that’s flown into a room of its own accord. I dash against the walls, dash against the windows, flop against the ceiling, do everything on God’s earth, in fact, except fly out again. And all the while I’m thinking, like that moth, or that butterfly, or whatever it is, ‘The shortness of life! The shortness of life!’ I’ve only one night or one day, and there’s this vast dangerous garden, waiting out there, undiscovered, unexplored.” “But, if you feel like that, why—” began Linda quickly. “Ah!” cried Jonathan. And that “Ah!” was somehow almost exultant. “There you have me. Why? Why indeed? There’s the maddening, mysterious question. Why don’t I fly out again? There’s the window or the door or whatever it was I came in by. It’s not hopelessly shut—is it? Why don’t I find it and be off? Answer me that, little sister.” But he gave her no time to answer. “I’m exactly like that insect again. For some reason”—Jonathan paused between the words—“it’s not allowed, it’s forbidden, it’s against the insect law, to stop banging and flopping and crawling up the pane even for an instant. Why don’t I leave the office? Why don’t I seriously consider, this moment, for instance, what it is that prevents me leaving? It’s not as though I’m tremendously tied. I’ve two boys to provide for, but, after all, they’re boys. I could cut off to sea, or get a job up-country, or ...” Suddenly he smiled at Linda and said in a changed voice, as if he were confiding a secret, “Weak ... weak. No stamina. No anchor. No guiding principle, let us call it.” But then the dark velvety voice rolled out: Would ye hear the story How it unfolds itself ... and they were silent. The sun had set. In the western sky there were great masses of crushed-up rose-coloured clouds. Broad beams of light shone through the clouds and beyond them as if they would cover the whole sky. Overhead the blue faded; it turned a pale gold, and the bush outlined against it gleamed dark and brilliant like metal. Sometimes when those beams of light show in the sky they are very awful. They remind you that up there sits Jehovah, the jealous God, the Almighty, Whose eye is upon you, ever watchful, never weary. You remember that at His coming the whole earth will shake into one ruined graveyard; the cold, bright angels will drive you this way and that, and there will be no time to explain what could be explained so simply ... But tonight it seemed to Linda there was something infinitely joyful and loving in those silver beams. And now no sound came from the sea. It breathed softly as if it would draw that tender, joyful beauty into its own bosom. “It’s all wrong, it’s all wrong,” came the shadowy voice of Jonathan. “It’s not the scene, it’s not the setting for ... three stools, three desks, three inkpots and a wire blind.” Linda knew that he would never change, but she said, “Is it too late, even now?” “I’m old—I’m old,” intoned Jonathan. He bent towards her, he passed his hand over his head. “Look!” His black hair was speckled all over with silver, like the breast plumage of a black fowl. Linda was surprised. She had no idea that he was grey. And yet, as he stood up beside her and sighed and stretched, she saw him, for the first time, not resolute, not gallant, not careless, but touched already with age. He looked very tall on the darkening grass, and the thought crossed her mind, “He is like a weed.” Jonathan stooped again and kissed her fingers. “Heaven reward thy sweet patience, lady mine,” he murmured. “I must go seek those heirs to my fame and fortune ...” He was gone. XI Light shone in the windows of the bungalow. Two square patches of gold fell upon the pinks and the peaked marigolds. Florrie, the cat, came out on to the veranda, and sat on the top step, her white paws close together, her tail curled round. She looked content, as though she had been waiting for this moment all day. “Thank goodness, it’s getting late,” said Florrie. “Thank goodness, the long day is over.” Her greengage eyes opened. Presently there sounded the rumble of the coach, the crack of Kelly’s whip. It came near enough for one to hear the voices of the men from town, talking loudly together. It stopped at the Burnells’ gate. Stanley was half-way up the path before he saw Linda. “Is that you, darling?” “Yes, Stanley.” He leapt across the flower-bed and seized her in his arms. She was enfolded in that familiar, eager, strong embrace. “Forgive me, darling, forgive me,” stammered Stanley, and he put his hand under her chin and lifted her face to him. “Forgive you?” smiled Linda. “But whatever for?” “Good God! You can’t have forgotten,” cried Stanley Burnell. “I’ve thought of nothing else all day. I’ve had the hell of a day. I made up my mind to dash out and telegraph, and then I thought the wire mightn’t reach you before I did. I’ve been in tortures, Linda.” “But, Stanley,” said Linda, “what must I forgive you for?” “Linda!”—Stanley was very hurt—“didn’t you realize—you must have realized—I went away without saying good-bye to you this morning? I can’t imagine how I can have done such a thing. My confounded temper, of course. But—well”—and he sighed and took her in his arms again—“I’ve suffered for it enough to-day.” “What’s that you’ve got in your hand?” asked Linda. “New gloves? Let me see.” “Oh, just a cheap pair of wash-leather ones,” said Stanley humbly. “I noticed Bell was wearing some in the coach this morning, so, as I was passing the shop, I dashed in and got myself a pair. What are you smiling at? You don’t think it was wrong of me, do you?” “On the con-trary, darling,” said Linda, “I think it was most sensible.” She pulled one of the large, pale gloves on her own fingers and looked at her hand, turning it this way and that. She was still smiling. Stanley wanted to say, “I was thinking of you the whole time I bought them.” It was true, but for some reason he couldn’t say it. “Let’s go in,” said he. XII Why does one feel so different at night? Why is it so exciting to be awake when everybody else is asleep? Late—it is very late! And yet every moment you feel more and more wakeful, as though you were slowly almost with every breath, waking up into a new, wonderful, far more thrilling and exciting world than the daylight one. And what is this queer sensation that you’re a conspirator? Lightly, stealthily you move about your room. You take something off the dressing-table and put it down again without a sound. And everything, even the bed-post, knows you, responds, shares your secret ... You’re not very fond of your room by day. You never think about it. You’re in and out, the door opens and slams, the cupboard creaks. You sit down on the side of your bed, change your shoes and dash out again. A dive down to the glass, two pins in your hair, powder your nose and off again. But now—it’s suddenly dear to you. It’s a darling little funny room. It’s yours. Oh, what a joy it is to own things! Mine—my own! “My very own for ever?” “Yes.” Their lips met. No, of course, that had nothing to do with it. That was all nonsense and rubbish. But, in spite of herself Beryl saw so plainly two people standing in the middle of her room. Her arms were round his neck; he held her. And now he whispered, “My beauty, my little beauty!” She jumped off her bed, ran over to the window and kneeled on the window-seat, with her elbows on the sill. But the beautiful night, the garden, every bush, every leaf, even the white palings, even the stars, were conspirators too. So bright was the moon that the flowers were bright as by day; the shadow of the nasturtiums, exquisite lily-like leaves and wide-open flowers, lay across the silvery veranda. The manuka-tree, bent by the southerly winds, was like a bird on one leg stretching out a wing. But when Beryl looked at the bush, it seemed to her the bush was sad. “We are dumb trees, reaching up in the night, imploring we know not what,” said the sorrowful bush. It is true when you are by yourself and you think about life, it is always sad. All that excitement and so on has a way of suddenly leaving you, and it’s as though, in the silence, somebody called your name, and you heard your name for the first time. “Beryl!” “Yes, I’m here. I’m Beryl. Who wants me?” “Beryl!” “Let me come.” It is lonely living by oneself. Of course, there are relations, friends, heaps of them; but that’s not what she means. She wants some one who will find the Beryl they none of them know, who will expect her to be that Beryl always. She wants a lover. “Take me away from all these other people, my love. Let us go far away. Let us live our life, all new, all ours, from the very beginning. Let us make our fire. Let us sit down to eat together. Let us have long talks at night.” And the thought was almost, “Save me, my love. Save me!” ... “Oh, go on! Don’t be a prude, my dear. You enjoy yourself while you’re young. That’s my advice.” And a high rush of silly laughter joined Mrs Harry Kember’s loud, indifferent neigh. You see, it’s so frightfully difficult when you’ve nobody. You’re so at the mercy of things. You can’t just be rude. And you’ve always this horror of seeming inexperienced and stuffy like the other ninnies at the Bay. And—and it’s fascinating to know you’ve power over people. Yes, that is fascinating ... Oh why, oh why doesn’t “he” come soon? If I go on living here, thought Beryl, anything may happen to me. “But how do you know he is coming at all?” mocked a small voice within her. But Beryl dismissed it. She couldn’t be left. Other people, perhaps, but not she. It wasn’t possible to think that Beryl Fairfield never married, that lovely fascinating girl. “Do you remember Beryl Fairfield?” “Remember her! As if I could forget her! It was one summer at the Bay that I saw her. She was standing on the beach in a blue”—no, pink—“muslin frock, holding on a big cream”—no, black— “straw hat. But it’s years ago now.” “She’s as lovely as ever, more so if anything.” Beryl smiled, bit her lip, and gazed over the garden. As she gazed, she saw somebody, a man, leave the road, step along the paddock beside their palings as if he was coming straight towards her. Her heart beat. Who was it? Who could it be? It couldn’t be a burglar, certainly not a burglar, for he was smoking and he strolled lightly. Beryl’s heart leapt; it seemed to turn right over, and then to stop. She recognized him. “Good evening. Miss Beryl,” said the voice softly. “Good evening.” “Won’t you come for a little walk?” it drawled. Come for a walk—at that time of night! “I couldn’t. Everybody’s in bed. Everybody’s asleep.” “Oh,” said the voice lightly, and a whiff of sweet smoke reached her. “What does everybody matter? Do come! It’s such a fine night. There’s not a soul about.” Beryl shook her head. But already something stirred in her, something reared its head. The voice said, “Frightened?” It mocked, “Poor little girl!” “Not in the least,” said she. As she spoke that weak thing within her seemed to uncoil, to grow suddenly tremendously strong; she longed to go! And just as if this was quite understood by the other, the voice said, gently and softly, but finally, “Come along!” Beryl stepped over her low window, crossed the veranda, ran down the grass to the gate. He was there before her. “That’s right,” breathed the voice, and it teased, “You’re not frightened, are you? You’re not frightened?” She was; now she was here she was terrified, and it seemed to her everything was different. The moonlight stared and glittered; the shadows were like bars of iron. Her hand was taken. “Not in the least,” she said lightly. “Why should I be?” Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held back. “No, I’m not coming any farther,” said Beryl. “Oh, rot!” Harry Kember didn’t believe her. “Come along! We’ll just go as far as that fuchsia bush. Come along!” The fuchsia bush was tall. It fell over the fence in a shower. There was a little pit of darkness beneath. “No, really, I don’t want to,” said Beryl. For a moment Harry Kember didn’t answer. Then he came close to her, turned to her, smiled and said quickly, “Don’t be silly! Don’t be silly!” His smile was something she’d never seen before. Was he drunk? That bright, blind, terrifying smile froze her with horror. What was she doing? How had she got here? The stern garden asked her as the gate pushed open, and quick as a cat Harry Kember came through and snatched her to him. “Cold little devil! Cold little devil!” said the hateful voice. But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked, wrenched free. “You are vile, vile,” said she. “Then why in God’s name did you come?” stammered Harry Kember. Nobody answered him. A cloud, small, serene, floated across the moon. In that moment of darkness the sea sounded deep, troubled. Then the cloud sailed away, and the sound of the sea was a vague murmur, as though it waked out of a dark dream. All was still. The Garden Party And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more perfect day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm, the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light gold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up since dawn, mowing the lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to shine. As for the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses are the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally hundreds, had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down as though they had been visited by archangels. Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee. “Where do you want the marquee put, mother?” “My dear child, it’s no use asking me. I’m determined to leave everything to you children this year. Forget I am your mother. Treat me as an honoured guest.” But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men. She had washed her hair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee in a green turban, with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose, the butterfly, always came down in a silk petticoat and a kimono jacket. “You’ll have to go, Laura; you’re the artistic one.” Away Laura flew, still holding her piece of bread-and-butter. It’s so delicious to have an excuse for eating out of doors, and besides, she loved having to arrange things; she always felt she could do it so much better than anybody else. Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the garden path. They carried staves covered with rolls of canvas, and they had big tool-bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura wished now that she was not holding that piece of bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to put it, and she couldn’t possibly throw it away. She blushed and tried to look severe and even a little bit short-sighted as she came up to them. “Good morning,” she said, copying her mother’s voice. But that sounded so fearfully affected that she was ashamed, and stammered like a little girl, “Oh—er—have you come—is it about the marquee?” “That’s right, miss,” said the tallest of the men, a lanky, freckled fellow, and he shifted his tool-bag, knocked back his straw hat and smiled down at her. “That’s about it.” His smile was so easy, so friendly, that Laura recovered. What nice eyes he had, small, but such a dark blue! And now she looked at the others, they were smiling too. “Cheer up, we won’t bite,” their smile seemed to say. How very nice workmen were! And what a beautiful morning! She mustn’t mention the morning; she must be business-like. The marquee. “Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that do?” And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn’t hold the bread-and-butter. They turned, they stared in the direction. A little fat chap thrust out his under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned. “I don’t fancy it,” said he. “Not conspicuous enough. You see, with a thing like a marquee,” and he turned to Laura in his easy way, “you want to put it somewhere where it’ll give you a bang slap in the eye, if you follow me.” Laura’s upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it was quite respectful of a workman to talk to her of bangs slap in the eye. But she did quite follow him. “A corner of the tennis-court,” she suggested. “But the band’s going to be in one corner.” “H’m, going to have a band, are you?” said another of the workmen. He was pale. He had a haggard look as his dark eyes scanned the tennis-court. What was he thinking? “Only a very small band,” said Laura gently. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind so much if the band was quite small. But the tall fellow interrupted. “Look here, miss, that’s the place. Against those trees. Over there. That’ll do fine.” Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees would be hidden. And they were so lovely, with their broad, gleaming leaves, and their clusters of yellow fruit. They were like trees you imagined growing on a desert island, proud, solitary, lifting their leaves and fruits to the sun in a kind of silent splendour. Must they be hidden by a marquee? They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and were making for the place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a sprig of lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and snuffed up the smell. When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about the karakas in her wonder at him caring for things like that—caring for the smell of lavender. How many men that she knew would have done such a thing. Oh, how extraordinarily nice workmen were, she thought. Why couldn’t she have workmen for friends rather than the silly boys she danced with and who came to Sunday night supper? She would get on much better with men like these. It’s all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on the back of an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to hang, of these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part, she didn’t feel them. Not a bit, not an atom ... And now there came the chock-chock of wooden hammers. Some one whistled, some one sang out, “Are you right there, matey?” “Matey!” The friendliness of it, the—the ... Just to prove how happy she was, just to show the tall fellow how at home she felt, and how she despised stupid conventions, Laura took a big bite of her bread-andbutter as she stared at the little drawing. She felt just like a work-girl. “Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!” a voice cried from the house. “Coming!” Away she skimmed, over the lawn, up the path, up the steps, across the veranda, and into the porch. In the hall her father and Laurie were brushing their hats ready to go to the office. “I say, Laura,” said Laurie very fast, “you might just give a squiz at my coat before this afternoon. See if it wants pressing.” “I will,” said she. Suddenly she couldn’t stop herself. She ran at Laurie and gave him a small, quick squeeze. “Oh, I do love parties, don’t you?” gasped Laura. “Ra-ther,” said Laurie’s warm, boyish voice, and he squeezed his sister too, and gave her a gentle push. “Dash off to the telephone, old girl.” The telephone. “Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty? Good morning, dear. Come to lunch? Do, dear. Delighted of course. It will only be a very scratch meal—just the sandwich crusts and broken meringue-shells and what’s left over. Yes, isn’t it a perfect morning? Your white? Oh, I certainly should. One moment—hold the line. Mother’s calling.” And Laura sat back. “What, mother? Can’t hear.” Mrs Sheridan’s voice floated down the stairs. “Tell her to wear that sweet hat she had on last Sunday.” “Mother says you’re to wear that sweet hat you had on last Sunday. Good. One o’clock. Bye-bye.” Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over her head, took a deep breath, stretched and let them fall. “Huh,” she sighed, and the moment after the sigh she sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All the doors in the house seemed to be open. The house was alive with soft, quick steps and running voices. The green baize door that led to the kitchen regions swung open and shut with a muffled thud. And now there came a long, chuckling absurd sound. It was the heavy piano being moved on its stiff castors. But the air! If you stopped to notice, was the air always like this? Little faint winds were playing chase in at the tops of the windows, out at the doors. And there were two tiny spots of sun, one on the inkpot, one on a silver photograph frame, playing too. Darling little spots. Especially the one on the inkpot lid. It was quite warm. A warm little silver star. She could have kissed it. The front door bell pealed, and there sounded the rustle of Sadie’s print skirt on the stairs. A man’s voice murmured; Sadie answered, careless, “I’m sure I don’t know. Wait. I’ll ask Mrs Sheridan.” “What is it, Sadie?” Laura came into the hall. “It’s the florist, Miss Laura.” It was, indeed. There, just inside the door, stood a wide, shallow tray full of pots of pink lilies. No other kind. Nothing but lilies— canna lilies, big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly alive on bright crimson stems. “O-oh, Sadie!” said Laura, and the sound was like a little moan. She crouched down as if to warm herself at that blaze of lilies; she felt they were in her fingers, on her lips, growing in her breast. “It’s some mistake,” she said faintly. “Nobody ever ordered so many. Sadie, go and find mother!” But at that moment Mrs Sheridan joined them. “It’s quite right,” she said calmly. “Yes, I ordered them. Aren’t they lovely?” She pressed Laura’s arm. “I was passing the shop yesterday, and I saw them in the window. And I suddenly thought for once in my life I shall have enough canna lilies. The garden-party will be a good excuse.” “But I thought you said you didn’t mean to interfere,” said Laura. Sadie had gone. The florist’s man was still outside at his van. She put her arm round her mother’s neck and gently, very gently, she bit her mother’s ear. “My darling child, you wouldn’t like a logical mother, would you? Don’t do that. Here’s the man.” He carried more lilies still, another whole tray. “Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch, please,” said Mrs Sheridan. “Don’t you agree, Laura?” “Oh, I do, mother.” In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little Hans had at last succeeded in moving the piano. “Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall and move everything out of the room except the chairs, don’t you think?” “Quite.” “Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room, and bring a sweeper to take these marks off the carpet and—one moment, Hans!” Jose loved giving orders to the servants, and they loved obeying her. She always made them feel they were taking part in some drama. “Tell mother and Miss Laura to come here at once.” “Very good. Miss Jose.” She turned to Meg. “I want to hear what the piano sounds like, just in case I’m asked to sing this afternoon. Let’s try over ‘This life is Weary.’” Pom! Ta-ta-ta Tee-ta! The piano burst out so passionately that Jose’s face changed. She clasped her hands. She looked mournfully and enigmatically at her mother and Laura as they came in. This Life is Wee-ary, A Tear—a Sigh. A Love that Chan-ges, This Life is Wee-ary, A Tear—a Sigh. A Love that Chan-ges, And then ... Good-bye! But at the word “Good-bye,” and although the piano sounded more desperate than ever, her face broke into a brilliant, dreadfully unsympathetic smile. “Aren’t I in good voice, mummy?” she beamed. This Life is Wee-ary, Hope comes to Die. A Dream—a Wa-kening. But now Sadie interrupted them. “What is it, Sadie?” “If you please, m’m, cook says have you got the flags for the sandwiches?” “The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie?” echoed Mrs Sheridan dreamily. And the children knew by her face that she hadn’t got them. “Let me see.” And she said to Sadie firmly, “Tell cook I’ll let her have them in ten minutes.” Sadie went. “Now, Laura,” said her mother quickly, “come with me into the smoking-room. I’ve got the names somewhere on the back of an envelope. You’ll have to write them out for me. Meg, go upstairs this minute and take that wet thing off your head. Jose, run and finish dressing this instant! Do you hear me, children, or shall I have to tell your father when he comes home to-night? And— and, Jose, pacify cook if you do go into the kitchen, will you? I’m terrified of her this morning.” The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though how it had got there Mrs Sheridan could not imagine. “One of you children must have stolen it out of my bag, because I remember vividly cream-cheese and lemon-curd. Have you done that?” “Yes.” “Egg and ...” Mrs Sheridan held the envelope away from her. “It looks like mice. It can’t be mice, can it?” “Olive, pet,” said Laura, looking over her shoulder. “Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg and olive.” They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. She found Jose there pacifying the cook, who did not look at all terrifying. “I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches,” said Jose’s rapturous voice. “How many kinds did you say there were, cook? Fifteen?” “Fifteen, Miss Jose.” “Well, cook, I congratulate you.” Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife, and smiled broadly. “Godber’s has come,” announced Sadie, issuing out of the pantry. She had seen the man pass the window. That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber’s were famous for their cream puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home. “Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl,” ordered cook. Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course Laura and Jose were far too grown-up to really care about such things. All the same, they couldn’t help agreeing that the puffs looked very attractive. Very. Cook began arranging them, shaking off the extra icing sugar. “Don’t they carry one back to all one’s parties?” said Laura. “I suppose they do,” said practical Jose, who never liked to be carried back. “They look beautifully light and feathery, I must say.” “Have one each, my dears,” said cook in her comfortable voice. “Yer ma won’t know.” Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The very idea made one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura were licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only comes from whipped cream. “Let’s go into the garden, out by the back way,” suggested Laura. “I want to see how the men are getting on with the marquee. They’re such awfully nice men.” But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber’s man and Hans. Something had happened. “Tuk-tuk-tuk,” clucked cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her hand clapped to her cheek as though she had toothache. Hans’s face was screwed up in the effort to understand. Only Godber’s man seemed to be enjoying himself; it was his story. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?” “There’s been a horrible accident,” said cook. “A man killed.” “A man killed! Where? How? When?” But Godber’s man wasn’t going to have his story snatched from under his very nose. “Know those little cottages just below here, miss?” Know them? Of course, she knew them. “Well, there’s a young chap living there, name of Scott, a carter. His horse shied at a traction-engine, corner of Hawke Street this morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his head. Killed.” “Dead!” Laura stared at Godber’s man. “Dead when they picked him up,” said Godber’s man with relish. “They were taking the body home as I come up here.” And he said to the cook, “He’s left a wife and five little ones.” “Jose, come here.” Laura caught hold of her sister’s sleeve and dragged her through the kitchen to the other side of the green baize door. There she paused and leaned against it. “Jose!” she said, horrified, “however are we going to stop everything?” “Stop everything, Laura!” cried Jose in astonishment. “What do you mean?” “Stop the garden-party, of course.” Why did Jose pretend? But Jose was still more amazed. “Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura, don’t be so absurd. Of course we can’t do anything of the kind. Nobody expects us to. Don’t be so extravagant.” “But we can’t possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outside the front gate.” That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane to themselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house. A broad road ran between. True, they were far too near. They were the greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in that neighbourhood at all. They were little mean dwellings painted a chocolate brown. In the garden patches there was nothing but cabbage stalks, sick hens and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of their chimneys was poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds of smoke, so unlike the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridans’ chimneys. Washerwomen lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and a man whose house-front was studded all over with minute bird-cages. Children swarmed. When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden to set foot there because of the revolting language and of what they might catch. But since they were grown up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls sometimes walked through. It was disgusting and sordid. They came out with a shudder. But still one must go everywhere; one must see everything. So through they went. “And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman,” said Laura. “Oh, Laura!” Jose began to be seriously annoyed. “If you’re going to stop a band playing every time some one has an accident, you’ll lead a very strenuous life. I’m every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel just as sympathetic.” Her eyes hardened. She looked at her sister just as she used to when they were little and fighting together. “You won’t bring a drunken workman back to life by being sentimental,” she said softly. “Drunk! Who said he was drunk?” Laura turned furiously on Jose. She said just as they had used to say on those occasions, “I’m going straight up to tell mother.” “Do, dear,” cooed Jose. “Mother, can I come into your room?” Laura turned the big glass door-knob. “Of course, child. Why, what’s the matter? What’s given you such a colour?” And Mrs Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table. She was trying on a new hat. “Mother, a man’s been killed,” began Laura. “Not in the garden?” interrupted her mother. “No, no!” “Oh, what a fright you gave me!” Mrs Sheridan sighed with relief, and took off the big hat and held it on her knees. “But listen, mother,” said Laura. Breathless, half-choking, she told the dreadful story. “Of course, we can’t have our party, can we?” she pleaded. “The band and everybody arriving. They’d hear us, mother; they’re nearly neighbours!” To Laura’s astonishment her mother behaved just like Jose; it was harder to bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura seriously. “But, my dear child, use your common sense. It’s only by accident we’ve heard of it. If some one had died there normally— and I can’t understand how they keep alive in those poky little holes—we should still be having our party, shouldn’t we?” Laura had to say “yes” to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She sat down on her mother’s sofa and pinched the cushion frill. “Mother, isn’t it really terribly heartless of us?” she asked. “Darling!” Mrs Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat. Before Laura could stop her she had popped it on. “My child!” said her mother, “the hat is yours. It’s made for you. It’s much too young for me. I have never seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself!” And she held up her hand-mirror. “But, mother,” Laura began again. She couldn’t look at herself; she turned aside. This time Mrs Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done. “You are being very absurd, Laura,” she said coldly. “People like that don’t expect sacrifices from us. And it’s not very sympathetic to spoil everybody’s enjoyment as you’re doing now.” “I don’t understand,” said Laura, and she walked quickly out of the room into her own bedroom. There, quite by chance, the first thing she saw was this charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat trimmed with gold daisies, and a long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined she could look like that. Is mother right? she thought. And now she hoped her mother was right. Am I being extravagant? Perhaps it was extravagant. Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor woman and those little children, and the body being carried into the house. But it all seemed blurred, unreal, like a picture in the newspaper. I’ll remember it again after the party’s over, she decided. And somehow that seemed quite the best plan ... Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past two they were all ready for the fray. The green-coated band had arrived and was established in a corner of the tennis-court. “My dear!” trilled Kitty Maitland, “aren’t they too like frogs for words? You ought to have arranged them round the pond with the conductor in the middle on a leaf.” Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to dress. At the sight of him Laura remembered the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If Laurie agreed with the others, then it was bound to be all right. And she followed him into the hall. “Laurie!” “Hallo!” He was half-way upstairs, but when he turned round and saw Laura he suddenly puffed out his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her. “My word, Laura! You do look stunning,” said Laurie. “What an absolutely topping hat!” Laura said faintly “Is it?” and smiled up at Laurie, and didn’t tell him after all. Soon after that people began coming in streams. The band struck up; the hired waiters ran from the house to the marquee. Wherever you looked there were couples strolling, bending to the flowers, greeting, moving on over the lawn. They were like bright birds that had alighted in the Sheridans’ garden for this one afternoon, on their way to—where? Ah, what happiness it is to be with people who all are happy, to press hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes. “Darling Laura, how well you look!” “What a becoming hat, child!” “Laura, you look quite Spanish. I’ve never seen you look so striking.” And Laura, glowing, answered softly, “Have you had tea? Won’t you have an ice? The passion-fruit ices really are rather special.” She ran to her father and begged him. “Daddy darling, can’t the band have something to drink?” And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly its petals closed. “Never a more delightful garden-party ...” — “The greatest success ...” — “Quite the most ...” Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by side in the porch till it was all over. “All over, all over, thank heaven,“ said Mrs Sheridan. “Round up the others, Laura. Let’s go and have some fresh coffee. I’m exhausted. Yes, it’s been very successful. But oh, these parties, these parties! Why will you children insist on giving parties!” And they all of them sat down in the deserted marquee. “Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the flag.” “Thanks.” Mr Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He took another. “I suppose you didn’t hear of a beastly accident that happened to-day?” he said. “My dear,” said Mrs Sheridan, holding up her hand, “we did. It nearly ruined the party. Laura insisted we should put it off.” “Oh, mother!” Laura didn’t want to be teased about it. “It was a horrible affair all the same,” said Mr Sheridan. “The chap was married too. Lived just below in the lane, and leaves a wife and half a dozen kiddies, so they say.” An awkward little silence fell. Mrs Sheridan fidgeted with her cup. Really, it was very tactless of father ... Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches, cakes, puffs, all uneaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of her brilliant ideas. “I know,” she said. “Let’s make up a basket. Let’s send that poor creature some of this perfectly good food. At any rate, it will be the greatest treat for the children. Don’t you agree? And she’s sure to have neighbours calling in and so on. What a point to have it all ready prepared. Laura!” She jumped up. “Get me the big basket out of the stairs cupboard.” “But, mother, do you really think it’s a good idea?” said Laura. Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all. To take scraps from their party. Would the poor woman really like that? “Of course! What’s the matter with you to-day? An hour or two ago you were insisting on us being sympathetic, and now ...” Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by her mother. “Take it yourself, darling,” said she. “Run down just as you are. No, wait, take the arum lilies too. People of that class are so impressed by arum lilies.” “The stems will ruin her lace frock,” said practical Jose. So they would. Just in time. “Only the basket, then. And, Laura!”—her mother followed her out of the marquee—“don’t on any account!” “What mother?” No, better not put such ideas into the child’s head! “Nothing! Run along.” It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dog ran by like a shadow. The road gleamed white, and down below in the hollow the little cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed after the afternoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere where a man lay dead, and she couldn’t realize it. Why couldn’t she? She stopped a minute. And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her. She had no room for anything else. How strange! She looked up at the pale sky, and all she thought was, “Yes, it was the most successful party.” Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began, smoky and dark. Women in shawls and men’s tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings; the children played in the doorways. A low hum came from the mean little cottages. In some of them there was a flicker of light, and a shadow, crab-like, moved across the window. Laura bent her head and hurried on. She wished now she had put on a coat. How her frock shone! And the big hat with the velvet streamer—if only it was another hat! Were the people looking at her? They must be. It was a mistake to have come; she knew all along it was a mistake. Should she go back even now? No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A dark knot of people stood outside. Beside the gate an old, old woman with a crutch sat in a chair, watching. She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices stopped as Laura drew near. The group parted. It was as though she was expected, as though they had known she was coming here. Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet ribbon over her shoulder, she said to a woman standing by, “Is this Mrs Scott’s house?” and the woman, smiling queerly, said, “It is, my lass.” Oh, to be away from this! She actually said, “Help me, God,” as she walked up the tiny path and knocked. To be away from those staring eyes, or to be covered up in anything, one of those women’s shawls even. I’ll just leave the basket and go, she decided. I shan’t even wait for it to be emptied. Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom. Laura said, “Are you Mrs Scott?” But to her horror the woman answered, “Walk in, please, miss,” and she was shut in the passage. “No,” said Laura, “I don’t want to come in. I only want to leave this basket. Mother sent ...” The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed not to have heard her. “Step this way, please, miss,” she said in an oily voice, and Laura followed her. She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a smoky lamp. There was a woman sitting before the fire. “Em,” said the little creature who had let her in. “Em! It’s a young lady.” She turned to Laura. She said meaningly, “I’m ’er sister, miss. You’ll excuse ’er, won’t you?” “Oh, but of course!” said Laura. “Please, please don’t disturb her. I—I only want to leave.” But at that moment the woman at the fire turned round. Her face, puffed up, red, with swollen eyes and swollen lips, looked terrible. She seemed as though she couldn’t understand why Laura was there. What did it mean? Why was this stranger standing in the kitchen with a basket? What was it all about? And the poor face puckered up again. “All right, my dear,” said the other. “I’ll thenk the young lady.” And again she began, “You’ll excuse her, miss, I’m sure,” and her face, swollen too, tried an oily smile. Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She was back in the passage. The door opened. She walked straight through into the bedroom, where the dead man was lying. “You’d like a look at ’im, wouldn’t you?” said Em’s sister, and she brushed past Laura over to the bed. “Don’t be afraid, my lass,— and now her voice sounded fond and sly, and fondly she drew down the sheet—“ ’e looks a picture. There’s nothing to show. Come along, my dear.” Laura came. There lay a young man, fast asleep—sleeping so soundly, so deeply, that he was far, far away from them both. Oh, so remote, so peaceful. He was dreaming. Never wake him up again. His head was sunk in the pillow, his eyes were closed; they were blind under the closed eyelids. He was given up to his dream. What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him? He was far from all those things. He was wonderful, beautiful. While they were laughing and while the band was playing, this marvel had come to the lane. Happy ... happy ... All is well, said that sleeping face. This is just as it should be. I am content. But all the same you had to cry, and she couldn’t go out of the room without saying something to him. Laura gave a loud childish sob. “Forgive my hat,” she said. And this time she didn’t wait for Em’s sister. She found her way out of the door, down the path, past all those dark people. At the corner of the lane she met Laurie. He stepped out of the shadow. “Is that you, Laura?” “Yes.” “Mother was getting anxious. Was it all right?” “Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!” She took his arm, she pressed up against him. “I say, you’re not crying, are you?” asked her brother. Laura shook her head. She was. Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. “Don’t cry,” he said in his warm, loving voice. “Was it awful?” “No,” sobbed Laura. “It was simply marvellous. But, Laurie ...” She stopped, she looked at her brother. “Isn’t life,” she stammered, “isn’t life ...” But what life was she couldn’t explain. No matter. He quite understood. “Isn’t it, darling?” said Laurie. The Daughters of the Late Colonel I The week after was one of the busiest weeks of their lives. Even when they went to bed it was only their bodies that lay down and rested; their minds went on, thinking things out, talking things over, wondering, deciding, trying to remember where ... Constantia lay like a statue, her hands by her sides, her feet just overlapping each other, the sheet up to her chin. She stared at the ceiling. “Do you think father would mind if we gave his top-hat to the porter?” “The porter?” snapped Josephine. “Why ever the porter? What a very extraordinary idea!” “Because,” said Constantia slowly, “he must often have to go to funerals. And I noticed at—at the cemetery that he only had a bowler.” She paused. “I thought then how very much he’d appreciate a top-hat. We ought to give him a present, too. He was always very nice to father.” “But,” cried Josephine, flouncing on her pillow and staring across the dark at Constantia, “father’s head!” And suddenly, for one awful moment, she nearly giggled. Not, of course, that she felt in the least like giggling. It must have been habit. Years ago, when they had stayed awake at night talking, their beds had simply heaved. And now the porter’s head, disappearing, popped out, like a candle, under father’s hat ... The giggle mounted, mounted; she clenched her hands; she fought it down; she frowned fiercely at the dark and said “Remember” terribly sternly. “We can decide to-morrow,” she said. Constantia had noticed nothing; she sighed. “Do you think we ought to have our dressing-gowns dyed as well?” “Black?” almost shrieked Josephine. “Well, what else?” said Constantia. “I was thinking—it doesn’t seem quite sincere, in a way, to wear black out of doors and when we’re fully dressed, and then when we’re at home.” “But nobody sees us,” said Josephine. She gave the bedclothes such a twitch that both her feet became uncovered, and she had to creep up the pillows to get them well under again. “Kate does,” said Constantia. “And the postman very well might.” Josephine thought of her dark-red slippers, which matched her dressing-gown, and of Constantia’s favourite indefinite green ones which went with hers. Black! Two black dressing-gowns and two pairs of black woolly slippers, creeping off to the bath-room like black cats. “I don’t think it’s absolutely necessary,” said she. Silence. Then Constantia said, “We shall have to post the papers with the notice in them to-morrow to catch the Ceylon mail ... How many letters have we had up till now?” “Twenty-three.” Josephine had replied to them all, and twenty-three times when she came to “We miss our dear father so much” she had broken down and had to use her handkerchief, and on some of them even to soak up a very light-blue tear with an edge of blotting-paper. Strange! She couldn’t have put it on—but twenty-three times. Even now, though, when she said over to herself sadly “We miss our dear father so much,” she could have cried if she’d wanted to. “Have you got enough stamps?” came from Constantia. “Oh, how can I tell?” said Josephine crossly. “What’s the good of asking me that now?” “I was just wondering,” said Constantia mildly. Silence again. There came a little rustle, a scurry, a hop. “A mouse,” said Constantia. “It can’t be a mouse because there aren’t any crumbs,” said Josephine. “But it doesn’t know there aren’t,” said Constantia. A spasm of pity squeezed her heart. Poor little thing! She wished she’d left a tiny piece of biscuit on the dressing-table. It was awful to think of it not finding anything. What would it do? “I can’t think how they manage to live at all,” she said slowly. “Who?” demanded Josephine. And Constantia said more loudly than she meant to, “Mice.” Josephine was furious. “Oh, what nonsense, Con!” she said. “What have mice got to do with it? You’re asleep.” “I don’t think I am,” said Constantia. She shut her eyes to make sure. She was. Josephine arched her spine, pulled up her knees, folded her arms so that her fists came under her ears, and pressed her cheek hard against the pillow. II Another thing which complicated matters was they had Nurse Andrews staying on with them that week. It was their own fault; they had asked her. It was Josephine’s idea. On the morning—well, on the last morning, when the doctor had gone, Josephine had said to Constantia, “Don’t you think it would be rather nice if we asked Nurse Andrews to stay on for a week as our guest?” “Very nice,” said Constantia. “I thought,” went on Josephine quickly, “I should just say this afternoon, after I’ve paid her, ‘My sister and I would be very pleased, after all you’ve done for us, Nurse Andrews, if you would stay on for a week as our guest.’ I’d have to put that in about being our guest in case ...” “Oh, but she could hardly expect to be paid!” cried Constantia. “One never knows,” said Josephine sagely. Nurse Andrews had, of course, jumped at the idea. But it was a bother. It meant they had to have regular sit-down meals at the proper times, whereas if they’d been alone they could just have asked Kate if she wouldn’t have minded bringing them a tray wherever they were. And mealtimes now that the strain was over were rather a trial. Nurse Andrews was simply fearful about butter. Really they couldn’t help feeling that about butter, at least, she took advantage of their kindness. And she had that maddening habit of asking for just an inch more bread to finish what she had on her plate, and then, at the last mouthful, absent-mindedly—of course it wasn’t absent-mindedly—taking another helping. Josephine got very red when this happened, and she fastened her small, bead-like eyes on the tablecloth as if she saw a minute strange insect creeping through the web of it. But Constantia’s long, pale face lengthened and set, and she gazed away—away—far over the desert, to where that line of camels unwound like a thread of wool ... “When I was with Lady Tukes,” said Nurse Andrews, “she had such a dainty little contrayvance for the buttah. It was a silvah Cupid balanced on the—on the bordah of a glass dish, holding a tayny fork. And when you wanted some buttah you simply pressed his foot and he bent down and speared you a piece. It was quite a gayme.” Josephine could hardly bear that. But “I think those things are very extravagant” was all she said. “But whey?” asked Nurse Andrews, beaming through her eyeglasses. “No one, surely, would take more buttah than one wanted—would one?” “Ring, Con,” cried Josephine. She couldn’t trust herself to reply. And proud young Kate, the enchanted princess, came in to see what the old tabbies wanted now. She snatched away their plates of mock something or other and slapped down a white, terrified blancmange. “Jam, please, Kate,” said Josephine kindly. Kate knelt and burst open the sideboard, lifted the lid of the jampot, saw it was empty, put it on the table, and stalked off. “I’m afraid,” said Nurse Andrews a moment later, “there isn’t any.” “Oh, what a bother!” said Josephine. She bit her lip. “What had we better do?” Constantia looked dubious. “We can’t disturb Kate again,” she said softly. Nurse Andrews waited, smiling at them both. Her eyes wandered, spying at everything behind her eye-glasses. Constantia in despair went back to her camels. Josephine frowned heavily—concentrated. If it hadn’t been for this idiotic woman she and Con would, of course, have eaten their blancmange without. Suddenly the idea came. “I know,” she said. “Marmalade. There’s some marmalade in the sideboard. Get it, Con.” “I hope,” laughed Nurse Andrews, and her laugh was like a spoon tinkling against a medicine-glass—“I hope it’s not very bittah marmalayde.” III But, after all, it was not long now, and then she’d be gone for good. And there was no getting over the fact that she had been very kind to father. She had nursed him day and night at the end. Indeed, both Constantia and Josephine felt privately she had rather overdone the not leaving him at the very last. For when they had gone in to say good-bye Nurse Andrews had sat beside his bed the whole time, holding his wrist and pretending to look at her watch. It couldn’t have been necessary. It was so tactless, too. Supposing father had wanted to say something—something private to them. Not that he had. Oh, far from it! He lay there, purple, a dark, angry purple in the face, and never even looked at them when they came in. Then, as they were standing there, wondering what to do, he had suddenly opened one eye. Oh, what a difference it would have made, what a difference to their memory of him, how much easier to tell people about it, if he had only opened both! But no—one eye only. It glared at them a moment and then ... went out. IV It had made it very awkward for them when Mr Farolles, of St. John’s, called the same afternoon. “The end was quite peaceful, I trust?” were the first words he said as he glided towards them through the dark drawing-room. “Quite,” said Josephine faintly. They both hung their heads. Both of them felt certain that eye wasn’t at all a peaceful eye. “Won’t you sit down?” said Josephine. “Thank you, Miss Pinner,” said Mr Farolles gratefully. He folded his coat-tails and began to lower himself into father’s arm-chair, but just as he touched it he almost sprang up and slid into the next chair instead. He coughed. Josephine clasped her hands; Constantia looked vague. “I want you to feel, Miss Pinner,” said Mr Farolles, “and you. Miss Constantia, that I’m trying to be helpful. I want to be helpful to you both, if you will let me. These are the times,” said Mr Farolles, very simply and earnestly, “when God means us to be helpful to one another.” “Thank you very much, Mr Farolles,” said Josephine and Constantia. “Not at all,” said Mr Farolles gently. He drew his kid gloves through his fingers and leaned forward. “And if either of you would like a little Communion, either or both of you, here and now, you have only to tell me. A little Communion is often very help—a great comfort,” he added tenderly. But the idea of a little Communion terrified them. What! In the drawing-room by themselves—with no—no altar or anything! The piano would be much too high, thought Constantia, and Mr Farolles could not possibly lean over it with the chalice. And Kate would be sure to come bursting in and interrupt them, thought Josephine. And supposing the bell rang in the middle? It might be somebody important—about their mourning. Would they get up reverently and go out, or would they have to wait ... in torture? “Perhaps you will send round a note by your good Kate if you would care for it later,” said Mr Farolles. “Oh yes, thank you very much!” they both said. Mr Farolles got up and took his black straw hat from the round table. “And about the funeral,” he said softly. “I may arrange that—as your dear father’s old friend and yours. Miss Pinner—and Miss Constantia?” Josephine and Constantia got up too. “I should like it to be quite simple,” said Josephine firmly, “and not too expensive. At the same time, I should like ...” “A good one that will last,” thought dreamy Constantia, as if Josephine were buying a nightgown. But of course Josephine didn’t say that. “One suitable to our father’s position.” She was very nervous. “I’ll run round to our good friend Mr Knight,” said Mr Farolles soothingly. “I will ask him to come and see you. I am sure you will find him very helpful indeed.” V Well, at any rate, all that part of it was over, though neither of them could possibly believe that father was never coming back. Josephine had had a moment of absolute terror at the cemetery, while the coffin was lowered, to think that she and Constantia had done this thing without asking his permission. What would father say when he found out? For he was bound to find out sooner or later. He always did. “Buried. You two girls had me buried!” She heard his stick thumping. Oh, what would they say? What possible excuse could they make? It sounded such an appallingly heartless thing to do. Such a wicked advantage to take of a person because he happened to be helpless at the moment. The other people seemed to treat it all as a matter of course. They were strangers; they couldn’t be expected to understand that father was the very last person for such a thing to happen to. No, the entire blame for it all would fall on her and Constantia. And the expense, she thought, stepping into the tight-buttoned cab. When she had to show him the bills. What would he say then? She heard him absolutely roaring, “And do you expect me to pay for this gimcrack excursion of yours?” “Oh,” groaned poor Josephine aloud, “we shouldn’t have done it, Con!” And Constantia, pale as a lemon in all that blackness, said in a frightened whisper, “Done what, Jug?” “Let them bu-bury father like that,” said Josephine, breaking down and crying into her new, queer-smelling mourning handkerchief. “But what else could we have done?” asked Constantia wonderingly. “We couldn’t have kept him, Jug—we couldn’t have kept him unburied. At any rate, not in a flat that size.” Josephine blew her nose; the cab was dreadfully stuffy. “I don’t know,” she said forlornly. “It is all so dreadful. I feel we ought to have tried to, just for a time at least. To make perfectly sure. One thing’s certain”—and her tears sprang out again—“father will never forgive us for this—never!” VI Father would never forgive them. That was what they felt more than ever when, two mornings later, they went into his room to go through his things. They had discussed it quite calmly. It was even down on Josephine’s list of things to be done. Go through father’s things and settle about them. But that was a very different matter from saying after breakfast: “Well, are you ready, Con?” “Yes, Jug—when you are.” “Then I think we’d better get it over.” It was dark in the hall. It had been a rule for years never to disturb father in the morning, whatever happened. And now they were going to open the door without knocking even ... Constantia’s eyes were enormous at the idea; Josephine felt weak in the knees. “You—you go first,” she gasped, pushing Constantia. But Constantia said, as she always had said on those occasions, “No, Jug, that’s not fair. You’re eldest.” Josephine was just going to say—what at other times she wouldn’t have owned to for the world—what she kept for her very last weapon, “But you’re tallest,” when they noticed that the kitchen door was open, and there stood Kate ... “Very stiff,” said Josephine, grasping the door-handle and doing her best to turn it. As if anything ever deceived Kate! It couldn’t be helped. That girl was ... Then the door was shut behind them, but—but they weren’t in father’s room at all. They might have suddenly walked through the wall by mistake into a different flat altogether. Was the door just behind them? They were too frightened to look. Josephine knew that if it was it was holding itself tight shut; Constantia felt that, like the doors in dreams, it hadn’t any handle at all. It was the coldness which made it so awful. Or the whiteness—which? Everything was covered. The blinds were down, a cloth hung over the mirror, a sheet hid the bed; a huge fan of white paper filled the fire-place. Constantia timidly put out her hand; she almost expected a snowflake to fall. Josephine felt a queer tingling in her nose, as if her nose was freezing. Then a cab klop-klopped over the cobbles below, and the quiet seemed to shake into little pieces. “I had better pull up a blind,” said Josephine bravely. “Yes, it might be a good idea,” whispered Constantia. They only gave the blind a touch, but it flew up and the cord flew after, rolling round the blind-stick, and the little tassel tapped as if trying to get free. That was too much for Constantia. “Don’t you think—don’t you think we might put it off for another day?” she whispered. “Why?” snapped Josephine, feeling, as usual, much better now that she knew for certain that Constantia was terrified. “It’s got to be done. But I do wish you wouldn’t whisper, Con.” “I didn’t know I was whispering,” whispered Constantia. “And why do you keep on staring at the bed?” said Josephine, raising her voice almost defiantly. “There’s nothing on the bed.” “Oh, Jug, don’t say so!” said poor Connie. “At any rate, not so loudly.” Josephine felt herself that she had gone too far. She took a wide swerve over to the chest of drawers, put out her hand, but quickly drew it back again. “Connie!” she gasped, and she wheeled round and leaned with her back against the chest of drawers. “Oh, Jug—what?” Josephine could only glare. She had the most extraordinary feeling that she had just escaped something simply awful. But how could she explain to Constantia that father was in the chest of drawers? He was in the top drawer with his handkerchiefs and neck-ties, or in the next with his shirts and pyjamas, or in the lowest of all with his suits. He was watching there, hidden away—just behind the door-handle—ready to spring. She pulled a funny old-fashioned face at Constantia, just as she used to in the old days when she was going to cry. “I can’t open,” she nearly wailed. “No, don’t, Jug,” whispered Constantia earnestly. “It’s much better not to. Don’t let’s open anything. At any rate, not for a long time.” “But—but it seems so weak,” said Josephine, breaking down. “But why not be weak for once, Jug?” argued Constantia, whispering quite fiercely. “If it is weak.” And her pale stare flew from the locked writing-table—so safe—to the huge glittering wardrobe, and she began to breathe in a queer, panting way. “Why shouldn’t we be weak for once in our lives, Jug? It’s quite excusable. Let’s be weak—be weak, Jug. It’s much nicer to be weak than to be strong.” And then she did one of those amazingly bold things that she’d done about twice before in their lives; she marched over to the wardrobe, turned the key, and took it out of the lock. Took it out of the lock and held it up to Josephine, showing Josephine by her extraordinary smile that she knew what she’d done, she’d risked deliberately father being in there among his overcoats. If the huge wardrobe had lurched forward, had crashed down on Constantia, Josephine wouldn’t have been surprised. On the contrary, she would have thought it the only suitable thing to happen. But nothing happened. Only the room seemed quieter than ever, and bigger flakes of cold air fell on Josephine’s shoulders and knees. She began to shiver. “Come, Jug,” said Constantia, still with that awful callous smile, and Josephine followed just as she had that last time, when Constantia had pushed Benny into the round pond. VII But the strain told on them when they were back in the diningroom. They sat down, very shaky, and looked at each other. “I don’t feel I can settle to anything,” said Josephine, “until I’ve had something. Do you think we could ask Kate for two cups of hot water?” “I really don’t see why we shouldn’t,” said Constantia carefully. She was quite normal again. “I won’t ring. I’ll go to the kitchen door and ask her.” “Yes, do,” said Josephine, sinking down into a chair. “Tell her, just two cups, Con, nothing else—on a tray.” “She needn’t even put the jug on, need she?” said Constantia, as though Kate might very well complain if the jug had been there. “Oh no, certainly not! The jug’s not at all necessary. She can pour it direct out of the kettle,” cried Josephine, feeling that would be a labour-saving indeed. Their cold lips quivered at the greenish brims. Josephine curved her small red hands round the cup; Constantia sat up and blew on the wavy steam, making it flutter from one side to the other. “Speaking of Benny,” said Josephine. And though Benny hadn’t been mentioned Constantia immediately looked as though he had. “He’ll expect us to send him something of father’s, of course. But it’s so difficult to know what to send to Ceylon.” “You mean things get unstuck so on the voyage,” murmured Constantia. “No, lost,” said Josephine sharply. “You know there’s no post. Only runners.” Both paused to watch a black man in white linen drawers running through the pale fields for dear life, with a large brown-paper parcel in his hands. Josephine’s black man was tiny; he scurried along glistening like an ant. But there was something blind and tireless about Constantia’s tall, thin fellow, which made him, she decided, a very unpleasant person indeed ... On the veranda, dressed all in white and wearing a cork helmet, stood Benny. His right hand shook up and down, as father’s did when he was impatient. And behind him, not in the least interested, sat Hilda, the unknown sister-in-law. She swung in a cane rocker and flicked over the leaves of the Tatler. “I think his watch would be the most suitable present,” said Josephine. Constantia looked up; she seemed surprised. “Oh, would you trust a gold watch to a native?” “But of course I’d disguise it,” said Josephine. “No one would know it was a watch.” She liked the idea of having to make a parcel such a curious shape that no one could possibly guess what it was. She even thought for a moment of hiding the watch in a narrow cardboard corset-box that she’d kept by her for a long time, waiting for it to come in for something. It was such beautiful firm cardboard. But, no, it wouldn’t be appropriate for this occasion. It had lettering on it: Medium Women’s 28. Extra Firm Busks. It would be almost too much of a surprise for Benny to open that and find father’s watch inside. “And of course it isn’t as though it would be going—ticking, I mean,” said Constantia, who was still thinking of the native love of jewellery. “At least,” she added, “it would be very strange if after all that time it was.” VIII Josephine made no reply. She had flown off on one of her tangents. She had suddenly thought of Cyril. Wasn’t it more usual for the only grandson to have the watch? And then dear Cyril was so appreciative, and a gold watch meant so much to a young man. Benny, in all probability, had quite got out of the habit of watches; men so seldom wore waistcoats in those hot climates. Whereas Cyril in London wore them from year’s end to year’s end. And it would be so nice for her and Constantia, when he came to tea, to know it was there. “I see you’ve got on grandfather’s watch, Cyril.” It would be somehow so satisfactory. Dear boy! What a blow his sweet, sympathetic little note had been! Of course they quite understood; but it was most unfortunate. “It would have been such a point, having him,” said Josephine. “And he would have enjoyed it so,” said Constantia, not thinking what she was saying. However, as soon as he got back he was coming to tea with his aunties. Cyril to tea was one of their rare treats. “Now, Cyril, you mustn’t be frightened of our cakes. Your Auntie Con and I bought them at Buszard’s this morning. We know what a man’s appetite is. So don’t be ashamed of making a good tea.” Josephine cut recklessly into the rich dark cake that stood for her winter gloves or the soling and heeling of Constantia’s only respectable shoes. But Cyril was most unmanlike in appetite. “I say, Aunt Josephine, I simply can’t. I’ve only just had lunch, you know.” “Oh, Cyril, that can’t be true! It’s after four,” cried Josephine. Constantia sat with her knife poised over the chocolate-roll. “It is, all the same,” said Cyril. “I had to meet a man at Victoria, and he kept me hanging about till ... there was only time to get lunch and to come on here. And he gave me—phew”—Cyril put his hand to his forehead—“a terrific blow-out,” he said. It was disappointing—to-day of all days. But still he couldn’t be expected to know. “But you’ll have a meringue, won’t you, Cyril?” said Aunt Josephine. “These meringues were bought specially for you. Your dear father was so fond of them. We were sure you are, too.” “I am, Aunt Josephine,” cried Cyril ardently. “Do you mind if I take half to begin with?” “Not at all, dear boy; but we mustn’t let you off with that.” “Is your dear father still so fond of meringues?” asked Auntie Con gently. She winced faintly as she broke through the shell of hers. “Well, I don’t quite know, Auntie Con,” said Cyril breezily. At that they both looked up. “Don’t know?” almost snapped Josephine. “Don’t know a thing like that about your own father, Cyril?” “Surely,” said Auntie Con softly. Cyril tried to laugh it off. “Oh, well,” he said, “it’s such a long time since——” He faltered. He stopped. Their faces were too much for him. “Even so,” said Josephine. And Auntie Con looked. Cyril put down his teacup. “Wait a bit,” he cried. “Wait a bit, Aunt Josephine. What am I thinking of?” He looked up. They were beginning to brighten. Cyril slapped his knee. “Of course,” he said, “it was meringues. How could I have forgotten? Yes, Aunt Josephine, you’re perfectly right. Father’s most frightfully keen on meringues.” They didn’t only beam. Aunt Josephine went scarlet with pleasure; Auntie Con gave a deep, deep sigh. “And now, Cyril, you must come and see father,” said Josephine. “He knows you were coming to-day.” “Right,” said Cyril, very firmly and heartily. He got up from his chair; suddenly he glanced at the clock. “I say, Auntie Con, isn’t your clock a bit slow? I’ve got to meet a man at—at Paddington just after five. I’m afraid I shan’t be able to stay very long with grandfather.” “Qh, he won’t expect you to stay very long!” said Aunt Josephine. Constantia was still gazing at the clock. She couldn’t make up her mind if it was fast or slow. It was one or the other, she felt almost certain of that. At any rate, it had been. Cyril still lingered. “Aren’t you coming along, Auntie Con?” “Of course,” said Josephine, “we shall all go. Come on, Con.” IX They knocked at the door, and Cyril followed his aunts into grandfather’s hot, sweetish room. “Come on,” said Grandfather Pinner. Don’t hang about. What is it? What’ve you been up to?” He was sitting in front of a roaring fire, clasping his stick. He had a thick rug over his knees. On his lap there lay a beautiful pale yellow silk handkerchief. “It’s Cyril, father,” said Josephine shyly. And she took Cyril’s hand and led him forward. “Good afternoon, grandfather,” said Cyril, trying to take his hand out of Aunt Josephine’s. Grandfather Pinner shot his eyes at Cyril in the way he was famous for. Where was Auntie Con? She stood on the other side of Aunt Josephine; her long arms hung down in front of her; her hands were clasped. She never took her eyes off grandfather. “Well,” said Grandfather Pinner, beginning to thump, “what have you got to tell me?” What had he, what had he got to tell him? Cyril felt himself smiling like a perfect imbecile. The room was stifling, too. But Aunt Josephine came to his rescue. She cried brightly, “Cyril says his father is still very fond of meringues, father dear.” “Eh?” said Grandfather Pinner, curving his hand like a purple meringue-shell over one ear. Josephine repeated, “Cyril says his father is still very fond of meringues.” “Can’t hear,” said old Colonel Pinner. And he waved Josephine away with his stick, then pointed with his stick to Cyril. “Tell me what she’s trying to say,” he said. (My God!) “Must I?” said Cyril, blushing and staring at Aunt Josephine. “Do, dear,” she smiled. “It will please him so much.” “Come on, out with it!” cried Colonel Pinner testily, beginning to thump again. And Cyril leaned forward and yelled, “Father’s still very fond of meringues.” At that Grandfather Pinner jumped as though he had been shot. “Don’t shout!” he cried. “What’s the matter with the boy? Meringues! What about ’em?” “Oh, Aunt Josephine, must we go on?” groaned Cyril desperately. “It’s quite all right, dear boy,” said Aunt Josephine, as though he and she were at the dentist’s together. “‘He’ll understand in a minute.” And she whispered to Cyril, “He’s getting a bit deaf, you know.” Then she leaned forward and really bawled at Grandfather Pinner, “Cyril only wanted to tell you, father dear, that his father is still very fond of meringues.” Colonel Pinner heard that time, heard and brooded, looking Cyril up and down. “What an esstrordinary thing!” said old Grandfather Pinner. “What an esstrordinary thing to come all this way here to tell me!” And Cyril felt it was. “Yes, I shall send Cyril the watch,” said Josephine. “That would be very nice,” said Constantia. “I seem to remember last time he came there was some little trouble about the time.” X They were interrupted by Kate bursting through the door in her usual fashion, as though she had discovered some secret panel in the wall. “Fried or boiled?” asked the bold voice. Fried or boiled? Josephine and Constantia were quite bewildered for the moment. They could hardly take it in. “Fried or boiled what, Kate?” asked Josephine, trying to begin to concentrate. Kate gave a loud sniff. “Fish.” “Well, why didn’t you say so immediately?” Josephine reproached her gently. “How could you expect us to understand, Kate? There are a great many things in this world, you know, which are fried or boiled.” And after such a display of courage she said quite brightly to Constantia, “Which do you prefer, Con?” “I think it might be nice to have it fried,” said Constantia. “On the other hand, of course boiled fish is very nice. I think I prefer both equally well ... Unless you ... In that case——” “I shall fry it,” said Kate, and she bounced back, leaving their door open and slamming the door of her kitchen. Josephine gazed at Constantia; she raised her pale eyebrows until they rippled away into her pale hair. She got up. She said in a very lofty, imposing way, “Do you mind following me into the drawing-room, Constantia? I’ve something of great importance to discuss with you.” For it was always to the drawing-room they retired when they wanted to talk over Kate. Josephine closed the door meaningly. “Sit down, Constantia,” she said, still very grand. She might have been receiving Constantia for the first time. And Con looked round vaguely for a chair, as though she felt indeed quite a stranger. “Now the question is,” said Josephine, bending forward, “whether we shall keep her or not.” “That is the question,” agreed Constantia. “And this time,” said Josephine firmly, “we must come to a definite decision.” Constantia looked for a moment as though she might begin going over all the other times, but she pulled herself together and said, “Yes, Jug.” “You see, Con,” explained Josephine, “everything is so changed now.” Constantia looked up quickly. “I mean,” went on Josephine, “we’re not dependent on Kate as we were.” And she blushed faintly. “There’s not father to cook for.” “That is perfectly true,” agreed Constantia. “Father certainly doesn’t want any cooking now whatever else——” Josephine broke in sharply, “You’re not sleepy, are you, Con?” “Sleepy, Jug? Constantia was wide-eyed. “Well, concentrate more,” said Josephine sharply, and she returned to the subject. “What it comes to is, if we did”—and this she barely breathed, glancing at the door—“give Kate notice”— she raised her voice again—“we could manage our own food.” “Why not?” cried Constantia. She couldn’t help smiling. The idea was so exciting. She clasped her hands. “What should we live on, Jug?” “Oh, eggs in various forms!” said Jug, lofty again. “And, besides, there are all the cooked foods.” “But I’ve always heard,” said Constantia, “they are considered so very expensive.” “Not if one buys them in moderation,” said Josephine. But she tore herself away from this fascinating bypath and dragged Constantia after her. “What we’ve got to decide now, however, is whether we really do trust Kate or not.” Constantia leaned back. Her flat little laugh flew from her lips. “Isn’t it curious, Jug,” said she, “that just on this one subject I’ve never been able to quite make up my mind?” XI She never had. The whole difficulty was to prove anything. How did one prove things, how could one? Suppose Kate had stood in front of her and deliberately made a face. Mightn’t she very well have been in pain? Wasn’t it impossible, at any rate, to ask Kate if she was making a face at her? If Kate answered “No”—and of course she would say “No”—what a position! How undignified! Then again Constantia suspected, she was almost certain that Kate went to her chest of drawers when she and Josephine were out, not to take things but to spy. Many times she had come back to find her amethyst cross in the most unlikely places, under her lace ties or on top of her evening Bertha. More than once she had laid a trap for Kate. She had arranged things in a special order and then called Josephine to witness. “You see, Jug?” “Quite, Con.” “Now we shall be able to tell.” But, oh dear, when she did go to look, she was as far off from a proof as ever! If anything was displaced, it might so very well have happened as she closed the drawer; a jolt might have done it so easily. “You come, Jug, and decide. I really can’t. It’s too difficult.” But after a pause and a long glare Josephine would sigh, “Now you’ve put the doubt into my mind, Con, I’m sure I can’t tell myself.” “Well, we can’t postpone it again,” said Josephine. “If we postpone it this time——” XII But at that moment in the street below a barrel-organ struck up. Josephine and Constantia sprang to their feet together. “Run, Con,” said Josephine. “Run quickly. There’s sixpence on the——” Then they remembered. It didn’t matter. They would never have to stop the organ-grinder again. Never again would she and Constantia be told to make that monkey take his noise somewhere else. Never would sound that loud, strange bellow when father thought they were not hurrying enough. The organ-grinder might play there all day and the stick would not thump. It never will thump again, It never will thump again, played the barrel-organ. What was Constantia thinking? She had such a strange smile; she looked different. She couldn’t be going to cry. “Jug, Jug,” said Constantia softly, pressing her hands together. “Do you know what day it is? It’s Saturday. It’s a week to-day, a whole week.” A week since father died, A week since father died, cried the barrel-organ. And Josephine, too, forgot to be practical and sensible; she smiled faintly, strangely. On the Indian carpet there fell a square of sunlight, pale red; it came and went and came—and stayed, deepened—until it shone almost golden. “The sun’s out,” said Josephine, as though it really mattered. A perfect fountain of bubbling notes shook from the barrel-organ, round, bright notes, carelessly scattered. Constantia lifted her big, cold hands as if to catch them, and then her hands fell again. She walked over to the mantelpiece to her favourite Buddha. And the stone and gilt image, whose smile always gave her such a queer feeling, almost a pain and yet a pleasant pain, seemed to-day to be more than smiling. He knew something; he had a secret. “I know something that you don’t know,” said her Buddha. Oh, what was it, what could it be? And yet she had always felt there was ... something. The sunlight pressed through the windows, thieved its way in, flashed its light over the furniture and the photographs. Josephine watched it. When it came to mother’s photograph, the enlargement over the piano, it lingered as though puzzled to find so little remained of mother, except the ear-rings shaped like tiny pagodas and a black feather boa. Why did the photographs of dead people always fade so? wondered Josephine. As soon as a person was dead their photograph died too. But, of course, this one of mother was very old. It was thirty-five years old. Josephine remembered standing on a chair and pointing out that feather boa to Constantia and telling her that it was a snake that had killed their mother in Ceylon ... Would everything have been different if mother hadn’t died? She didn’t see why. Aunt Florence had lived with them until they had left school, and they had moved three times and had their yearly holiday and ... and there’d been changes of servants, of course. Some little sparrows, young sparrows they sounded, chirped on the window-ledge. Yeep—eyeep—yeep. But Josephine felt they were not sparrows, not on the window-ledge. It was inside her, that queer little crying noise. Yeep—eyeep—yeep. Ah, what was it crying, so weak and forlorn? If mother had lived, might they have married? But there had been nobody for them to marry. There had been father’s Anglo-Indian friends before he quarrelled with them. But after that she and Constantia never met a single man except clergymen. How did one meet men? Or even if they’d met them, how could they have got to know men well enough to be more than strangers? One read of people having adventures, being followed, and so on. But nobody had ever followed Constantia and her. Oh yes, there had been one year at Eastbourne a mysterious man at their boardinghouse who had put a note on the jug of hot water outside their bedroom door! But by the time Connie had found it the steam had made the writing too faint to read; they couldn’t even make out to which of them it was addressed. And he had left next day. And that was all. The rest had been looking after father, and at the same time keeping out of father’s way. But now? But now? The thieving sun touched Josephine gently. She lifted her face. She was drawn over to the window by gentle beams ... Until the barrel-organ stopped playing Constantia stayed before the Buddha, wondering, but not as usual, not vaguely. This time her wonder was like longing. She remembered the times she had come in here, crept out of bed in her nightgown when the moon was full, and lain on the floor with her arms outstretched, as though she was crucified. Why? The big, pale moon had made her do it. The horrible dancing figures on the carved screen had leered at her and she hadn’t minded. She remembered too how, whenever they were at the seaside, she had gone off by herself and got as close to the sea as she could, and sung something, something she had made up, while she gazed all over that restless water. There had been this other life, running out, bringing things home in bags, getting things on approval, discussing them with Jug, and taking them back to get more things on approval, and arranging father’s trays and trying not to annoy father. But it all seemed to have happened in a kind of tunnel. It wasn’t real. It was only when she came out of the tunnel into the moonlight or by the sea or into a thunderstorm that she really felt herself. What did it mean? What was it she was always wanting? What did it all lead to? Now? Now? She turned away from the Buddha with one of her vague gestures. She went over to where Josephine was standing. She wanted to say something to Josephine, something frightfully important, about—about the future and what ...” “Don’t you think perhaps——” she began. But Josephine interrupted her. “I was wondering if now——” she murmured. They stopped; they waited for each other. “Go on, Con,” said Josephine. “No, no, Jug; after you,” said Constantia. “No, say what you were going to say. You began,” said Josephine. “I ... I’d rather hear what you were going to say first,” said Constantia. “Don’t be absurd, Con.” “Really, Jug.” “Connie!” “Oh, Jug!” A pause. Then Constantia said faintly, “I can’t say what I was going to say, Jug, because I’ve forgotten what it was ... that I was going to say.” Josephine was silent for a moment. She stared at a big cloud where the sun had been. Then she replied shortly, “I’ve forgotten too.” Mr and Mrs Dove Of course he knew—no man better—that he hadn’t a ghost of a chance, he hadn’t an earthly. The very idea of such a thing was preposterous. So preposterous that he’d perfectly understand it if her father—well, whatever her father chose to do he’d perfectly understand. In fact, nothing short of desperation, nothing short of the fact that this was positively his last day in England for God knows how long, would have screwed him up to it. And even now ... He chose a tie out of the chest of drawers, a blue and cream check tie, and sat on the side of his bed. Supposing she replied, “What impertinence!” would he be surprised? Not in the least, he decided, turning up his soft collar and turning it down over the tie. He expected her to say something like that. He didn’t see, if he looked at the affair dead soberly, what else she could say. Here he was! And nervously he tied a bow in front of the mirror, jammed his hair down with both hands, pulled out the flaps of his jacket pockets. Making between £500 and £600 a year on a fruit farm in—of all places—Rhodesia. No capital. Not a penny coming to him. No chance of his income increasing for at least four years. As for looks and all that sort of thing, he was completely out of the running. He couldn’t even boast of top-hole health, for the East Africa business had knocked him out so thoroughly that he’d had to take six months’ leave. He was still fearfully pale— worse even than usual this afternoon, he thought, bending forward and peering into the mirror. Good heavens! What had happened? His hair looked almost bright green. Dash it all, he hadn’t green hair at all events. That was a bit too steep. And then the green light trembled in the glass; it was the shadow from the tree outside. Reggie turned away, took out his cigarette case, but remembering how the mater hated him to smoke in his bedroom, put it back again and drifted over to the chest of drawers. No, he was dashed if he could think of one blessed thing in his favour, while she ... Ah! ... He stopped dead, folded his arms, and leaned hard against the chest of drawers. And in spite of her position, her father’s wealth, the fact that she was an only child and far and away the most popular girl in the neighbourhood; in spite of her beauty and her cleverness—cleverness!—it was a great deal more than that, there was really nothing she couldn’t do; he fully believed, had it been necessary, she would have been a genius at anything—in spite of the fact that her parents adored her, and she them, and they’d as soon let her go all that way as ... In spite of every single thing you could think of, so terrific was his love that he couldn’t help hoping. Well, was it hope? Or was this queer, timid longing to have the chance of looking after her, of making it his job to see that she had everything she wanted, and that nothing came near her that wasn’t perfect—just love? How he loved her! He squeezed hard against the chest of drawers and murmured to it, “I love her, I love her!” And just for the moment he was with her on the way to Umtali. It was night. She sat in a corner asleep. Her soft chin was tucked into her soft collar, her gold-brown lashes lay on her cheeks. He doted on her delicate little nose, her perfect lips, her ear like a baby’s, and the gold-brown curl that half covered it. They were passing through the jungle. It was warm and dark and far away. Then she woke up and said, “Have I been asleep?” and he answered, “Yes. Are you all right? Here, let me——” And he leaned forward to ... He bent over her. This was such bliss that he could dream no further. But it gave him the courage to bound downstairs, to snatch his straw hat from the hall, and to say as he closed the front door, “Well, I can only try my luck, that’s all.” But his luck gave him a nasty jar, to say the least, almost immediately. Promenading up and down the garden path with Chinny and Biddy, the ancient Pekes, was the mater. Of course Reginald was fond of the mater and all that. She—she meant well, she had no end of grit, and so on. But there was no denying it, she was rather a grim parent. And there had been moments, many of them, in Reggie’s life, before Uncle Alick died and left him the fruit farm, when he was convinced that to be a widow’s only son was about the worst punishment a chap could have. And what made it rougher than ever was that she was positively all that he had. She wasn’t only a combined parent, as it were, but she had quarrelled with all her own and the governor’s relations before Reggie had won his first trouser pockets. So that whenever Reggie was homesick out there, sitting on his dark veranda by starlight, while the gramophone cried, “Dear, what is Life but Love?” his only vision was of the mater, tall and stout, rustling down the garden path, with Chinny and Biddy at her heels ... The mater, with her scissors outspread to snap the head of a dead something or other, stopped at the sight of Reggie. “You are not going out, Reginald?” she asked, seeing that he was. “I’ll be back for tea, mater,” said Reggie weakly, plunging his hands into his jacket pockets. Snip. Off came a head. Reggie almost jumped. “I should have thought you could have spared your mother your last afternoon,” said she. Silence. The Pekes stared. They understood every word of the mater’s. Biddy lay down with her tongue poked out; she was so fat and glossy she looked like a lump of half-melted toffee. But Chinny’s porcelain eyes gloomed at Reginald, and he sniffed faintly, as though the whole world were one unpleasant smell. Snip, went the scissors again. Poor little beggars; they were getting it! “And where are you going, if your mother may ask?” asked the mater. It was over at last, but Reggie did not slow down until he was out of sight of the house and half-way to Colonel Proctor’s. Then only he noticed what a top-hole afternoon it was. It had been raining all the morning, late summer rain, warm, heavy, quick, and now the sky was clear, except for a long tail of little clouds, like ducklings, sailing over the forest. There was just enough wind to shake the last drops off the trees; one warm star splashed on his hand. Ping!—another drummed on his hat. The empty road gleamed, the hedges smelled of briar, and how big and bright the hollyhocks glowed in the cottage gardens. And here was Colonel Proctor’s—here it was already. His hand was on the gate, his elbow jogged the syringa bushes, and petals and pollen scattered over his coat sleeve. But wait a bit. This was too quick altogether. He’d meant to think the whole thing out again. Here, steady. But he was walking up the path, with the huge rose bushes on either side. It can’t be done like this. But his hand had grasped the bell, given it a pull, and started it pealing wildly, as if he’d come to say the house was on fire. The house-maid must have been in the hall, too, for the front door flashed open, and Reggie was shut in the empty drawing-room before that confounded bell had stopped ringing. Strangely enough, when it did, the big room, shadowy, with some one’s parasol lying on top of the grand piano, bucked him up—or rather, excited him. It was so quiet, and yet in one moment the door would open, and his fate be decided. The feeling was not unlike that of being at the dentist’s; he was almost reckless. But at the same time, to his immense surprise, Reggie heard himself saying, “Lord, Thou knowest, Thou hast not done much for me ...” That pulled him up; that made him realise again how dead serious it was. Too late. The door handle turned. Anne came in, crossed the shadowy space between them, gave him her hand, and said, in her small, soft voice, “I’m so sorry, father is out. And mother is having a day in town, hat-hunting. There’s only me to entertain you, Reggie.” Reggie gasped, pressed his own hat to his jacket buttons, and stammered out, “As a matter of fact, I’ve only come ... to say goodbye.” “Oh!” cried Anne softly—she stepped back from him and her grey eyes danced—“what a very short visit!” Then, watching him, her chin tilted, she laughed outright, a long, soft peal, and walked away from him over to the piano, and leaned against it, playing with the tassel of the parasol. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “to be laughing like this. I don’t know why I do. It’s just a bad ha-habit.” And suddenly she stamped her grey shoe, and took a pocket-handkerchief out of her white woolly jacket. “I really must conquer it, it’s too absurd,” said she. “Good heavens, Anne,” cried Reggie, “I love to hear you laughing! I can’t imagine anything more——” But the truth was, and they both knew it, she wasn’t always laughing; it wasn’t really a habit. Only ever since the day they’d met, ever since that very first moment, for some strange reason that Reggie wished to God he understood, Anne had laughed at him. Why? It didn’t matter where they were or what they were talking about. They might begin by being as serious as possible, dead serious—at any rate, as far as he was concerned—but then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Anne would glance at him, and a little quick quiver passed over her face. Her lips parted, her eyes danced, and she began laughing. Another queer thing about it was, Reggie had an idea she didn’t herself know why she laughed. He had seen her turn away, frown, suck in her cheeks, press her hands together. But it was no use. The long, soft peal sounded, even while she cried, “I don’t know why I’m laughing.” It was a mystery ... Now she tucked the handkerchief away. “Do sit down,” said she. “And smoke, won’t you? There are cigarettes in that little box beside you. I’ll have one too.” He lighted a match for her, and as she bent forward he saw the tiny flame glow in the pearl ring she wore. “It is to-morrow that you’re going, isn’t it?” said Anne. “Yes, to-morrow as ever is,” said Reggie, and he blew a little fan of smoke. Why on earth was he so nervous? Nervous wasn’t the word for it. “It’s—it’s frightfully hard to believe,” he added. “Yes—isn’t it?” said Anne softly, and she leaned forward and rolled the point of her cigarette round the green ash-tray. How beautiful she looked like that!—simply beautiful—and she was so small in that immense chair. Reginald’s heart swelled with tenderness, but it was her voice, her soft voice, that made him tremble. “I feel you’ve been here for years,” she said. Reginald took a deep breath of his cigarette. “It’s ghastly, this idea of going back,” he said. “Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo,” sounded from the quiet. “But you’re fond of being out there, aren’t you?” said Anne. She hooked her finger through her pearl necklace. “Father was saying only the other night how lucky he thought you were to have a life of your own.” And she looked up at him. Reginald’s smile was rather wan. “I don’t feel fearfully lucky,” he said lightly. “Roo-coo-coo-coo,” came again. And Anne murmured, “You mean it’s lonely.” “Oh, it isn’t the loneliness I care about,” said Reginald, and he stumped his cigarette savagely on the green ash-tray. “I could stand any amount of it, used to like it even. It’s the idea of——” Suddenly, to his horror, he felt himself blushing. “Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!” Anne jumped up. “Come and say goodbye to my doves,” she said. “They’ve been moved to the side veranda. You do like doves, don’t you, Reggie?” “Awfully,” said Reggie, so fervently that as he opened the french window for her and stood to one side, Anne ran forward and laughed at the doves instead. To and fro, to and fro over the fine red sand on the floor of the dove house, walked the two doves. One was always in front of the other. One ran forward, uttering a little cry, and the other followed, solemnly bowing and bowing. “You see,” explained Anne, “the one in front, she’s Mrs Dove. She looks at Mr Dove and gives that little laugh and runs forward, and he follows her, bowing and bowing. And that makes her laugh again. Away she runs, and after her,” cried Anne, and she sat back on her heels, “comes poor Mr Dove, bowing and bowing ... and that’s their whole life. They never do anything else, you know.” She got up and took some yellow grains out of a bag on the roof of the dove house. “When you think of them, out in Rhodesia, Reggie, you can be sure that is what they will be doing ...” Reggie gave no sign of having seen the doves or of having heard a word. For the moment he was conscious only of the immense effort it took to tear his secret out of himself and offer it to Anne. “Anne, do you think you could ever care for me?” It was done. It was over. And in the little pause that followed Reginald saw the garden open to the light, the blue quivering sky, the flutter of leaves on the veranda poles, and Anne turning over the grains of maize on her palm with one finger. Then slowly she shut her hand, and the new world faded as she murmured slowly, “No, never in that way.” But he had scarcely time to feel anything before she walked quickly away, and he followed her down the steps, along the garden path, under the pink rose arches, across the lawn. There, with the gay herbaceous border behind her, Anne faced Reginald. “It isn’t that I’m not awfully fond of you,” she said. “I am. But”—her eyes widened—“not in the way”—a quiver passed over her face—“one ought to be fond of——” Her lips parted, and she couldn’t stop herself. She began laughing. “There, you see, you see,” she cried, “it’s your check t-tie. Even at this moment, when one would think one really would be solemn, your tie reminds me fearfully of the bow-tie that cats wear in pictures! Oh, please forgive me for being so horrid, please!” Reggie caught hold of her little warm hand. “There’s no question of forgiving you,” he said quickly. “How could there be? And I do believe I know why I make you laugh. It’s because you’re so far above me in every way that I am somehow ridiculous. I see that, Anne. But if I were to——” “No, no.” Anne squeezed his hand hard. “It’s not that. That’s all wrong. I’m not far above you at all. You’re much better than I am. You’re marvellously unselfish and ... and kind and simple. I’m none of those things. You don’t know me. I’m the most awful character,” said Anne. “Please don’t interrupt. And besides, that’s not the point. The point is”—she shook her head—“I couldn’t possibly marry a man I laughed at. Surely you see that. The man I marry——” breathed Anne softly. She broke off. She drew her hand away, and looking at Reggie she smiled strangely, dreamily. “The man I marry——” And it seemed to Reggie that a tall, handsome, brilliant stranger stepped in front of him and took his place—the kind of man that Anne and he had seen often at the theatre, walking on to the stage from nowhere, without a word catching the heroine in his arms, and after one long, tremendous look, carrying her off to anywhere ... Reggie bowed to his vision. “Yes, I see,” he said huskily. “Do you?” said Anne. “Oh, I do hope you do. Because I feel so horrid about it. It’s so hard to explain. You know I’ve never——” She stopped. Reggie looked at her. She was smiling. “Isn’t it funny?” she said. “I can say anything to you. I always have been able to from the very beginning.” He tried to smile, to say “I’m glad.” She went on. “I’ve never known anyone I like as much as I like you. I’ve never felt so happy with anyone. But I’m sure it’s not what people and what books mean when they talk about love. Do you understand? Oh, if you only knew how horrid I feel. But we’d be like ... like Mr and Mrs Dove.” That did it. That seemed to Reginald final, and so terribly true that he could hardly bear it. “Don’t drive it home,” he said, and he turned away from Anne and looked across the lawn. There was the gardener’s cottage, with the dark ilex-tree beside it. A wet, blue thumb of transparent smoke hung above the chimney. It didn’t look real. How his throat ached! Could he speak? He had a shot. “I must be getting along home,” he croaked, and he began walking across the lawn. But Anne ran after him. “No, don’t. You can’t go yet,” she said imploringly. “You can’t possibly go away feeling like that.” And she stared up at him frowning, biting her lip. “Oh, that’s all right,” said Reggie, giving himself a shake. “I’ll ... I’ll——” And he waved his hand as much as to say “get over it.” “But this is awful,” said Anne. She clasped her hands and stood in front of him. “Surely you do see how fatal it would be for us to marry, don’t you?” “Oh, quite, quite,” said Reggie, looking at her with haggard eyes. “How wrong, how wicked, feeling as I do. I mean, it’s all very well for Mr and Mrs Dove. But imagine that in real life—imagine it!” “Oh, absolutely,” said Reggie, and he started to walk on. But again Anne stopped him. She tugged at his sleeve, and to his astonishment, this time, instead of laughing, she looked like a little girl who was going to cry. “Then why, if you understand, are you so un-unhappy?” she wailed. “Why do you mind so fearfully? Why do you look so awawful?” Reggie gulped, and again he waved something away. “I can’t help it,” he said, “I’ve had a blow. If I cut off now, I’ll be able to——” “How can you talk of cutting off now?” said Anne scornfully. She stamped her foot at Reggie; she was crimson. “How can you be so cruel? I can’t let you go until I know for certain that you are just as happy as you were before you asked me to marry you. Surely you must see that, it’s so simple.” But it did not seem at all simple to Reginald. It seemed impossibly difficult. “Even if I can’t marry you, how can I know that you’re all that way away, with only that awful mother to write to, and that you’re miserable, and that it’s all my fault?” “It’s not your fault. Don’t think that. It’s just fate.” Reggie took her hand off his sleeve and kissed it. “Don’t pity me, dear little Anne,” he said gently. And this time he nearly ran, under the pink arches, along the garden path. “Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!” sounded from the veranda. “Reggie, Reggie,” from the garden. He stopped, he turned. But when she saw his timid, puzzled look, she gave a little laugh. “Come back, Mr Dove,” said Anne. And Reginald came slowly across the lawn. The Young Girl In her blue dress, with her cheeks lightly flushed, her blue, blue eyes, and her gold curls pinned up as though for the first time— pinned up to be out of the way for her flight—Mrs Raddick’s daughter might have just dropped from this radiant heaven. Mrs Raddick’s timid, faintly astonished, but deeply admiring glance looked as if she believed it, too; but the daughter didn’t appear any too pleased—why should she?—to have alighted on the steps of the Casino. Indeed, she was bored—bored as though Heaven had been full of casinos with snuffy old saints for croupiers and crowns to play with. “You don’t mind taking Hennie?” said Mrs Raddick. “Sure you don’t? There’s the car, and you’ll have tea and we’ll be back here on this step—right here—in an hour. You see, I want her to go in. She’s not been before, and it’s worth seeing. I feel it wouldn’t be fair to her.” “Oh, shut up, mother,” said she wearily. “Come along. Don’t talk so much. And your bag’s open; you’ll be losing all your money again.” “I’m sorry, darling,” said Mrs Raddick. “Oh, do come in! I want to make money,” said the impatient voice. “It’s all jolly well for you—but I’m broke!” “Here—take fifty francs, darling, take a hundred!” I saw Mrs Raddick pressing notes into her hand as they passed through the swing doors. Hennie and I stood on the steps a minute, watching the people. He had a very broad, delighted smile. “I say,” he cried, “there’s an English bulldog. Are they allowed to take dogs in there?” “No, they’re not.” “He’s a ripping chap, isn’t he? I wish I had one. They’re such fun. They frighten people so, and they’re never fierce with their —the people they belong to.” Suddenly he squeezed my arm. “I say, do look at that old woman. Who is she? Why does she look like that? Is she a gambler?” The ancient, withered creature, wearing a green satin dress, a black velvet cloak and a white hat with purple feathers, jerked slowly, slowly up the steps as though she were being drawn upon wires. She stared in front of her, she was laughing and nodding and cackling to herself; her claws clutched round what looked like a dirty boot-bag. But just at that moment there was Mrs Raddick again with—her—and another lady hovering in the background. Mrs Raddick rushed at me. She was brightly flushed, gay, a different creature. She was like a woman who is saying “good-bye” to her friends on the station platform, with not a minute to spare before the train starts. “Oh, you’re here, still. Isn’t that lucky! You’ve not gone. Isn’t that fine! I’ve had the most dreadful time with—her,” and she waved to her daughter, who stood absolutely still, disdainful, looking down, twiddling her foot on the step, miles away. “They won’t let her in. I swore she was twenty-one. But they won’t believe me. I showed the man my purse; I didn’t dare to do more. But it was no use. He simply scoffed ... And now I’ve just met Mrs MacEwen from New York, and she just won thirteen thousand in the Salle Privée—and she wants me to go back with her while the luck lasts. Of course I can’t leave—her. But if you’d——” At that “she” looked up; she simply withered her mother. “Why can’t you leave me?” she said furiously. “What utter rot! How dare you make a scene like this? This is the last time I’ll come out with you. You really are too awful for words.” She looked her mother up and down. “Calm yourself,” she said superbly. Mrs Raddick was desperate, just desperate. She was “wild” to go back with Mrs MacEwen, but at the same time ... I seized my courage. “Would you—do you care to come to tea with—us?” “Yes, yes, she’ll be delighted. That’s just what I wanted, isn’t it, darling? Mrs MacEwen ... I’ll be back here in an hour ... or less ... I’ll——” Mrs R. dashed up the steps. I saw her bag was open again. So we three were left. But really it wasn’t my fault. Hennie looked crushed to the earth, too. When the car was there she wrapped her dark coat round her—to escape contamination. Even her little feet looked as though they scorned to carry her down the steps to us. “I am so awfully sorry,” I murmured as the car started. “Oh, I don’t mind,” said she. “I don’t want to look twenty-one. Who would—if they were seventeen! It’s”—and she gave a faint shudder—“the stupidity I loathe, and being stared at by fat old men. Beasts!” Hennie gave her a quick look and then peered out of the window. We drew up before an immense palace of pink-and-white marble with orange-trees outside the doors in gold-and-black tubs. “Would you care to go in?” I suggested. She hesitated, glanced, bit her lip, and resigned herself. “Oh well, there seems nowhere else,” said she. “Get out, Hennie.” I went first—to find the table, of course—she followed. But the worst of it was having her little brother, who was only twelve, with us. That was the last, final straw—having that child, trailing at her heels. There was one table. It had pink carnations and pink plates with little blue tea-napkins for sails. “Shall we sit here?” She put her hand wearily on the back of a white wicker chair. “We may as well. Why not?” said she. Hennie squeezed past her and wriggled on to a stool at the end. He felt awfully out of it. She didn’t even take her gloves off. She lowered her eyes and drummed on the table. When a faint violin sounded she winced and bit her lip again. Silence. The waitress appeared. I hardly dared to ask her. “Tea—coffee? China tea—or iced tea with lemon?” Really she didn’t mind. It was all the same to her. She didn’t really want anything. Hennie whispered, “Chocolate!” But just as the waitress turned away she cried out carelessly, “Oh, you may as well bring me a chocolate, too.” While we waited she took out a little, gold powder-box with a mirror in the lid, shook the poor little puff as though she loathed it, and dabbed her lovely nose. “Hennie,” she said, “take those flowers away.” She pointed with her puff to the carnations, and I heard her murmur, “I can’t bear flowers on a table.” They had evidently been giving her intense pain, for she positively closed her eyes as I moved them away. The waitress came back with the chocolate and the tea. She put the big, frothing cups before them and pushed across my clear glass. Hennie buried his nose, emerged, with, for one dreadful moment, a little trembling blob of cream on the tip. But he hastily wiped it off like a little gentleman. I wondered if I should dare draw her attention to her cup. She didn’t notice it—didn’t see it—until suddenly, quite by chance, she took a sip. I watched anxiously; she faintly shuddered. “Dreadfully sweet!” said she. A tiny boy with a head like a raisin and a chocolate body came round with a tray of pastries—row upon row of little freaks, little inspirations, little melting dreams. He offered them to her. “Oh, I’m not at all hungry. Take them away.” He offered them to Hennie. Hennie gave me a swift look—it must have been satisfactory—for he took a chocolate cream, a coffee éclair, a meringue stuffed with chestnut and a tiny horn filled with fresh strawberries. She could hardly bear to watch him. But just as the boy swerved away she held up her plate. “Oh well, give me one,” said she. The silver tongs dropped one, two, three —and a cherry tartlet. “I don’t know why you’re giving me all these,” she said, and nearly smiled. “I shan’t eat them; I couldn’t!” I felt much more comfortable. I sipped my tea, leaned back, and even asked if I might smoke. At that she paused, the fork in her hand, opened her eyes and really did smile. “Of course,” said she. “I always expect people to.” But at that moment a tragedy happened to Hennie. He speared his pastry horn too hard, and it flew in two, and one half spilled on the table. Ghastly affair! He turned crimson. Even his ears flared, and one ashamed hand crept across the table to take what was left of the body away. “You utter little beast!” said she. Good heavens! I had to fly to the rescue. I cried hastily, “Will you be abroad long?” But she had already forgotten Hennie. I was forgotten, too. She was trying to remember something ... She was miles away. “I—don’t—know,” she said slowly, from that far place. “I suppose you prefer it to London. It’s more—more——” When I didn’t go on she came back and looked at me, very puzzled. “More——?” “Enfin—gayer,” I cried, waving my cigarette. But that took a whole cake to consider. Even then, “Oh well, that depends!” was all she could safely say. Hennie had finished. He was still very warm. I seized the butterfly list off the table. “I say—what about an ice, Hennie? What about tangerine and ginger? No, something cooler. What about a fresh pineapple cream?” Hennie strongly approved. The waitress had her eye on us. The order was taken when she looked up from her crumbs. “Did you say tangerine and ginger? I like ginger. You can bring me one.” And then quickly, “I wish that orchestra wouldn’t play things from the year One. We were dancing to that all last Christmas. It’s too sickening!” But it was a charming air. Now that I noticed it, it warmed me. “I think this is rather a nice place, don’t you, Hennie?” I said. Hennie said: “Ripping!” He meant to say it very low, but it came out very high in a kind of squeak. Nice? This place? Nice? For the first time she stared about her, trying to see what there was ... She blinked; her lovely eyes wondered. A very good-looking elderly man stared back at her through a monocle on a black ribbon. But him she simply couldn’t see. There was a hole in the air where he was. She looked through and through him. Finally the little flat spoons lay still on the glass plates. Hennie looked rather exhausted, but she pulled on her white gloves again. She had some trouble with her diamond wristwatch; it got in her way. She tugged at it—tried to break the stupid little thing—it wouldn’t break. Finally, she had to drag her glove over. I saw, after that, she couldn’t stand this place a moment longer, and, indeed, she jumped up and turned away while I went through the vulgar act of paying for the tea. And then we were outside again. It had grown dusky. The sky was sprinkled with small stars; the big lamps glowed. While we waited for the car to come up she stood on the step, just as before, twiddling her foot, looking down. Hennie bounded forward to open the door and she got in and sank back with—oh—such a sigh! “Tell him,” she gasped, “to drive as fast as he can.” Hennie grinned at his friend the chauffeur. “Allie veet!” said he. Then he composed himself and sat on the small seat facing us. The gold powder-box came out again. Again the poor little puff was shaken; again there was that swift, deadly-secret glance between her and the mirror. We tore through the black-and-gold town like a pair of scissors tearing through brocade. Hennie had great difficulty not to look as though he were hanging on to something. And when we reached the Casino, of course Mrs Raddick wasn’t there. There wasn’t a sign of her on the steps—not a sign. “Will you stay in the car while I go and look?” But no—she wouldn’t do that. Good heavens, no! Hennie could stay. She couldn’t bear sitting in a car. She’d wait on the steps. “But I scarcely like to leave you,” I murmured. “I’d very much rather not leave you here.” At that she threw back her coat; she turned and faced me; her lips parted. “Good heavens—why! I—I don’t mind it a bit. I—I like waiting.” And suddenly her cheeks crimsoned, her eyes grew dark—for a moment I thought she was going to cry. “L—let me, please,” she stammered, in a warm, eager voice. “I like it. I love waiting! Really—really I do! I’m always waiting—in all kinds of places. ...” Her dark coat fell open, and her white throat—all her soft young body in the blue dress—was like a flower that is just emerging from its dark bud. Life of Ma Parker When the literary gentleman, whose flat old Ma Parker cleaned every Tuesday, opened the door to her that morning, he asked after her grandson. Ma Parker stood on the doormat inside the dark little hall, and she stretched out her hand to help her gentleman shut the door before she replied. “We buried ’im yesterday, sir,” she said quietly. “Oh, dear me! I’m sorry to hear that,” said the literary gentleman in a shocked tone. He was in the middle of his breakfast. He wore a very shabby dressing-gown and carried a crumpled newspaper in one hand. But he felt awkward. He could hardly go back to the warm sitting-room without saying something—something more. Then because these people set such store by funerals he said kindly, “I hope the funeral went off all right.” “Beg parding, sir?” said old Ma Parker huskily. Poor old bird! She did look dashed. “I hope the funeral was a— a—success,” said he. Ma Parker gave no answer. She bent her head and hobbled off to the kitchen, clasping the old fish bag that held her cleaning things and an apron and a pair of felt shoes. The literary gentleman raised his eyebrows and went back to his breakfast. “Overcome, I suppose,” he said aloud, helping himself to the marmalade. Ma Parker drew the two jetty spears out of her toque and hung it behind the door. She unhooked her worn jacket and hung that up too. Then she tied her apron and sat down to take off her boots. To take off her boots or to put them on was an agony to her, but it had been an agony for years. In fact, she was so accustomed to the pain that her face was drawn and screwed up ready for the twinge before she’d so much as untied the laces. That over, she sat back with a sigh and softly rubbed her knees ... “Gran! Gran!” Her little grandson stood on her lap in his button boots. He’d just come in from playing in the street. “Look what a state you’ve made your gran’s skirt into—you wicked boy!” But he put his arms round her neck and rubbed his cheek against hers. “Gran, gi’ us a penny!” he coaxed. “Be off with you; Gran ain’t got no pennies.” “Yes, you ’ave.” “No, I ain’t.” “Yes, you ’ave. Gi’ us one!” Already she was feeling for the old, squashed, black leather purse. “Well, what’ll you give your gran?” He gave a shy little laugh and pressed closer. She felt his eyelid quivering against her cheek. “I ain’t got nothing,” he murmured ... The old woman sprang up, seized the iron kettle off the gas stove and took it over to the sink. The noise of the water drumming in the kettle deadened her pain, it seemed. She filled the pail, too, and the washing-up bowl. It would take a whole book to describe the state of that kitchen. During the week the literary gentleman “did” for himself. That is to say, he emptied the tea leaves now and again into a jam jar set aside for that purpose, and if he ran out of clean forks he wiped over one or two on the roller towel. Otherwise, as he explained to his friends, his “system” was quite simple, and he couldn’t understand why people made all this fuss about housekeeping. “You simply dirty everything you’ve got, get a hag in once a week to clean up, and the thing’s done.” The result looked like a gigantic dustbin. Even the floor was littered with toast crusts, envelopes, cigarette ends. But Ma Parker bore him no grudge. She pitied the poor young gentleman for having no one to look after him. Out of the smudgy little window you could see an immense expanse of sad-looking sky, and whenever there were clouds they looked very worn, old clouds, frayed at the edges, with holes in them, or dark stains like tea. While the water was heating, Ma Parker began sweeping the floor. “Yes,” she thought, as the broom knocked, “what with one thing and another I’ve had my share. I’ve had a hard life.” Even the neighbours said that of her. Many a time, hobbling home with her fish bag she heard them, waiting at the corner, or leaning over the area railings, say among themselves, “She’s had a hard life, has Ma Parker.” And it was so true she wasn’t in the least proud of it. It was just as if you were to say she lived in the basement-back at Number 27. A hard life! ... At sixteen she’d left Stratford and come up to London as kitching-maid. Yes, she was born in Stratford-on-Avon. Shakespeare, sir? No, people were always asking her about him. But she’d never heard his name until she saw it on the theatres. Nothing remained of Stratford except that “sitting in the fireplace of a evening you could see the stars through the chimley,” and “Mother always ’ad ’er side of bacon ’anging from the ceiling.” And there was something—a bush, there was—at the front door, that smelt ever so nice. But the bush was very vague. She’d only remembered it once or twice in the hospital, when she’d been taken bad. That was a dreadful place—her first place. She was never allowed out. She never went upstairs except for prayers morning and evening. It was a fair cellar. And the cook was a cruel woman. She used to snatch away her letters from home before she’d read them, and throw them in the range because they made her dreamy ... And the beedles! Would you believe it?—until she came to London she’d never seen a black beedle. Here Ma always gave a little laugh, as though—not to have seen a black beedle! Well! It was as if to say you’d never seen your own feet. When that family was sold up she went as “help” to a doctor’s house, and after two years there, on the run from morning till night, she married her husband. He was a baker. “A baker, Mrs Parker!” the literary gentleman would say. For occasionally he laid aside his tomes and lent an ear, at least, to this product called Life. “It must be rather nice to be married to a baker!” Mrs Parker didn’t look so sure. “Such a clean trade,” said the gentleman. Mrs Parker didn’t look convinced. “And didn’t you like handing the new loaves to the customers?” “Well, sir,” said Mrs Parker, “I wasn’t in the shop above a great deal. We had thirteen little ones and buried seven of them. If it wasn’t the ’ospital it was the infirmary, you might say!” “You might, indeed, Mrs Parker!” said the gentleman, shuddering, and taking up his pen again. Yes, seven had gone, and while the six were still small her husband was taken ill with consumption. It was flour on the lungs, the doctor told her at the time ... Her husband sat up in bed with his shirt pulled over his head, and the doctor’s finger drew a circle on his back. “Now, if we were to cut him open here, Mrs Parker,” said the doctor, “you’d find his lungs chock-a-block with white powder. Breathe, my good fellow!” And Mrs Parker never knew for certain whether she saw or whether she fancied she saw a great fan of white dust come out of her poor dear husband’s lips ... But the struggle she’d had to bring up those six little children and keep herself to herself. Terrible it had been! Then, just when they were old enough to go to school her husband’s sister came to stop with them to help things along, and she hadn’t been there more than two months when she fell down a flight of steps and hurt her spine. And for five years Ma Parker had another baby—and such a one for crying!—to look after. Then young Maudie went wrong and took her sister Alice with her; the two boys emigrimated, and young Jim went to India with the army, and Ethel, the youngest, married a good-for-nothing little waiter who died of ulcers the year little Lennie was born. And now little Lennie—my grandson ... The piles of dirty cups, dirty dishes, were washed and dried. The ink-black knives were cleaned with a piece of potato and finished off with a piece of cork. The table was scrubbed, and the dresser and the sink that had sardine tails swimming in it ... He’d never been a strong child—never from the first. He’d been one of those fair babies that everybody took for a girl. Silvery fair curls he had, blue eyes, and a little freckle like a diamond on one side of his nose. The trouble she and Ethel had had to rear that child! The things out of the newspapers they tried him with! Every Sunday morning Ethel would read aloud while Ma Parker did her washing. “Dear Sir,—Just a line to let you know my little Myrtil was laid out for dead ... After four bottils ... gained 8 lbs. in 9 weeks, and is still putting it on.” And then the egg-cup of ink would come off the dresser and the letter would be written, and Ma would buy a postal order on her way to work next morning. But it was no use. Nothing made little Lennie put it on. Taking him to the cemetery, even, never gave him a colour; a nice shake-up in the bus never improved his appetite. But he was gran’s boy from the first ... “Whose boy are you?” said old Ma Parker, straightening up from the stove and going over to the smudgy window. And a little voice, so warm, so close, it half stifled her—it seemed to be in her breast under her heart—laughed out, and said, “I’m gran’s boy!” At that moment there was a sound of steps, and the literary gentleman appeared, dressed for walking. “Oh, Mrs Parker, I’m going out.” “Very good, sir.” “And you’ll find your half-crown in the tray of the inkstand.” “Thank you, sir.” “Oh, by the way, Mrs Parker,” said the literary gentleman quickly, “you didn’t throw away any cocoa last time you were here— did you?” “No, sir.” “Very strange. I could have sworn I left a teaspoonful of cocoa in the tin. He broke off. He said softly and firmly, “You’ll always tell me when you throw things away—won’t you, Mrs Parker?” And he walked off very well pleased with himself, convinced, in fact, he’d shown Mrs Parker that under his apparent carelessness he was as vigilant as a woman. The door banged. She took her brushes and cloths into the bedroom. But when she began to make the bed, smoothing, tucking, patting, the thought of little Lennie was unbearable. Why did he have to suffer so? That’s what she couldn’t understand. Why should a little angel child have to arsk for his breath and fight for it? There was no sense in making a child suffer like that. ... From Lennie’s little box of a chest there came a sound as though something was boiling. There was a great lump of something bubbling in his chest that he couldn’t get rid of. When he coughed the sweat sprang out on his head; his eyes bulged, his hands waved, and the great lump bubbled as a potato knocks in a saucepan. But what was more awful than all was when he didn’t cough he sat against the pillow and never spoke or answered, or even made as if he heard. Only he looked offended. “It’s not your poor old gran’s doing it, my lovey,” said old Ma Parker, patting back the damp hair from his little scarlet ears. But Lennie moved his head and edged away. Dreadfully offended with her he looked—and solemn. He bent his head and looked at her sideways as though he couldn’t have believed it of his gran. But at the last ... Ma Parker threw the counterpane over the bed. No, she simply couldn’t think about it. It was too much—she’d had too much in her life to bear. She’d borne it up till now, she’d kept herself to herself, and never once had she been seen to cry. Never by a living soul. Not even her own children had seen Ma break down. She’d kept a proud face always. But now! Lennie gone—what had she? She had nothing. He was all she’d got from life, and now he was took too. Why must it all have happened to me? she wondered. “What have I done?” said old Ma Parker. “What have I done?” As she said those words she suddenly let fall her brush. She found herself in the kitchen. Her misery was so terrible that she pinned on her hat, put on her jacket and walked out of the flat like a person in a dream. She did not know what she was doing. She was like a person so dazed by the horror of what has happened that he walks away—anywhere, as though by walking away he could escape ... It was cold in the street. There was a wind like ice. People went flitting by, very fast; the men walked like scissors; the women trod like cats. And nobody knew—nobody cared. Even if she broke down, if at last, after all these years, she were to cry, she’d find herself in the lock-up as like as not. But at the thought of crying it was as though little Lennie leapt in his gran’s arms. Ah, that’s what she wants to do, my dove. Gran wants to cry. If she could only cry now, cry for a long time, over everything, beginning with her first place and the cruel cook, going on to the doctor’s, and then the seven little ones, death of her husband, the children’s leaving her, and all the years of misery that led up to Lennie. But to have a proper cry over all these things would take a long time. All the same, the time for it had come. She must do it. She couldn’t put it off any longer; she couldn’t wait any more ... Where could she go? “She’s had a hard life, has Ma Parker.” Yes, a hard life, indeed! Her chin began to tremble; there was no time to lose. But where? Where? She couldn’t go home; Ethel was there. It would frighten Ethel out of her life. She couldn’t sit on a bench anywhere; as would come arsking her questions. She couldn’t possibly go back to the gentleman’s flat; she had no right to cry in strangers’ houses. If she sat on some steps a policeman would speak to her. Oh, wasn’t there anywhere where she could hide and keep herself to herself and stay as long as she liked, not disturbing anybody, and nobody worrying her? Wasn’t there anywhere in the world where she could have her cry out—at last? Ma Parker stood, looking up and down. The icy wind blew out her apron into a balloon. And now it began to rain. There was nowhere. Marriage à la Mode On his way to the station William remembered with a fresh pang of disappointment that he was taking nothing down to the kiddies. Poor little chaps! It was hard lines on them. Their first words always were as they ran to greet him, “What have you got for me, daddy?” and he had nothing. He would have to buy them some sweets at the station. But that was what he had done for the past four Saturdays; their faces had fallen last time when they saw the same old boxes produced again. And Paddy had said, “I had red ribbing on mine bee-fore!” And Johnny had said, “It’s always pink on mine. I hate pink.” But what was William to do? The affair wasn’t so easily settled. In the old days, of course, he would have taken a taxi off to a decent toyshop and chosen them something in five minutes. But nowadays they had Russian toys, French toys, Serbian toys— toys from God knows where. It was over a year since Isabel had scrapped the old donkeys and engines and so on because they were so “dreadfully sentimental” and “so appallingly bad for the babies’ sense of form.” “It’s so important,” the new Isabel had explained, “that they should like the right things from the very beginning. It saves so much time later on. Really, if the poor pets have to spend their infant years staring at these horrors, one can imagine them growing up and asking to be taken to the Royal Academy.” And she spoke as though a visit to the Royal Academy was certain immediate death to anyone ... “Well, I don’t know,” said William slowly. “When I was their age I used to go to bed hugging an old towel with a knot in it.” The new Isabel looked at him, her eyes narrowed, her lips apart. “Dear William! I’m sure you did!” She laughed in the new way. Sweets it would have to be, however, thought William gloomily, fishing in his pocket for change for the taxi-man. And he saw the kiddies handing the boxes round—they were awfully generous little chaps—while Isabel’s precious friends didn’t hesitate to help themselves ... What about fruit? William hovered before a stall just inside the station. What about a melon each? Would they have to share that, too? Or a pineapple for Pad, and a melon for Johnny? Isabel’s friends could hardly go sneaking up to the nursery at the children’s meal-times. All the same, as he bought the melon William had a horrible vision of one of Isabel’s young poets lapping up a slice, for some reason, behind the nursery door. With his two very awkward parcels he strode off to his train. The platform was crowded, the train was in. Doors banged open and shut. There came such a loud hissing from the engine that people looked dazed as they scurried to and fro. William made straight for a first-class smoker, stowed away his suit-case and parcels, and taking a huge wad of papers out of his inner pocket, he flung down in the corner and began to read. “Our client moreover is positive ... We are inclined to reconsider ... in the event of——” Ah, that was better. William pressed back his flattened hair and stretched his legs across the carriage floor. The familiar dull gnawing in his breast quietened down. “With regard to our decision——” He took out a blue pencil and scored a paragraph slowly. Two men came in, stepped across him, and made for the farther corner. A young fellow swung his golf clubs into the rack and sat down opposite. The train gave a gentle lurch, they were off. William glanced up and saw the hot, bright station slipping away. A red-faced girl raced along by the carriages, there was something strained and almost desperate in the way she waved and called. “Hysterical!” thought William dully. Then a greasy, black-faced workman at the end of the platform grinned at the passing train. And William thought, “A filthy life!” and went back to his papers. When he looked up again there were fields, and beasts standing for shelter under the dark trees. A wide river, with naked children splashing in the shallows, glided into sight and was gone again. The sky shone pale, and one bird drifted high like a dark fleck in a jewel. “We have examined our client’s correspondence files ...” The last sentence he had read echoed in his mind. “We have examined ...” William hung on to that sentence, but it was no good; it snapped in the middle, and the fields, the sky, the sailing bird, the water, all said, “Isabel.” The same thing happened every Saturday afternoon. When he was on his way to meet Isabel there began those countless imaginary meetings. She was at the station, standing just a little apart from everybody else; she was sitting in the open taxi outside; she was at the garden gate; walking across the parched grass; at the door, or just inside the hall. And her clear, light voice said, “It’s William,” or “Hillo, William!” or “So William has come!” He touched her cool hand, her cool cheek. The exquisite freshness of Isabel! When he had been a little boy, it was his delight to run into the garden after a shower of rain and shake the rose-bush over him. Isabel was that rose-bush, petalsoft, sparkling and cool. And he was still that little boy. But there was no running into the garden now, no laughing and shaking. The dull, persistent gnawing in his breast started again. He drew up his legs, tossed the papers aside, and shut his eyes. “What is it, Isabel? What is it?” he said tenderly. They were in their bedroom in the new house. Isabel sat on a painted stool before the dressing-table that was strewn with little black and green boxes. “What is what, William?” And she bent forward, and her fine light hair fell over her cheeks. “Ah, you know!” He stood in the middle of the strange room and he felt a stranger. At that Isabel wheeled round quickly and faced him. “Oh, William!” she cried imploringly, and she held up the hairbrush. “Please! Please don’t be so dreadfully stuffy and—tragic. You’re always saying or looking or hinting that I’ve changed. Just because I’ve got to know really congenial people, and go about more, and am frightfully keen on—on everything, you behave as though I’d ...” Isabel tossed back her hair and laughed—“killed our love or something. It’s so awfully absurd”—she bit her lip—“and it’s so maddening, William. Even this new house and the servants you grudge me.” “Isabel!” “Yes, yes, it’s true in a way,” said Isabel quickly. “You think they are another bad sign. Oh, I know you do. I feel it,” she said softly, “every time you come up the stairs. But we couldn’t have gone on living in that other poky little hole, William. Be practical, at least! Why, there wasn’t enough room for the babies even.” No, it was true. Every morning when he came back from chambers it was to find the babies with Isabel in the back drawingroom. They were having rides on the leopard skin thrown over the sofa back, or they were playing shops with Isabel’s desk for a counter, or Pad was sitting on the hearthrug rowing away for dear life with a little brass fire-shovel, while Johnny shot at pirates with the tongs. Every evening they each had a pick-a-back up the narrow stairs to their fat old Nanny. Yes, he supposed it was a poky little house. A little white house with blue curtains and a window-box of petunias. William met their friends at the door with “Seen our petunias? Pretty terrific for London, don’t you think?” But the imbecile thing, the absolutely extra-ordinary thing was that he hadn’t the slightest idea that Isabel wasn’t as happy as he. God, what blindness! He hadn’t the remotest notion in those days that she really hated that inconvenient little house, that she thought the fat Nanny was ruining the babies, that she was desperately lonely, pining for new people and new music and pictures and so on. If they hadn’t gone to that studio party at Moira Morrison’s—if Moira Morrison hadn’t said as they were leaving, “I’m going to rescue your wife, selfish man. She’s like an exquisite little Titania”—if Isabel hadn’t gone with Moira to Paris— if—if ... The train stopped at another station. Bettingford. Good heavens! They’d be there in ten minutes. William stuffed the papers back into his pockets; the young man opposite had long since disappeared. Now the other two got out. The late afternoon sun shone on women in cotton frocks and little sunburnt, barefoot children. It blazed on a silky yellow flower with coarse leaves which sprawled over a bank of rock. The air ruffling through the window smelled of the sea. Had Isabel the same crowd with her this week-end, wondered William? And he remembered the holidays they used to have, the four of them, with a little farm girl, Rose, to look after the babies. Isabel wore a jersey and her hair in a plait; she looked about fourteen. Lord! how his nose used to peel! And the amount they ate, and the amount they slept in that immense feather bed with their feet locked together ... William couldn’t help a grim smile as he thought of Isabel’s horror if she knew the full extent of his sentimentality ..... “Hillo, William!” She was at the station after all, standing just as he had imagined, apart from the others, and—William’s heart leapt—she was alone. “Hallo, Isabel!” William stared. He thought she looked so beautiful that he had to say something, “You look very cool.” “Do I?” said Isabel. “I don’t feel very cool. Come along, your horrid old train is late. The taxi’s outside.” She put her hand lightly on his arm as they passed the ticket collector. “We’ve all come to meet you,” she said. “But we’ve left Bobby Kane at the sweet shop, to be called for.” “Oh!” said William. It was all he could say for the moment. There in the glare waited the taxi, with Bill Hunt and Dennis Green sprawling on one side, their hats tilted over their faces, while on the other, Moira Morrison, in a bonnet like a huge strawberry, jumped up and down. “No ice! No ice! No ice!” she shouted gaily. And Dennis chimed in from under his hat. “Only to be had from the fishmonger’s.” And Bill Hunt, emerging, added, “With whole fish in it.” “Oh, what a bore!” wailed Isabel. And she explained to William how they had been chasing round the town for ice while she waited for him. “Simply everything is running down the steep cliffs into the sea, beginning with the butter.” “We shall have to anoint ourselves with the butter,” said Dennis. “May thy head, William, lack not ointment.” “Look here,” said William, “how are we going to sit? I’d better get up by the driver.” “No, Bobby Kane’s by the driver,” said Isabel. “You’re to sit between Moira and me.” The taxi started. “What have you got in those mysterious parcels?” “De-cap-it-ated heads!” said Bill Hunt, shuddering beneath his hat. “Oh, fruit!” Isabel sounded very pleased. “Wise William! A melon and a pineapple. How too nice!” “No, wait a bit,” said William, smiling. But he really was anxious. “I brought them down for the kiddies.” “Oh, my dear!” Isabel laughed, and slipped her hand through his arm. “They’d be rolling in agonies if they were to eat them. No”— she patted his hand—“you must bring them something next time. I refuse to part with my pineapple.” “Cruel Isabel! Do let me smell it!” said Moira. She flung her arms across William appealingly. “Oh!” The strawberry bonnet fell forward: she sounded quite faint. “A Lady in Love with a Pine-apple,” said Dennis, as the taxi drew up before a little shop with a striped blind. Out came Bobby Kane, his arms full of little packets. “I do hope they’ll be good. I’ve chosen them because of the colours. There are some round things which really look too divine. And just look at this nougat,” he cried ecstatically, “just look at it! It’s a perfect little ballet!” But at that moment the shopman appeared. “Oh, I forgot. They’re none of them paid for,” said Bobby, looking frightened. Isabel gave the shopman a note, and Bobby was radiant again. “Hallo, William! I’m sitting by the driver.” And bare-headed, all in white, with his sleeves rolled up to the shoulders, he leapt into his place. “Avanti!” he cried ... After tea the others went off to bathe, while William stayed and made his peace with the kiddies. But Johnny and Paddy were asleep, the rose-red glow had paled, bats were flying, and still the bathers had not returned. As William wandered downstairs, the maid crossed the hall carrying a lamp. He followed her into the sitting-room. It was a long room, coloured yellow. On the wall opposite William some one had painted a young man, over life-size, with very wobbly legs, offering a wide-eyed daisy to a young woman who had one very short arm and one very long, thin one. Over the chairs and sofa there hung strips of black material, covered with big splashes like broken eggs, and everywhere one looked there seemed to be an ash-tray full of cigarette ends. William sat down in one of the arm-chairs. Nowadays, when one felt with one hand down the sides, it wasn’t to come upon a sheep with three legs or a cow that had lost one horn, or a very fat dove out of the Noah’s Ark. One fished up yet another little papercovered book of smudged-looking poems ... He thought of the wad of papers in his pocket, but he was too hungry and tired to read. The door was open; sounds came from the kitchen. The servants were talking as if they were alone in the house. Suddenly there came a loud screech of laughter and an equally loud “Sh!” They had remembered him. William got up and went through the french windows into the garden, and as he stood there in the shadow he heard the bathers coming up the sandy road; their voices rang through the quiet. “I think it’s up to Moira to use her little arts and wiles.” A tragic moan from Moira. “We ought to have a gramophone for the week-ends that played ‘The Maid of the Mountains.’” “Oh no! Oh no!” cried Isabel’s voice. “That’s not fair to William. Be nice to him, my children! He’s only staying until tomorrow evening.” “Leave him to me,” cried Bobby Kane. “I’m awfully good at looking after people.” The gate swung open and shut. William moved on the terrace; they had seen him. “Hallo, William!” And Bobby Kane, flapping his towel, began to leap and pirouette on the parched lawn. “Pity you didn’t come, William. The water was divine. And we all went to a little pub afterwards and had sloe gin.” The others had reached the house. “I say, Isabel,” called Bobby, “would you like me to wear my Nijinsky dress to-night?” “No,” said Isabel, “nobody’s going to dress. We’re all starving. William’s starving, too. Come along, mes amis, let’s begin with sardines.” “I’ve found the sardines,” said Moira, and she ran into the hall, holding a box high in the air. “A Lady with a Box of Sardines,” said Dennis gravely. “Well, William, and how’s London?” asked Bill Hunt, drawing the cork out of a bottle of whisky. “Oh, London’s not much changed,” answered William. “Good old London,” said Bobby, very hearty, spearing a sardine. But a moment later William was forgotten. Moira Morrison began wondering what colour one’s legs really were under water. “Mine are the palest, palest mushroom colour.” Bill and Dennis ate enormously. And Isabel filled glasses, and changed plates, and found matches, smiling blissfully. At one moment she said, “I do wish, Bill, you’d paint it.” “Paint what?” said Bill loudly, stuffing his mouth with bread. “Us,” said Isabel, “round the table. It would be so fascinating in twenty years’ time.” Bill screwed up his eyes and chewed. “Light’s wrong,” he said rudely, “far too much yellow”; and went on eating. And that seemed to charm Isabel, too. But after supper they were all so tired they could do nothing but yawn until it was late enough to go to bed ... It was not until William was waiting for his taxi the next afternoon that he found himself alone with Isabel. When he brought his suit-case down into the hall, Isabel left the others and went over to him. She stooped down and picked up the suit-case. “What a weight!” she said, and she gave a little awkward laugh. “Let me carry it! To the gate.” “No, why should you?” said William. “Of course not. Give it to me.” “Oh, please do let me,” said Isabel. “I want to, really.” They walked together silently. William felt there was nothing to say now. “There,” said Isabel triumphantly, setting the suit-case down, and she looked anxiously along the sandy road. “I hardly seem to have seen you this time,” she said breathlessly. “It’s so short, isn’t it? I feel you’ve only just come. Next time——” The taxi came into sight. “I hope they look after you properly in London. I’m so sorry the babies have been out all day, but Miss Neil had arranged it. They’ll hate missing you. Poor William, going back to London.” The taxi turned. “Good-bye!” She gave him a little hurried kiss; she was gone. Fields, trees, hedges streamed by. They shook through the empty, blind-looking little town, ground up the steep pull to the station. The train was in. William made straight for a first-class smoker, flung back into the corner, but this time he let the papers alone. He folded his arms against the dull, persistent gnawing, and began in his mind to write a letter to Isabel. The post was late as usual. They sat outside the house in long chairs under coloured parasols. Only Bobby Kane lay on the turf at Isabel’s feet. It was dull, stifling; the day drooped like a flag. “Do you think there will be Mondays in Heaven?” asked Bobby childishly. And Dennis murmured, “Heaven will be one long Monday.” But Isabel couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the salmon they had for supper last night. She had meant to have fish mayonnaise for lunch and now ... Moira was asleep. Sleeping was her latest discovery. “It’s so wonderful. One simply shuts one’s eyes, that’s all. It’s so delicious.” When the old ruddy postman came beating along the sandy road on his tricycle one felt the handle-bars ought to have been oars. Bill Hunt put down his book. “Letters,” he said complacently, and they all waited. But, heartless postman—O malignant world! There was only one, a fat one for Isabel. Not even a paper. “And mine’s only from William,” said Isabel mournfully. “From William—already?” “He’s sending you back your marriage lines as a gentle reminder.” “Does everybody have marriage lines? I thought they were only for servants.” “Pages and pages! Look at her! A Lady reading a Letter,” said Dennis. My darling, precious Isabel. Pages and pages there were. As Isabel read on her feeling of astonishment changed to a stifled feeling. What on earth had induced William ... ? How extraordinary it was ... What could have made him ... ? She felt confused, more and more excited, even frightened. It was just like William. Was it? It was absurd, of course, it must be absurd, ridiculous. “Ha, ha, ha! Oh dear!” What was she to do? Isabel flung back in her chair and laughed till she couldn’t stop laughing. “Do, do tell us,” said the others. “You must tell us.” “I’m longing to,” gurgled Isabel. She sat up, gathered the letter, and waved it at them. “Gather round,” she said. “Listen, it’s too marvellous. A love-letter!” “A love-letter! But how divine!” Darling, precious Isabel. But she had hardly begun before their laughter interrupted her. “Go on, Isabel, it’s perfect.” “It’s the most marvellous find.” “Oh, do go on, Isabel!” God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness. “Oh! oh! oh!” “Sh! sh! sh!” And Isabel went on. When she reached the end they were hysterical: Bobby rolled on the turf and almost sobbed. “You must let me have it just as it is, entire, for my new book,” said Dennis firmly. “I shall give it a whole chapter.” “Oh, Isabel,” moaned Moira, “that wonderful bit about holding you in his arms!” “I always thought those letters in divorce cases were made up. But they pale before this.” “Let me hold it. Let me read it, mine own self,” said Bobby Kane. But, to their surprise, Isabel crushed the letter in her hand. She was laughing no longer. She glanced quickly at them all; she looked exhausted. “No, not just now. Not just now,” she stammered. And before they could recover she had run into the house, through the hall, up the stairs into her bedroom. Down she sat on the side of the bed. “How vile, odious, abominable, vulgar,” muttered Isabel. She pressed her eyes with her knuckles and rocked to and fro. And again she saw them, but not four, more like forty, laughing, sneering, jeering, stretching out their hands while she read them William’s letter. Oh, what a loathsome thing to have done. How could she have done it! God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness. William! Isabel pressed her face into the pillow. But she felt that even the grave bedroom knew her for what she was, shallow, tinkling, vain ... Presently from the garden below there came voices. “Isabel, we’re all going for a bathe. Do come!” “Come, thou wife of William!” “Call her once before you go, call once yet!” Isabel sat up. Now was the moment, now she must decide. Would she go with them, or stay here and write to William. Which, which should it be? “I must make up my mind.” Oh, but how could there be any question? Of course she would stay here and write. “Titania!” piped Moira. “Isa-bel?” No, it was too difficult. “I’ll—I’ll go with them, and write to William later. Some other time. Later. Not now. But I shall certainly write,” thought Isabel hurriedly. And, laughing in the new way, she ran down the stairs. The Voyage The Picton boat was due to leave at half-past eleven. It was a beautiful night, mild, starry, only when they got out of the cab and started to walk down the Old Wharf that jutted out into the harbour, a faint wind blowing off the water ruffled under Fenella’s hat, and she put up her hand to keep it on. It was dark on the Old Wharf, very dark; the wool sheds, the cattle trucks, the cranes standing up so high, the little squat railway engine, all seemed carved out of solid darkness. Here and there on a rounded woodpile, that was like the stalk of a huge black mushroom, there hung a lantern, but it seemed afraid to unfurl its timid, quivering light in all that blackness; it burned softly, as if for itself. Fenella’s father pushed on with quick, nervous strides. Beside him her grandma bustled along in her crackling black ulster; they went so fast that she had now and again to give an undignified little skip to keep up with them. As well as her luggage strapped into a neat sausage, Fenella carried clasped to her her grandma’s umbrella, and the handle, which was a swan’s head, kept giving her shoulder a sharp little peck as if it too wanted her to hurry ... Men, their caps pulled down, their collars turned up, swung by; a few women all muffled scurried along; and one tiny boy, only his little black arms and legs showing out of a white woolly shawl, was jerked along angrily between his father and mother; he looked like a baby fly that had fallen into the cream. Then suddenly, so suddenly that Fenella and her grandma both leapt, there sounded from behind the largest wool shed, that had a trail of smoke hanging over it, Mia-oo-oo-O-O! “First whistle,” said her father briefly, and at that moment they came in sight of the Picton boat. Lying beside the dark wharf, all strung, all beaded with round golden lights, the Picton boat looked as if she was more ready to sail among stars than out into the cold sea. People pressed along the gangway. First went her grandma, then her father, then Fenella. There was a high step down on to the deck, and an old sailor in a jersey standing by gave her his dry, hard hand. They were there; they stepped out of the way of the hurrying people, and standing under a little iron stairway that led to the upper deck they began to say good-bye. “There, mother, there’s your luggage!” said Fenella’s father, giving grandma another strapped-up sausage. “Thank you, Frank.” “And you’ve got your cabin tickets safe?” “Yes, dear.” “And your other tickets?” Grandma felt for them inside her glove and showed him the tips. “That’s right.” He sounded stern, but Fenella, eagerly watching him, saw that he looked tired and sad. Mia-oo-oo-O-O! The second whistle blared just above their heads, and a voice like a cry shouted, “Any more for the gangway?” “You’ll give my love to father,” Fenella saw her father’s lips say. And her grandma, very agitated, answered, “Of course I will, dear. Go now. You’ll be left. Go now, Frank. Go now.” “It’s all right, mother. I’ve got another three minutes.” To her surprise Fenella saw her father take off his hat. He clasped grandma in his arms and pressed her to him. “God bless you, mother!” she heard him say. And grandma put her hand, with the black thread glove that was worn through on her ring finger, against his cheek, and she sobbed, “God bless you, my own brave son!” This was so awful that Fenella quickly turned her back on them, swallowed once, twice, and frowned terribly at a little green star on a mast head. But she had to turn round again; her father was going. “Good-bye, Fenella. Be a good girl.” His cold, wet moustache brushed her cheek. But Fenella caught hold of the lapels of his coat. “How long am I going to stay?” she whispered anxiously. He wouldn’t look at her. He shook her off gently, and gently said, “We’ll see about that. Here! Where’s your hand?” He pressed something into her palm. “Here’s a shilling in case you should need it.” A shilling! She must be going away for ever! “Father!” cried Fenella. But he was gone. He was the last off the ship. The sailors put their shoulders to the gangway. A huge coil of dark rope went flying through the air and fell “thump” on the wharf. A bell rang; a whistle shrilled. Silently the dark wharf began to slip, to slide, to edge away from them. Now there was a rush of water between. Fenella strained to see with all her might. “Was that father turning round?”—or waving?—or standing alone?—or walking off by himself? The strip of water grew broader, darker. Now the Picton boat began to swing round steady, pointing out to sea. It was no good looking any longer. There was nothing to be seen but a few lights, the face of the town clock hanging in the air, and more lights, little patches of them, on the dark hills. The freshening wind tugged at Fenella’s skirts; she went back to her grandma. To her relief grandma seemed no longer sad. She had put the two sausages of luggage one on top of the other, and she was sitting on them, her hands folded, her head a little on one side. There was an intent, bright look on her face. Then Fenella saw that her lips were moving and guessed that she was praying. But the old woman gave her a bright nod as if to say the prayer was nearly over. She unclasped her hands, sighed, clasped them again, bent forward, and at last gave herself a soft shake. “And now, child,” she said, fingering the bow of her bonnetstrings, “I think we ought to see about our cabins. Keep close to me, and mind you don’t slip.” “Yes, grandma!” “And be careful the umbrellas aren’t caught in the stair rail. I saw a beautiful umbrella broken in half like that on my way over.” “Yes, grandma.” Dark figures of men lounged against the rails. In the glow of their pipes a nose shone out, or the peak of a cap, or a pair of surprisedlooking eyebrows. Fenella glanced up. High in the air, a little figure, his hands thrust in his short jacket pockets, stood staring out to sea. The ship rocked ever so little, and she thought the stars rocked too. And now a pale steward in a linen coat, holding a tray high in the palm of his hand, stepped out of a lighted doorway and skimmed past them. They went through that doorway. Carefully over the high brass-bound step on to the rubber mat and then down such a terribly steep flight of stairs that grandma had to put both feet on each step, and Fenella clutched the clammy brass rail and forgot all about the swan-necked umbrella. At the bottom grandma stopped; Fenella was rather afraid she was going to pray again. But no, it was only to get out the cabin tickets. They were in the saloon. It was glaring bright and stifling; the air smelled of paint and burnt chop-bones and indiarubber. Fenella wished her grandma would go on, but the old woman was not to be hurried. An immense basket of ham sandwiches caught her eye. She went up to them and touched the top one delicately with her finger. “How much are the sandwiches?” she asked. “Tuppence!” bawled a rude steward, slamming down a knife and fork. Grandma could hardly believe it. “Twopence each?” she asked. “That’s right,” said the steward, and he winked at his companion. Grandma made a small, astonished face. Then she whispered primly to Fenella. “What wickedness!” And they sailed out at the further door and along a passage that had cabins on either side. Such a very nice stewardess came to meet them. She was dressed all in blue, and her collar and cuffs were fastened with large brass buttons. She seemed to know grandma well. “Well, Mrs Crane,” said she, unlocking their washstand. “We’ve got you back again. It’s not often you give yourself a cabin.” “No,” said grandma. “But this time my dear son’s thoughtfulness——” “I hope——” began the stewardess. Then she turned round and took a long mournful look at grandma’s blackness and at Fenella’s black coat and skirt, black blouse, and hat with a crape rose. Grandma nodded. “It was God’s will,” said she. The stewardess shut her lips and, taking a deep breath, she seemed to expand. “What I always say is,” she said, as though it was her own discovery, “sooner or later each of us has to go, and that’s a certingty.” She paused. “Now, can I bring you anything, Mrs Crane? A cup of tea? I know it’s no good offering you a little something to keep the cold out.” Grandma shook her head. “Nothing, thank you. We’ve got a few fine biscuits, and Fenella has a very nice banana.” “Then I’ll give you a look later on,” said the stewardess, and she went out, shutting the door. What a very small cabin it was! It was like being shut up in a box with grandma. The dark round eye above the washstand gleamed at them dully. Fenella felt shy. She stood against the door, still clasping her luggage and the umbrella. Were they going to get undressed in here? Already her grandma had taken off her bonnet, and, rolling up the strings, she fixed each with a pin to the lining before she hung the bonnet up. Her white hair shone like silk; the little bun at the back was covered with a black net. Fenella hardly ever saw her grandma with her head uncovered; she looked strange. “I shall put on the woollen fascinator your dear mother crocheted for me,” said grandma, and, unstrapping the sausage, she took it out and wound it round her head; the fringe of grey bobbles danced at her eyebrows as she smiled tenderly and mournfully at Fenella. Then she undid her bodice, and something under that, and something else underneath that. Then there seemed a short, sharp tussle, and grandma flushed faintly. Snip! Snap! She had undone her stays. She breathed a sigh of relief, and sitting on the plush couch, she slowly and carefully pulled off her elastic-sided boots and stood them side by side. By the time Fenella had taken off her coat and skirt and put on her flannel dressing-gown grandma was quite ready. “Must I take off my boots, grandma? They’re lace.” Grandma gave them a moment’s deep consideration. “You’d feel a great deal more comfortable if you did, child,” said she. She kissed Fenella. “Don’t forget to say your prayers. Our dear Lord is with us when we are at sea even more than when we are on dry land. And because I am an experienced traveller,” said grandma briskly, “I shall take the upper berth.” “But, grandma, however will you get up there?” Three little spider-like steps were all Fenella saw. The old woman gave a small silent laugh before she mounted them nimbly, and she peered over the high bunk at the astonished Fenella. “You didn’t think your grandma could do that, did you?” said she. And as she sank back Fenella heard her light laugh again. The hard square of brown soap would not lather, and the water in the bottle was like a kind of blue jelly. How hard it was, too, to turn down those stiff sheets; you simply had to tear your way in. If everything had been different, Fenella might have got the giggles ... At last she was inside, and while she lay there panting, there sounded from above a long, soft whispering, as though some one was gently, gently rustling among tissue paper to find something. It was grandma saying her prayers ... A long time passed. Then the stewardess came in; she trod softly and leaned her hand on grandma’s bunk. “We’re just entering the Straits,” she said. “Oh!” “It’s a fine night, but we’re rather empty. We may pitch a little.” And indeed at that moment the Picton boat rose and rose and hung in the air just long enough to give a shiver before she swung down again, and there was the sound of heavy water slapping against her sides. Fenella remembered she had left that swan-necked umbrella standing up on the little couch. If it fell over, would it break? But grandma remembered too, at the same time. “I wonder if you’d mind, stewardess, laying down my umbrella,” she whispered. “Not at all, Mrs Crane.” And the stewardess, coming back to grandma breathed, “Your little granddaughter’s in such a beautiful sleep.” “God be praised for that!” said grandma. “Poor little motherless mite!” said the stewardess. And grandma was still telling the stewardess all about what happened when Fenella fell asleep. But she hadn’t been asleep long enough to dream before she woke up again to see something waving in the air above her head. What was it? What could it be? It was a small grey foot. Now another joined it. They seemed to be feeling about for something; there came a sigh. “I’m awake, grandma,” said Fenella. “Oh, dear, am I near the ladder?” asked grandma. “I thought it was this end.” “No, grandma, it’s the other. I’ll put your foot on it. Are we there?” asked Fenella. “In the harbour,” said grandma. “We must get up, child. You’d better have a biscuit to steady yourself before you move.” But Fenella had hopped out of her bunk. The lamp was still burning, but night was over, and it was cold. Peering through that round eye, she could see far off some rocks. Now they were scattered over with foam; now a gull flipped by; and now there came a long piece of real land. “It’s land, grandma,” said Fenella, wonderingly, as though they had been at sea for weeks together. She hugged herself; she stood on one leg and rubbed it with the toes of the other foot; she was trembling. Oh, it had all been so sad lately. Was it going to change? But all her grandma said was, “Make haste, child. I should leave your nice banana for the stewardess as you haven’t eaten it.” And Fenella put on her black clothes again, and a button sprang off one of her gloves and rolled to where she couldn’t reach it. They went up on deck. But if it had been cold in the cabin, on deck it was like ice. The sun was not up yet, but the stars were dim, and the cold pale sky was the same colour as the cold pale sea. On the land a white mist rose and fell. Now they could see quite plainly dark bush. Even the shapes of the umbrella ferns showed, and those strange silvery withered trees that are like skeletons ... Now they could see the landing-stage and some little houses, pale too, clustered together, like shells on the lid of a box. The other passengers tramped up and down, but more slowly than they had the night before, and they looked gloomy. And now the landing-stage came out to meet them. Slowly it swam towards the Picton boat, and a man holding a coil of rope, and a cart with a small drooping horse and another man sitting on the step, came too. “It’s Mr Penreddy, Fenella, come for us,” said grandma. She sounded pleased. Her white waxen cheeks were blue with cold, her chin trembled, and she had to keep wiping her eyes and her little pink nose. “You’ve got my——” “Yes, grandma.” Fenella showed it to her. The rope came flying through the air, and “smack” it fell on to the deck. The gangway was lowered. Again Fenella followed her grandma on to the wharf over to the little cart, and a moment later they were bowling away. The hooves of the little horse drummed over the wooden piles, then sank softly into the sandy road. Not a soul was to be seen; there was not even a feather of smoke. The mist rose and fell, and the sea still sounded asleep as slowly it turned on the beach. “I seen Mr Crane yestiddy,” said Mr Penreddy. “He looked himself then. Missus knocked him up a batch of scones last week.” And now the little horse pulled up before one of the shell-like houses. They got down. Fenella put her hand on the gate, and the big, trembling dew-drops soaked through her glove-tips. Up a little path of round white pebbles they went, with drenched sleeping flowers on either side. Grandma’s delicate white picotees were so heavy with dew that they were fallen, but their sweet smell was part of the cold morning. The blinds were down in the little house; they mounted the steps on to the verandah. A pair of old bluchers was on one side of the door, and a large red watering-can on the other. “Tut! tut! Your grandpa,” said grandma. She turned the handle. Not a sound. She called, “Walter!” And immediately a deep voice that sounded half stifled called back, “Is that you, Mary?” “Wait, dear,” said grandma. “Go in there.” She pushed Fenella gently into a small dusky sitting-room. On the table a white cat, that had been folded up like a camel, rose, stretched itself, yawned, and then sprang on to the tips of its toes. Fenella buried one cold little hand in the white, warm fur, and smiled timidly while she stroked and listened to grandma’s gentle voice and the rolling tones of grandpa. A door creaked. “Come in, dear.” The old woman beckoned, Fenella followed. There, lying to one side of an immense bed, lay grandpa. Just his head with a white tuft, and his rosy face and long silver beard showed over the quilt. He was like a very old wideawake bird. “Well, my girl!” said grandpa. “Give us a kiss!” Fenella kissed him. “Ugh!” said grandpa. “Her little nose is as cold as a button. What’s that she’s holding? Her grandma’s umbrella?” Fenella smiled again, and crooked the swan neck over the bedrail. Above the bed there was a big text in a deep-black frame:— Lost! One Golden Hour Set with Sixty Diamond Minutes. No Reward Is Offered For It Is Gone For Ever! “Yer grandma painted that,” said grandpa. And he ruffled his white tuft and looked at Fenella so merrily she almost thought he winked at her. Miss Brill Although it was so brilliantly fine—the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques—Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting—from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel it again. She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes. “What has been happening to me?” said the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again from the red eiderdown! ... But the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn’t at all firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never mind—a little dab of black sealing-wax when the time came— when it was absolutely necessary ... Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that about it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking, she supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad—no, not sad, exactly—something gentle seemed to move in her bosom. There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had begun. For although the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like some one playing with only the family to listen; it didn’t care how it played if there weren’t any strangers present. Wasn’t the conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came a little “flutey” bit—very pretty!—a little chain of bright drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled. Only two people shared her “special” seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as though she didn’t listen, at sitting in other people’s lives just for a minute while they talked round her. She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn’t been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. And she’d gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they’d be sure to break and they’d never keep on. And he’d been so patient. He’d suggested everything—gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears, little pads inside the bridge. No, nothing would please her. “They’ll always be sliding down my nose!” Miss Brill had wanted to shake her. The old people sat on the bench, still as statues. Never mind, there was always the crowd to watch. To and fro, in front of the flower-beds and the band rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, to greet, to buy a handful of flowers from the old beggar who had his tray fixed to the railings. Little children ran among them, swooping and laughing; little boys with big white silk bows under their chins, little girls, little French dolls, dressed up in velvet and lace. And sometimes a tiny staggerer came suddenly rocking into the open from under the trees, stopped, stared, as suddenly sat down “flop,” until its small highstepping mother, like a young hen, rushed scolding to its rescue. Other people sat on the benches and green chairs, but they were nearly always the same. Sunday after Sunday, and—Miss Brill had often noticed—there was something funny about nearly all of them. They were odd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way they stared they looked as though they’d just come from dark little rooms or even—even cupboards! Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down drooping, and through them just a line of sea, and beyond the blue sky with gold-veined clouds. Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! turn tiddley-um turn ta! blew the band. Two young girls in red came by and two young soldiers in blue met them, and they laughed and paired and went off arm-in-arm. Two peasant women with funny straw hats passed, gravely, leading beautiful smoke-coloured donkeys. A cold, pale nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came along and dropped her bunch of violets, and a little boy ran after to hand them to her, and she took them and threw them away as if they’d been poisoned. Dear me ! Miss Brill didn’t know whether to admire that or not! And now an ermine toque and a gentleman in grey met just in front of her. He was tall, stiff, dignified, and she was wearing the ermine toque she’d bought when her hair was yellow. Now everything, her hair, her face, even her eyes, was the same colour as the shabby ermine, and her hand, in its cleaned glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny yellowish paw. Oh, she was so pleased to see him—delighted! She rather thought they were going to meet that afternoon. She described where she’d been—everywhere, here, there, along by the sea. The day was so charming—didn’t he agree? And wouldn’t he, perhaps? ... But he shook his head, lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a great deep puff into her face, and, even while she was still talking and laughing, flicked the match away and walked on. The ermine toque was alone; she smiled more brightly than ever. But even the band seemed to know what she was feeling and played more softly, played tenderly, and the drum beat “The Brute! The Brute!” over and over. What would she do? What was going to happen now? But as Miss Brill wondered, the ermine toque turned, raised her hand as though she’d seen some one else, much nicer, just over there, and pattered away. And the band changed again and played more quickly, more gaily than ever, and the old couple on Miss Brill’s seat got up and marched away, and such a funny old man with long whiskers hobbled along in time to the music and was nearly knocked over by four girls walking abreast. Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it! How she loved sitting here, watching it all! It was like a play. It was exactly like a play. Who could believe the sky at the back wasn’t painted? But it wasn’t till a little brown dog trotted on solemn and then slowly trotted off, like a little “theatre” dog, a little dog that had been drugged, that Miss Brill discovered what it was that made it so exciting. They were all on the stage. They weren’t only the audience, not only looking on; they were acting. Even she had a part and came every Sunday. No doubt somebody would have noticed if she hadn’t been there; she was part of the performance after all. How strange she’d never thought of it like that before! And yet it explained why she made such a point of starting from home at just the same time each week—so as not to be late for the performance—and it also explained why she had quite a queer, shy feeling at telling her English pupils how she spent her Sunday afternoons. No wonder! Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was on the stage. She thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read the newspaper four afternoons a week while he slept in the garden. She had got quite used to the frail head on the cotton pillow, the hollowed eyes, the open mouth and the high pinched nose. If he’d been dead she mightn’t have noticed for weeks; she wouldn’t have minded. But suddenly he knew he was having the paper read to him by an actress! “An actress!” The old head lifted; two points of light quivered in the old eyes. “An actress—are ye?” And Miss Brill smoothed the newspaper as though it were the manuscript of her part and said gently: “Yes, I have been an actress for a long time.” The band had been having a rest. Now they started again. And what they played was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint chill—a something what was it?—not sadness—no, not sadness— a something that made you want to sing. The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed to Miss Brill that in another moment all of them, all the whole company, would begin singing. The young ones, the laughing ones who were moving together, they would begin, and the men’s voices, very resolute and brave, would join them. And then she too, she too, and the others on the benches—they would come in with a kind of accompaniment— something low, that scarcely rose or fell, something so beautiful—moving ... And Miss Brill’s eyes filled with tears and she looked smiling at all the other members of the company. Yes, we understand, we understand, she thought—though what they understood she didn’t know. Just at that moment a boy and a girl came and sat down where the old couple had been. They were beautifully dressed; they were in love. The hero and heroine, of course, just arrived from his father’s yacht. And still soundlessly singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss Brill prepared to listen. “No, not now,” said the girl. “Not here, I can’t.” “But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there?” asked the boy. “Why does she come here at all—who wants her? Why doesn’t she keep her silly old mug at home?” “It’s her fu-fur which is so funny,” giggled the girl, “It’s exactly like a fried whiting.” “Ah, be off with you!” said the boy in an angry whisper. Then: “Tell me, ma petite chère——” “No, not here,” said the girl. “Not yet.” ..... On her way home she usually bought a slice of honey-cake at the baker’s. It was her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice, sometimes not. It made a great difference. If there was an almond it was like carrying home a tiny present—a surprise—something that might very well not have been there. She hurried on the almond Sundays and struck the match for the kettle in quite a dashing way. But to-day she passed the baker’s by, climbed the stairs, went into the little dark room—her room like a cupboard—and sat down on the red eiderdown. She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came out of was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without looking, laid it inside. But when she put the lid on she thought she heard something crying. Her First Ball Exactly when the ball began Leila would have found it hard to say. Perhaps her first real partner was the cab. It did not matter that she shared the cab with the Sheridan girls and their brother. She sat back in her own little corner of it, and the bolster on which her hand rested felt like the sleeve of an unknown young man’s dress suit; and away they bowled, past waltzing lamp-posts and houses and fences and trees. “Have you really never been to a ball before, Leila? But, my child, how too weird ...” cried the Sheridan girls. “Our nearest neighbour was fifteen miles,” said Leila softly, gently opening and shutting her fan. Oh, dear, how hard it was to be indifferent like the others! She tried not to smile too much; she tried not to care. But every single thing was so new and exciting ... Meg’s tuberoses, Jose’s long loop of amber, Laura’s little dark head, pushing above her white fur like a flower through snow. She would remember for ever. It even gave her a pang to see her cousin Laurie throw away the wisps of tissue paper he pulled from the fastenings of his new gloves. She would like to have kept those wisps as a keepsake, as a remembrance. Laurie leaned forward and put his hand on Laura’s knee. “Look here, darling,” he said. “The third and the ninth as usual. Twig?” Oh, how marvellous to have a brother! In her excitement Leila felt that if there had been time, if it hadn’t been impossible, she couldn’t have helped crying because she was an only child, and no brother had ever said “Twig?” to her; no sister would ever say, as Meg said to Jose that moment, “I’ve never known your hair go up more successfully than it has to-night!” But, of course, there was no time. They were at the drill hall already; there were cabs in front of them and cabs behind. The road was bright on either side with moving fan-like lights, and on the pavement gay couples seemed to float through the air; little satin shoes chased each other like birds. “Hold on to me, Leila; you’ll get lost,” said Laura. “Come on, girls, let’s make a dash for it,” said Laurie. Leila put two fingers on Laura’s pink velvet cloak, and they were somehow lifted past the big golden lantern, carried along the passage, and pushed into the little room marked “Ladies.” Here the crowd was so great there was hardly space to take off their things; the noise was deafening. Two benches on either side were stacked high with wraps. Two old women in white aprons ran up and down tossing fresh armfuls. And everybody was pressing forward trying to get at the little dressing-table and mirror at the far end. A great quivering jet of gas lighted the ladies’ room. It couldn’t wait; it was dancing already. When the door opened again and there came a burst of tuning from the drill hall, it leaped almost to the ceiling. Dark girls, fair girls were patting their hair, tying ribbons again, tucking handkerchiefs down the fronts of their bodices, smoothing marble-white gloves. And because they were all laughing it seemed to Leila that they were all lovely. “Aren’t there any invisible hair-pins?” cried a voice. “How most extraordinary! I can’t see a single invisible hair-pin.” “Powder my back, there’s a darling,” cried some one else. “But I must have a needle and cotton. I’ve torn simply miles and miles of the frill,” wailed a third. Then, “Pass them along, pass them along!” The straw basket of programmes was tossed from arm to arm. Darling little pink-andsilver programmes, with pink pencils and fluffy tassels, Leila’s fingers shook as she took one out of the basket. She wanted to ask some one, “Am I meant to have one too?” but she had just time to read: “Waltz 3. Two, Two in a Canoe. Polka 4. Making the Feathers Fly,” when Meg cried, “Ready, Leila?” and they pressed their way through the crush in the passage towards the big double doors of the drill hall. Dancing had not begun yet, but the band had stopped tuning, and the noise was so great it seemed that when it did begin to play it would never be heard. Leila, pressing close to Meg, looking over Meg’s shoulder, felt that even the little quivering coloured flags strung across the ceiling were talking. She quite forgot to be shy; she forgot how in the middle of dressing she had sat down on the bed with one shoe off and one shoe on and begged her mother to ring up her cousins and say she couldn’t go after all. And the rush of longing she had had to be sitting on the verandah of their forsaken up-country home, listening to the baby owls crying “More pork” in the moonlight, was changed to a rush of joy so sweet that it was hard to bear alone. She clutched her fan, and, gazing at the gleaming, golden floor, the azaleas, the lanterns, the stage at one end with its red carpet and gilt chairs and the band in a corner, she thought breathlessly, “How heavenly; how simply heavenly!” All the girls stood grouped together at one side of the doors, the men at the other, and the chaperones in dark dresses, smiling rather foolishly, walked with little careful steps over the polished floor towards the stage. “This is my little country cousin Leila. Be nice to her. Find her partners; she’s under my wing,” said Meg, going up to one girl after another. Strange faces smiled at Leila—sweetly, vaguely. Strange voices answered, “Of course, my dear.” But Leila felt the girls didn’t really see her. They were looking towards the men. Why didn’t the men begin? What were they waiting for? There they stood, smoothing their gloves, patting their glossy hair and smiling among themselves. Then, quite suddenly, as if they had only just made up their minds that that was what they had to do, the men came gliding over the parquet. There was a joyful flutter among the girls. A tall, fair man flew up to Meg, seized her programme, scribbled something; Meg passed him on to Leila. “May I have the pleasure?” He ducked and smiled. There came a dark man wearing an eyeglass, then cousin Laurie with a friend, and Laura with a little freckled fellow whose tie was crooked. Then quite an old man—fat, with a big bald patch on his head—took her programme and murmured, “Let me see, let me see!” And he was a long time comparing his programme, which looked black with names, with hers. It seemed to give him so much trouble that Leila was ashamed. “Oh, please don’t bother,” she said eagerly. But instead of replying the fat man wrote something, glanced at her again. “Do I remember this bright little face?” he said softly. “Is it known to me of yore?” At that moment the band began playing; the fat man disappeared. He was tossed away on a great wave of music that came flying over the gleaming floor, breaking the groups up into couples, scattering them, sending them spinning ... Leila had learned to dance at boarding school. Every Saturday afternoon the boarders were hurried off to a little corrugated iron mission hall where Miss Eccles (of London) held her “select” classes. But the difference between that dusty-smelling hall— with calico texts on the walls, the poor terrified little woman in a brown velvet toque with rabbit’s ears thumping the cold piano, Miss Eccles poking the girls’ feet with her long white wand—and this was so tremendous that Leila was sure if her partner didn’t come and she had to listen to that marvellous music and to watch the others sliding, gliding over the golden floor, she would die at least, or faint, or lift her arms and fly out of one of those dark windows that showed the stars. “Ours, I think——” Some one bowed, smiled, and offered her his arm; she hadn’t to die after all. Some one’s hand pressed her waist, and she floated away like a flower that is tossed into a pool. “Quite a good floor, isn’t it?” drawled a faint voice close to her ear. “I think it’s most beautifully slippery,” said Leila. “Pardon!” The faint voice sounded surprised. Leila said it again. And there was a tiny pause before the voice echoed, “Oh, quite!” and she was swung round again. He steered so beautifully. That was the great difference between dancing with girls and men, Leila decided. Girls banged into each other, and stamped on each other’s feet; the girl who was gentleman always clutched you so. The azaleas were separate flowers no longer; they were pink and white flags streaming by. “Were you at the Bells’ last week?” the voice came again. It sounded tired. Leila wondered whether she ought to ask him if he would like to stop. “No, this is my first dance,” said she. Her partner gave a little gasping laugh. “Oh, I say,” he protested. “Yes, it is cash the first dance I’ve ever been to.” Leila was most fervent. It was such a relief to be able to tell somebody. “You see, I’ve lived in the country all my life up till now... .” At that moment the music stopped, and they went to sit on two chairs against the wall. Leila tucked her pink satin feet under and fanned herself, while she blissfully watched the other couples passing and disappearing through the swing doors. “Enjoying yourself, Leila?” asked Jose, nodding her golden head. Laura passed and gave her the faintest little wink; it made Leila wonder for a moment whether she was quite grown up after all. Certainly her partner did not say very much. He coughed, tucked his handkerchief away, pulled down his waistcoat, took a minute thread off his sleeve. But it didn’t matter. Almost immediately the band started, and her second partner seemed to spring from the ceiling. “Floor’s not bad,” said the new voice. Did one always begin with the floor? And then, “Were you at the Neaves’ on Tuesday?” And again Leila explained. Perhaps it was a little strange that her partners were not more interested. For it was thrilling. Her first ball! She was only at the beginning of everything. It seemed to her that she had never known what the night was like before. Up till now it had been dark, silent, beautiful very often—oh, yes—but mournful somehow. Solemn. And now it would never be like that again—it had opened dazzling bright. “Care for an ice?” said her partner. And they went through the swing doors, down the passage, to the supper room. Her cheeks burned, she was fearfully thirsty. How sweet the ices looked on little glass plates, and how cold the frosted spoon was, iced too! And when they came back to the hall there was the fat man waiting for her by the door. It gave her quite a shock again to see how old he was; he ought to have been on the stage with the fathers and mothers. And when Leila compared him with her other partners he looked shabby. His waistcoat was creased, there was a button off his glove, his coat looked as if it was dusty with French chalk. “Come along, little lady,” said the fat man. He scarcely troubled to clasp her, and they moved away so gently, it was more like walking than dancing. But he said not a word about the floor. “Your first dance, isn’t it?” he murmured. “How did you know?” “Ah,” said the fat man, “that’s what it is to be old!” He wheezed faintly as he steered her past an awkward couple. “You see, I’ve been doing this kind of thing for the last thirty ears.” “Thirty years?” cried Leila. Twelve years before she was born! “It hardly bears thinking about, does it?” said the fat man gloomily. Leila looked at his bald head, and she felt quite sorry for him. “I think it’s marvellous to be still going on,” she said kindly. “Kind little lady,” said the fat man, and he pressed her a little closer, and hummed a bar of the waltz. “Of course,” he said, “you can’t hope to last anything like as long as that. No-o,” said the fat man, “long before that you’ll be sitting up there on the stage, looking on, in your nice black velvet. And these pretty arms will have turned into little short fat ones, and you’ll beat time with such a different kind of fan—a black bony one.” The fat man seemed to shudder. “And you’ll smile away like the poor old dears up there, and point to your daughter, and tell the elderly lady next to you how some dreadful man tried to kiss her at the club ball. And your heart will ache, ache”—the fat man squeezed her closer still, as if he really was sorry for that poor heart—“because no one wants to kiss you now. And you’ll say how unpleasant these polished floors are to walk on, how dangerous they are. Eh, Mademoiselle Twinkletoes?” said the fat man softly. Leila gave a light little laugh, but she did not feel like laughing. Was it—could it all be true? It sounded terribly true. Was this first ball only the beginning of her last ball after all? At that the music seemed to change; it sounded sad, sad; it rose upon a great sigh. Oh, how quickly things changed! Why didn’t happiness last for ever? For ever wasn’t a bit too long. “I want to stop,” she said in a breathless voice. The fat man led her to the door. “No,” she said, “I won’t go outside. I won’t sit down. I’ll just stand here, thank you.” She leaned against the wall, tapping with her foot, pulling up her gloves and trying to smile. But deep inside her a little girl threw her pinafore over her head and sobbed. Why had he spoiled it all? “I say, you know,” said the fat man, “you mustn’t take me seriously, little lady.” “As if I should!” said Leila, tossing her small dark head and sucking her underlip ... Again the couples paraded. The swing doors opened and shut. Now new music was given out by the bandmaster. But Leila didn’t want to dance any more. She wanted to be home, or sitting on the verandah listening to those baby owls. When she looked through the dark windows at the stars, they had long beams like wings ... But presently a soft, melting, ravishing tune began, and a young man with curly hair bowed before her. She would have to dance, out of politeness, until she could find Meg. Very stiffly she walked into the middle; very haughtily she put her hand on his sleeve. But in one minute, in one turn, her feet glided, glided. The lights, the azaleas, the dresses, the pink faces, the velvet chairs, all became one beautiful flying wheel. And when her next partner bumped her into the fat man and he said, “Pardon,” she smiled at him more radiantly than ever. She didn’t even recognize him again. The Singing Lesson With despair—cold, sharp despair—buried deep in her heart like a wicked knife, Miss Meadows, in cap and gown and carrying a little baton, trod the cold corridors that led to the music hall. Girls of all ages, rosy from the air, and bubbling over with that gleeful excitement that comes from running to school on a fine autumn morning, hurried, skipped, fluttered by; from the hollow classrooms came a quick drumming of voices; a bell rang; a voice like a bird cried, “Muriel.” And then there came from the staircase a tremendous knock-knock-knocking. Some one had dropped her dumbbells. The Science Mistress stopped Miss Meadows. “Good mor-ning,” she cried, in her sweet, affected drawl. “Isn’t it cold? It might be win-ter.” Miss Meadows, hugging the knife, stared in hatred at the Science Mistress. Everything about her was sweet, pale, like honey. You would not have been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that yellow hair. “It is rather sharp,” said Miss Meadows, grimly. The other smiled her sugary smile. “You look fro-zen,” said she. Her blue eyes opened wide; there came a mocking light in them. (Had she noticed anything?) “Oh, not quite as bad as that,” said Miss Meadows, and she gave the Science Mistress, in exchange for her smile, a quick grimace and passed on ... Forms Four, Five, and Six were assembled in the music hall. The noise was deafening. On the platform, by the piano, stood Mary Beazley, Miss Meadow’s favourite, who played accompaniments. She was turning the music stool. When she saw Miss Meadows she gave a loud, warning “Sh-sh! girls!” and Miss Meadows, her hands thrust in her sleeves, the baton under her arm, strode down the centre aisle, mounted the steps, turned sharply, seized the brass music stand, planted it in front of her, and gave two sharp taps with her baton for silence. “Silence, please! Immediately!” and, looking at nobody, her glance swept over that sea of coloured flannel blouses, with bobbing pink faces and hands, quivering butterfly hair-bows, and musicbooks outspread. She knew perfectly well what they were thinking. “Meady is in a wax.” Well, let them think it! Her eyelids quivered; she tossed her head, defying them. What could the thoughts of those creatures matter to some one who stood there bleeding to death, pierced to the heart, to the heart, by such a letter ... “I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake. Not that I do not love you. I love you as much as it is possible for me to love any woman, but, truth to tell, I have come to the conclusion that I am not a marrying man, and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but ...” and the word “disgust” was scratched out lightly and “regret” written over the top. Basil! Miss Meadows stalked over to the piano. And Mary Beazley, who was waiting for this moment, bent forward; her curls fell over her cheeks while she breathed, “Good morning, Miss Meadows,” and she motioned towards rather than handed to her mistress a beautiful yellow chrysanthemum. This little ritual of the flower had been gone through for ages and ages, quite a term and a half. It was as much part of the lesson as opening the piano. But this morning, instead of taking it up, instead of tucking it into her belt while she leant over Mary and said, “Thank you, Mary. How very nice! Turn to page thirty-two,” what was Mary’s horror when Miss Meadows totally ignored the chrysanthemum, made no reply to her greeting, but said in a voice of ice, “Page fourteen, please, and mark the accents well.” Staggering moment! Mary blushed until the tears stood in her eyes, but Miss Meadows was gone back to the music stand; her voice rang through the music hall. “Page fourteen. We will begin with page fourteen. ‘A Lament.’ Now, girls, you ought to know it by this time. We shall take it all together; not in parts, all together. And without expression. Sing it, though, quite simply, beating time with the left hand.” She raised the baton; she tapped the music stand twice. Down came Mary on the opening chord; down came all those left hands, beating the air, and in chimed those young, mournful voices:— Fast! Ah, too Fast Fade the Ro-o-ses of Pleasure; Soon Autumn yields unto Wi-i-nter Drear. Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Mu-u-sic’s Gay Measure Passes away from the Listening Ear. Good Heavens, what could be more tragic than that lament! Every note was a sigh, a sob, a groan of awful mournfulness. Miss Meadows lifted her arms in the wide gown and began conducting with both hands. “... I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake ...” she beat. And the voices cried: Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly. What could have possessed him to write such a letter! What could have led up to it! It came out of nothing. His last letter had been all about a fumed-oak bookcase he had bought for “our” books, and a “natty little hall-stand” he had seen, “a very neat affair with a carved owl on a bracket, holding three hatbrushes in its claws.” How she had smiled at that! So like a man to think one needed three hat-brushes! From the Listening Ear, sang the voices. “Once again,” said Miss Meadows. “But this time in parts. Still without expression.” Fast! Ah, too Fast. With the gloom of the contraltos added, one could scarcely help shuddering. Fade the Roses of Pleasure. Last time he had come to see her, Basil had worn a rose in his buttonhole. How handsome he had looked in that bright blue suit, with that dark red rose! And he knew it, too. He couldn’t help knowing it. First he stroked his hair, then his moustache; his teeth gleamed when he smiled. “The headmaster’s wife keeps on asking me to dinner. It’s a perfect nuisance. I never get an evening to myself in that place.” “But can’t you refuse?” “Oh, well, it doesn’t do for a man in my position to be unpopular.” Music’s Gay Measure, wailed the voices. The willow trees, outside the high, narrow windows, waved in the wind. They had lost half their leaves. The tiny ones that clung wriggled like fishes caught on a line. “... I am not a marrying man ...” The voices were silent; the piano waited. “Quite good,” said Miss Meadows, but still in such a strange, stony tone that the younger girls began to feel positively frightened. “But now that we know it, we shall take it with expression. As much expression as you can put into it. Think of the words, girls. Use your imaginations. Fast! Ah, too Fast,” cried Miss Meadows. “That ought to break out—a loud, strong forte— a lament. And then in the second line, Winter Drear, make that Drear sound as if a cold wind were blowing through it. Dre-ear!” said she so awfully that Mary Beazley, on the music stool, wriggled her spine. “The third line should be one crescendo. Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Music’s Gay Measure. Breaking on the first word of the last line, Passes. And then on the word, Away, you must begin to die ... to fade ... until The Listening Ear is nothing more than a faint whisper ... You can slow down as much as you like almost on the last line. Now, please.” Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms again. Fast! Ah, too Fast. “... and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but disgust ...” Disgust was what he had written. That was as good as to say their engagement was definitely broken off. Broken off! Their engagement! People had been surprised enough that she had got engaged. The Science Mistress would not believe it at first. But nobody had been as surprised as she. She was thirty. Basil was twenty-five. It had been a miracle, simply a miracle, to hear him say, as they walked home from church that very dark night, “You know, somehow or other, I’ve got fond of you.” And he had taken hold of the end of her ostrich feather boa. Passes away from the Listening Ear. “Repeat! Repeat!” said Miss Meadows. “More expression, girls! Once more! Fast! Ah, too Fast. The older girls were crimson; some of the younger ones began to cry. Big spots of rain blew against the windows, and one could hear the willows whispering, “... not that I do not love you ...” “But, my darling, if you love me,” thought Miss Meadows, “I don’t mind how much it is. Love me as little as you like.” But she knew he didn’t love her. Not to have cared enough to scratch out that word “disgust,” so that she couldn’t read it! Soon Autumn yields unto Winter Drear. She would have to leave the school, too. She could never face the Science Mistress or the girls after it got known. She would have to disappear somewhere. Passes away. The voices began to die, to fade, to whisper ... to vanish ... Suddenly the door opened. A little girl in blue walked fussily up the aisle, hanging her head, biting her lips, and twisting the silver bangle on her red little wrist. She came up the steps and stood before Miss Meadows. “Well, Monica, what is it?” “Oh, if you please. Miss Meadows,” said the little girl, gasping, “Miss Wyatt wants to see you in the mistress’s room.” “Very well,” said Miss Meadows. And she called to the girls, “I shall put you on your honour to talk quietly while I am away.” But they were too subdued to do anything else. Most of them were blowing their noses. The corridors were silent and cold; they echoed to Miss Meadows’ steps. The head mistress sat at her desk. For a moment she did not look up. She was as usual disentangling her eyeglasses, which had got caught in her lace tie. “Sit down, Miss Meadows,” she said very kindly. And then she picked up a pink envelope from the blotting-pad. “I sent for you just now because this telegram has come for you.” “A telegram for me. Miss Wyatt?” Basil! He had committed suicide, decided Miss Meadows. Her hand flew out, but Miss Wyatt held the telegram back a moment. “I hope it’s not bad news,” she said, no more than kindly. And Miss Meadows tore it open. “Pay no attention to letter must have been mad bought hat-stand to-day Pasil,” she read. She couldn’t take her eyes off the telegram. “I do hope it’s nothing very serious,” said Miss Wyatt, leaning forward. “Oh, no, thank you, Miss Wyatt,” blushed Miss Meadows. “It’s nothing bad at all. It’s”—and she gave an apologetic little laugh—“it’s from my fiancé saying that ... saying that ...” There was a pause. “I see,” said Miss Wyatt. And another pause. Then ... “You’ve fifteen minutes more of your class. Miss Meadows, haven’t you?“ “Yes, Miss Wyatt.” She got up. She half ran towards the door. “Oh, just one minute, Miss Meadows,” said Miss Wyatt. “I must say I don’t approve of my teachers having telegrams sent to them in school hours, unless in case of very bad news, such as death,” explained Miss Wyatt, “or a very serious accident, or something to that effect. Good news, Miss Meadows, will always keep, you know.” On the wings of hope, of love, of joy. Miss Meadows sped back to the music hall, up the aisle, up the steps, over to the piano. “Page thirty-two, Mary,” she said, “page thirty-two,” and, picking up the yellow chrysanthemum, she held it to her lips to hide her smile. Then she turned to the girls, rapped with her baton: “Page thirty-two, girls. Page thirty-two.” We come here To-day with Flowers o’erladen, With Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot, To-oo Congratulate ... “Stop! Stop!” cried Miss Meadows. “This is awful. This is dreadful.” And she beamed at her girls. “What’s the matter with you all? Think, girls, think of what you’re singing. Use your imaginations. With Flowers o’erladen. Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot. And Congratulate.” Miss Meadows broke off. “Don’t look so doleful, girls. It ought to sound warm, joyful, eager. Congratulate. Once more. Quickly. All together. Now then!” And this time Miss Meadows’ voice sounded over all the other voices—full, deep, glowing with expression. The Stranger It seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that she was never going to move again. There she lay, immense, motionless on the grey crinkled water, a loop of smoke above her, an immense flock of gulls screaming and diving after the galley droppings at the stern. You could just see little couples parading—little flies walking up and down the dish on the grey crinkled tablecloth. Other flies clustered and swarmed at the edge. Now there was a gleam of white on the lower deck—the cook’s apron or the stewardess perhaps. Now a tiny black spider raced up the ladder on to the bridge. In the front of the crowd a strong-looking, middle-aged man, dressed very well, very snugly in a grey overcoat, grey silk scarf, thick gloves and dark felt hat, marched up and down, twirling his folded umbrella. He seemed to be the leader of the little crowd on the wharf and at the same time to keep them together. He was something between the sheep-dog and the shepherd. But what a fool—what a fool he had been not to bring any glasses! There wasn’t a pair of glasses between the whole lot of them. “Curious thing, Mr Scott, that none of us thought of glasses. We might have been able to stir ’em up a bit. We might have managed a little signalling. Don’t hesitate to land. Natives harmless. Or: A welcome awaits you. All is forgiven. What? Eh?” Mr Hammond’s quick, eager glance, so nervous and yet so friendly and confiding, took in everybody on the wharf, roped in even those old chaps lounging against the gangways. They knew, every man-jack of them, that Mrs Hammond was on that boat, and he was so tremendously excited it never entered his head not to believe that this marvellous fact meant something to them too. It warmed his heart towards them. They were, he decided, as decent a crowd of people—— Those old chaps over by the gangways, too —fine, solid old chaps. What chests—by Jove! And he squared his own, plunged his thick-gloved hands into his pockets, rocked from heel to toe. “Yes, my wife’s been in Europe for the last ten months. On a visit to our eldest girl, who was married last year. I brought her up here, as far as Crawford, myself. So I thought I’d better come and fetch her back. Yes, yes, yes.” The shrewd grey eyes narrowed again and searched anxiously, quickly, the motionless liner. Again his overcoat was unbuttoned. Out came the thin, butter-yellow watch again, and for the twentieth—fiftieth—hundredth time he made the calculation. “Let me see, now. It was two fifteen when the doctor’s launch went off. Two fifteen. It is now exactly twenty-eight minutes past four. That is to say, the doctor’s been gone two hours and thirteen minutes. Two hours and thirteen minutes! Whee-ooh!” He gave a queer little half-whistle and snapped his watch to again. “But I think we should have been told if there was anything up—don’t you, Mr Gaven?” “Oh, yes, Mr Hammond! I don’t think there’s anything to—anything to worry about,” said Mr Gaven, knocking out his pipe against the heel of his shoe. “At the same time——” “Quite so! Quite so!” cried Mr Hammond. “Dashed annoying!” He paced quickly up and down and came back again to his stand between Mr and Mrs Scott and Mr Gaven. “It’s getting quite dark, too,” and he waved his folded umbrella as though the dusk at least might have had the decency to keep off for a bit. But the dusk came slowly, spreading like a slow stain over the water. Little Jean Scott dragged at her mother’s hand. “I wan’ my tea, mammy!” she wailed. “I expect you do,” said Mr Hammond. “I expect all these ladies want their tea.” And his kind, flushed, almost pitiful glance roped them all in again. He wondered whether Janey was having a final cup of tea in the saloon out there. He hoped so; he thought not. It would be just like her not to leave the deck. In that case perhaps the deck steward would bring her up a cup. If he’d been there he’d have got it for her—somehow. And for a moment he was on deck, standing over her, watching her little hand fold round the cup in the way she had, while she drank the only cup of tea to be got on board ... But now he was back here, and the Lord only knew when that cursed Captain would stop hanging about in the stream. He took another turn, up and down, up and down. He walked as far as the cab-stand to make sure his driver hadn’t disappeared; back he swerved again to the little flock huddled in the shelter of the banana crates. Little Jean Scott was still wanting her tea. Poor little beggar! He wished he had a bit of chocolate on him. “Here, Jean!” he said. “Like a lift up?” And easily, gently, he swung the little girl on to a higher barrel. The movement of holding her, steadying her, relieved him wonderfully, lightened his heart. “Hold on,” he said, keeping an arm round her. “Oh, don’t worry about Jean, Mr Hammond!” said Mrs Scott. “That’s all right, Mrs Scott. No trouble. It’s a pleasure. Jean’s a little pal of mine, aren’t you, Jean?” “Yes, Mr Hammond,” said Jean, and she ran her finger down the dent of his felt hat. But suddenly she caught him by the ear and gave a loud scream. “Lo-ok, Mr Hammond! She’s moving! Look, she’s coming in!” By Jove! So she was. At last! She was slowly, slowly turning round. A bell sounded far over the water and a great spout of steam gushed into the air. The gulls rose; they fluttered away like bits of white paper. And whether that deep throbbing was her engines or his heart Mr Hammond couldn’t say. He had to nerve himself to bear it, whatever it was. At that moment old Captain Johnson, the harbour-master, came striding down the wharf, a leather portfolio under his arm. “Jean’ll be all right,” said Mr Scott. “I’ll hold her.” He was just in time. Mr Hammond had forgotten about Jean. He sprang away to greet old Captain Johnson. “Well, Captain,” the eager, nervous voice rang out again, “you’ve taken pity on us at last.” “It’s no good blaming me, Mr Hammond,” wheezed old Captain Johnson, staring at the liner. “You got Mrs Hammond on board, ain’t yer?” “Yes, yes!” said Hammond, and he kept by the harbour-master’s side. “Mrs Hammond’s there. Hul-lo! We shan’t be long now!” With her telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of her screw filling the air, the big liner bore down on them, cutting sharp through the dark water so that big white shavings curled to either side. Hammond and the harbour-master kept in front of the rest. Hammond took off his hat; he raked the decks—they were crammed with passengers; he waved his hat and bawled a loud, strange “Hul-lo!” across the water, and then turned round and burst out laughing and said something—nothing—to old Captain Johnson. “Seen her?” asked the harbour-master. “No, not yet. Steady—wait a bit!” And suddenly, between two great clumsy idiots—“Get out of the way there!” he signed with his umbrella—he saw a hand raised—a white glove shaking a handkerchief. Another moment, and—thank God, thank God!—there she was. There was Janey. There was Mrs Hammond, yes, yes, yes—standing by the rail and smiling and nodding and waving her handkerchief. “Well, that’s first class—first class! Well, well, well!” He positively stamped. Like lightning he drew out his cigar-case and offered it to old Captain Johnson. “Have a cigar, Captain! They’re pretty good. Have a couple! Here”—and he pressed all the cigars in the case on the harbour-master—“I’ve a couple of boxes up at the hotel.” “Thenks, Mr Hammond!” wheezed old Captain Johnson. Hammond stuffed the cigar-case back. His hands were shaking, but he’d got hold of himself again. He was able to face Janey. There she was, leaning on the rail, talking to some woman and at the same time watching him, ready for him. It struck him, as the gulf of water closed, how small she looked on that huge ship. His heart was wrung with such a spasm that he could have cried out. How little she looked to have come all that long way and back by herself! Just like her, though. Just like Janey. She had the courage of a—— And now the crew had come forward and parted the passengers; they had lowered the rails for the gangways. The voices on shore and the voices on board flew to greet each other. “All well?” “All well.” “How’s mother?” “Much better.” “Hullo, Jean!” “Hillo, Aun’ Emily!” “Had a good voyage?” “Splendid!” “Shan’t be long now!” “Not long now.” The engines stopped. Slowly she edged to the wharf-side. “Make way there—make way—make way!” And the wharf hands brought the heavy gangways along at a sweeping run. Hammond signed to Janey to stay where she was. The old harbour-master stepped forward; he followed. As to “ladies first,” or any rot like that, it never entered his head. “After you, Captain!” he cried genially. And, treading on the old man’s heels, he strode up the gangway on to the deck in a bee-line to Janey, and Janey was clasped in his arms. “Well, well, well! Yes, yes! Here we are at last!” he stammered. It was all he could say. And Janey emerged, and her cool little voice—the only voice in the world for him—said, “Well, darling! Have you been waiting long?” No; not long. Or, at any rate, it didn’t matter. It was over now. But the point was, he had a cab waiting at the end of the wharf. Was she ready to go off? Was her luggage ready? In that case they could cut off sharp with her cabin luggage and let the rest go hang until to-morrow. He bent over her and she looked up with her familiar half-smile. She was just the same. Not a day changed. Just as he’d always known her. She laid her small hand on his sleeve. “How are the children, John?” she asked. (Hang the children!) “Perfectly well. Never better in their lives.” “Haven’t they sent me letters?” “Yes, yes—of course! I’ve left them at the hotel for you to digest later on.” “We can’t go quite so fast,” said she. “I’ve got people to say good-bye to—and then there’s the Captain.” As his face fell she gave his arm a small understanding squeeze. “If the Captain comes off the bridge I want you to thank him for having looked after your wife so beautifully.” Well, he’d got her. If she wanted another ten minutes—— As he gave way she was surrounded. The whole first-class seemed to want to say good-bye to Janey. “Good-bye, dear Mrs Hammond! And next time you’re in Sydney I’ll expect you.” “Darling Mrs Hammond! You won’t forget to write to me, will you?” “Well, Mrs Hammond, what this boat would have been without you!” It was as plain as a pikestaff that she was by far the most popular woman on board. And she took it all—just as usual. Absolutely composed. Just her little self—just Janey all over; standing there with her veil thrown back. Hammond never noticed what his wife had on. It was all the same to him whatever she wore. But to-day he did notice that she wore a black “costume”—didn’t they call it?—with white frills, trimmings he supposed they were, at the neck and sleeves. All this while Janey handed him round. “John, dear!” And then: “I want to introduce you to——” Finally they did escape, and she led the way to her state-room. To follow Janey down the passage that she knew so well—that was so strange to him; to part the green curtains after her and to step into the cabin that had been hers gave him exquisite happiness. But—confound it!—the stewardess was there on the floor, strapping up the rugs. “That’s the last, Mrs Hammond,” said the stewardess, rising and pulling down her cuffs. He was introduced again, and then Janey and the stewardess disappeared into the passage. He heard whisperings. She was getting the tipping business over, he supposed. He sat down on the striped sofa and took his hat off. There were the rugs she had taken with her; they looked good as new. All her luggage looked fresh, perfect. The labels were written in her beautiful little clear hand—“Mrs John Hammond.” “Mrs John Hammond!” He gave a long sigh of content and leaned back, crossing his arms. The strain was over. He felt he could have sat there for ever sighing his relief—the relief at being rid of that horrible tug, pull, grip on his heart. The danger was over. That was the feeling. They were on dry land again. But at that moment Janey’s head came round the corner. “Darling—do you mind? I just want to go and say good-bye to the doctor.” Hammond started up. “I’ll come with you.” “No, no!” she said. “Don’t bother. I’d rather not. I’ll not be a minute.” And before he could answer she was gone. He had half a mind to run after her; but instead he sat down again. Would she really not be long? What was the time now? Out came the watch; he stared at nothing. That was rather queer of Janey, wasn’t it? Why couldn’t she have told the stewardess to say good-bye for her? Why did she have to go chasing after the ship’s doctor? She could have sent a note from the hotel even if the affair had been urgent. Urgent? Did it—could it mean that she had been ill on the voyage—she was keeping something from him? That was it! He seized his hat. He was going off to find that fellow and to wring the truth out of him at all costs. He thought he’d noticed just something. She was just a touch too calm—too steady. From the very first moment—— The curtains rang. Janey was back. He jumped to his feet. “Janey have you been ill on this voyage? You have!” “Ill?” Her airy little voice mocked him. She stepped over the rugs, came up close, touched his breast, and looked up at him. “Darling,” she said, “don’t frighten me. Of course I haven’t! Whatever makes you think I have? Do I look ill?” But Hammond didn’t see her. He only felt that she was looking at him and that there was no need to worry about anything. She was here to look after things. It was all right. Everything was. The gentle pressure of her hand was so calming that he put his over hers to hold it there. And she said: “Stand still. I want to look at you. I haven’t seen you yet. You’ve had your beard beautifully trimmed, and you look—younger, I think, and decidedly thinner! Bachelor life agrees with you.” “Agrees with me!” He groaned for love and caught her close again. And again, as always, he had the feeling he was holding something that never was quite his—his. Something too delicate, too precious, that would fly away once he let go. “For God’s sake let’s get off to the hotel so that we can be by ourselves!” And he rang the bell hard for some one to look sharp with the luggage. ..... Walking down the wharf together she took his arm. He had her on his arm again. And the difference it made to get into the cab after Janey—to throw the red-and-yellow striped blanket round them both—to tell the driver to hurry because neither of them had had any tea. No more going without his tea or pouring out his own. She was back. He turned to her, squeezed her hand, and said gently, teasingly, in the “special” voice he had for her: “Glad to be home again, dearie?” She smiled; she didn’t even bother to answer, but gently she drew his hand away as they came to the brighter streets. “We’ve got the best room in the hotel,” he said. “I wouldn’t be put off with another. And I asked the chambermaid to put in a bit of a fire in case you felt chilly. She’s a nice, attentive girl. And I thought now we were here we wouldn’t bother to go home tomorrow, but spend the day looking round and leave the morning after. Does that suit you? There’s no hurry, is there? The children will have you soon enough ... I thought a day’s sight-seeing might make a nice break in your journey—eh, Janey?” “Have you taken the tickets for the day after?” she asked. “I should think I have!” He unbuttoned his overcoat and took out his bulging pocket-book. “Here we are! I reserved a first-class carriage to Salisbury. There it is—‘Mr and Mrs John Hammond.’ I thought we might as well do ourselves comfortably, and we don’t want other people butting in, do we? But if you’d like to stop here a bit longer——?” “Oh, no!” said Janey quickly. “Not for the world! The day after to-morrow, then. And the children——” But they had reached the hotel. The manager was standing in the broad, brilliantly-lighted porch. He came down to greet them. A porter ran from the hall for their boxes. “Well, Mr Arnold, here’s Mrs Hammond at last!” The manager led them through the hall himself and pressed the elevator-bell. Hammond knew there were business pals of his sitting at the little hall tables having a drink before dinner. But he wasn’t going to risk interruption; he looked neither to the right nor the left. They could think what they pleased. If they didn’t understand, the more fools they—and he stepped out of the lift, unlocked the door of their room, and shepherded Janey in. The door shut. Now, at last, they were alone together. He turned up the light. The curtains were drawn; the fire blazed. He flung his hat on to the huge bed and went towards her. But—would you believe it!—again they were interrupted. This time it was the porter with the luggage. He made two journeys of it, leaving the door open in between, taking his time, whistling through his teeth in the corridor. Hammond paced up and down the room, tearing off his gloves, tearing off his scarf. Finally he flung his overcoat on to the bedside. At last the fool was gone. The door clicked. Now they were alone. Said Hammond: “I feel I’ll never have you to myself again. These cursed people! Janey”—and he bent his flushed, eager gaze upon her—“let’s have dinner up here. If we go down to the restaurant we’ll be interrupted, and then there’s the confounded music” (the music he’d praised so highly, applauded so loudly last night!). “We shan’t be able to hear each other speak. Let’s have something up here in front of the fire. It’s too late for tea. I’ll order a little supper, shall I? How does the idea strike you?” “Do, darling!” said Janey. “And while you’re away—the children’s letters——” “Oh, later on will do!” said Hammond. “But then we’d get it over,” said Janey. “And I’d first have time to——” “Oh, I needn’t go down!” explained Hammond. “I’ll just ring and give the order ... you don’t want to send me away, do you?” Janey shook her head and smiled. “But you’re thinking of something else. You’re worrying about something,” said Hammond. “What is it? Come and sit here—come and sit on my knee before the fire.” “I’ll just unpin my hat,” said Janey, and she went over to the dressing-table. “A-ah!” She gave a little cry. “What is it?” “Nothing, darling. I’ve just found the children’s letters. That’s all right! They will keep. No hurry now!” She turned to him, clasping them. She tucked them into her frilled blouse. She cried quickly, gaily: “Oh, how typical this dressing-table is of you!” “Why? What’s the matter with it?” said Hammond. “If it were floating in eternity I should say ‘John!’” laughed Janey, staring at the big bottle of hair tonic, the wicker bottle of eau-deCologne, the two hair-brushes, and a dozen new collars tied with pink tape. “Is this all your luggage?” “Hang my luggage!” said Hammond; but all the same he liked being laughed at by Janey. “Let’s talk. Let’s get down to things. Tell me”—and as Janey perched on his knees he leaned back and drew her into the deep, ugly chair—“tell me you’re really glad to be back, Janey.” “Yes, darling, I am glad,” she said. But just as when he embraced her he felt she would fly away, so Hammond never knew —never knew for dead certain that she was as glad as he was. How could he know? Would he ever know? Would he always have this craving—this pang like hunger, somehow, to make Janey so much part of him that there wasn’t any of her to escape? He wanted to blot out everybody, everything. He wished now he’d turned off the light. That might have brought her nearer. And now those letters from the children rustled in her blouse. He could have chucked them into the fire. “Janey,” he whispered. “Yes, dear?” She lay on his breast, but so lightly, so remotely. Their breathing rose and fell together. “Janey!” “What is it?” “Turn to me,” he whispered. A slow, deep flush flowed into his forehead. “Kiss me, Janey! You kiss me!” It seemed to him there was a tiny pause—but long enough for him to suffer torture—before her lips touched his, firmly, lightly— kissing them as she always kissed him, as though the kiss—how could he describe it?—confirmed what they were saying, signed the contract. But that wasn’t what he wanted; that wasn’t at all what he thirsted for. He felt suddenly, horribly tired. “If you knew,” he said, opening his eyes, “what it’s been like—waiting to-day. I thought the boat never would come in. There we were, hanging about. What kept you so long?” She made no answer. She was looking away from him at the fire. The flames hurried—hurried over the coals, flickered, fell. “Not asleep, are you?” said Hammond, and he jumped her up and down. “No,” she said. And then: “Don’t do that, dear. No, I was thinking. As a matter of fact,” she said, “one of the passengers died last night—a man. That’s what held us up. We brought him in—I mean, he wasn’t buried at sea. So, of course, the ship’s doctor and the shore doctor——” “What was it?” asked Hammond uneasily. He hated to hear of death. He hated this to have happened. It was, in some queer way, as though he and Janey had met a funeral on their way to the hotel. “Oh, it wasn’t anything in the least infectious!” said Janey. She was speaking scarcely above her breath. “It was heart.” A pause. “Poor fellow!” she said. “Quite young.” And she watched the fire flicker and fall. “He died in my arms,” said Janey. The blow was so sudden that Hammond thought he would faint. He couldn’t move; he couldn’t breathe. He felt all his strength flowing—flowing into the big dark chair, and the big dark chair held him fast, gripped him, forced him to bear it. “What?” he said dully. “What’s that you say?” “The end was quite peaceful,” said the small voice. “He just”—and Hammond saw her lift her gentle hand—“breathed his life away at the end.” And her hand fell. “Who—else was there?” Hammond managed to ask. “Nobody. I was alone with him.” Ah, my God, what was she saying! What was she doing to him! This would kill him! And all the while she spoke: “I saw the change coming and I sent the steward for the doctor, but the doctor was too late. He couldn’t have done anything, anyway.” “But—why you, why you?” moaned Hammond. At that Janey turned quickly, quickly searched his face. “You don’t mind, John, do you?” she asked. “You don’t—— It’s nothing to do with you and me.” Somehow or other he managed to shake some sort of smile at her. Somehow or other he stammered: “No—go—on, go on! I want you to tell me.” “But, John darling——” “Tell me, Janey!” “There’s nothing to tell,” she said, wondering. “He was one of the first-class passengers. I saw he was very ill when he came on board ... But he seemed to be so much better until yesterday. He had a severe attack in the afternoon—excitement—nervousness, I think, about arriving. And after that he never recovered.” “But why didn’t the stewardess——” “Oh, my dear—the stewardess!” said Janey. “What would he have felt? And besides ... he might have wanted to leave a message ... to——” “Didn’t he?” muttered Hammond. “Didn’t he say anything?” “No, darling, not a word!” She shook her head softly. “All the time I was with him he was too weak ... he was too weak even to move a finger. ...” Janey was silent. But her words, so light, so soft, so chill, seemed to hover in the air, to rain into his breast like snow. The fire had gone red. Now it fell in with a sharp sound and the room was colder. Cold crept up his arms. The room was huge, immense, glittering. It filled his whole world. There was the great blind bed, with his coat flung across it like some headless man saying his prayers. There was the luggage, ready to be carried away again, anywhere, tossed into trains, carted on to boats ... “He was too weak. He was too weak to move a finger.” And yet he died in Janey’s arms. She—who’d never—never once in all these years—never on one single solitary occasion—— No; he mustn’t think of it. Madness lay in thinking of it. No, he wouldn’t face it. He couldn’t stand it. It was too much to bear! And now Janey touched his tie with her fingers. She pinched the edges of the tie together. “You’re not—sorry I told you, John darling? It hasn’t made you sad? It hasn’t spoilt our evening—our being alone together?” But at that he had to hide his face. He put his face into her bosom and his arms enfolded her. Spoilt their evening! Spoilt their being alone together! They would never be alone together again. Bank Holiday A stout man with a pink face wears dingy white flannel trousers, a blue coat with a pink handkerchief showing, and a straw hat much too small for him, perched at the back of his head. He plays the guitar. A little chap in white canvas shoes, his face hidden under a felt hat like a broken wing, breathes into a flute; and a tall thin fellow, with bursting over-ripe button boots, draws ribbons— long, twisted, streaming ribbons—of tune out of a fiddle. They stand, unsmiling, but not serious, in the broad sunlight opposite the fruit-shop; the pink spider of a hand beats the guitar, the little squat hand, with a brass-and-turquoise ring, forces the reluctant flute, and the fiddler’s arm tries to saw the fiddle in two. A crowd collects, eating oranges and bananas, tearing off the skins, dividing, sharing. One young girl has even a basket of strawberries, but she does not eat them. “Aren’t they dear!” She stares at the tiny pointed fruits as if she were afraid of them. The Australian soldier laughs. “Here, go on, there’s not more than a mouthful.” But he doesn’t want her to eat them, either. He likes to watch her little frightened face, and her puzzled eyes lifted to his: “Aren’t they a price!” He pushes out his chest and grins. Old fat women in velvet bodices—old dusty pin-cushions—lean old hags like worn umbrellas with a quivering bonnet on top; young women, in muslins, with hats that might have grown on hedges, and high pointed shoes; men in khaki, sailors, shabby clerks, young Jews in fine cloth suits with padded shoulders and wide trousers, “hospital boys” in blue—the sun discovers them—the loud, bold music holds them together in one big knot for a moment. The young ones are larking, pushing each other on and off the pavement, dodging, nudging; the old ones are talking: “So I said to ’im, if you wants the doctor to yourself, fetch ’im, says I.” “An’ by the time they was cooked there wasn’t so much as you could put in the palm of me ’and!” The only ones who are quiet are the ragged children. They stand, as close up to the musicians as they can get, their hands behind their backs, their eyes big. Occasionally a leg hops, an arm wags. A tiny staggerer, overcome, turns round twice, sits down solemn, and then gets up again. “Ain’t it lovely?” whispers a small girl behind her hand. And the music breaks into bright pieces, and joins together again, and again breaks, and is dissolved, and the crowd scatters, moving slowly up the hill. At the corner of the road the stalls begin. “Ticklers! Tuppence a tickler! ’Ool ’ave a tickler? Tickle ’em up, boys.” Little soft brooms on wire handles. They are eagerly bought by the soldiers. “Buy a golliwog! Tuppence a golliwog!” “Buy a jumping donkey! All alive-oh!” “Su-perior chewing gum. Buy something to do, boys.” “Buy a rose. Give ’er a rose, boy. Roses, lady?” “Fevvers! Fevvers!”? They are hard to resist. Lovely, streaming feathers, emerald green, scarlet, bright blue, canary yellow. Even the babies wear feathers threaded through their bonnets. And an old woman in a three-cornered paper hat cries as if it were her final parting advice, the only way of saving yourself or of bringing him to his senses: “Buy a three-cornered ’at, my dear, an’ put it on!” It is a flying day, half sun, half wind. When the sun goes in a shadow flies over; when it comes out again it is fiery. The men and women feel it burning their backs, their breasts and their arms; they feel their bodies expanding, coming alive ... so that they make large embracing gestures, lift up their arms, for nothing, swoop down on a girl, blurt into laughter. Lemonade! A whole tank of it stands on a table covered with a cloth; and lemons like blunted fishes blob in the yellow water. It looks solid, like a jelly, in the thick glasses. Why can’t they drink it without spilling it? Everybody spills it, and before the glass is handed back the last drops are thrown in a ring. Round the ice-cream cart, with its striped awning and bright brass cover, the children cluster. Little tongues lick, lick round the cream trumpets, round the squares. The cover is lifted, the wooden spoon plunges in; one shuts one’s eyes to feel it, silently scrunching. “Let these little birds tell you your future!” She stands beside the cage, a shrivelled ageless Italian, clasping and unclasping her dark claws. Her face, a treasure of delicate carving, is tied in a greenand-gold scarf. And inside their prison the love-birds flutter towards the papers in the seed-tray. “You have great strength of character. You will marry a red-haired man and have three children. Beware of a blonde woman. Look out! Look out! A motor-car driven by a fat chauffeur comes rushing down the hill. Inside there a blonde woman, pouting, leaning forward—rushing through your life—beware! beware!” “Ladies and gentlemen, I am an auctioneer by profession, and if what I tell you is not the truth I am liable to have my licence taken away from me and a heavy imprisonment.” He holds the licence across his chest; the sweat pours down his face into his paper collar; his eyes look glazed. When he takes off his hat there is a deep pucker of angry flesh on his forehead. Nobody buys a watch. Look out again! A huge barouche comes swinging down the hill with two old, old babies inside. She holds up a lace parasol; he sucks the knob of his cane, and the fat old bodies roll together as the cradle rocks, and the steaming horse leaves a trail of manure as it ambles down the hill. Under a tree, Professor Leonard, in cap and gown, stands beside his banner. He is here “for one day,” from the London, Paris and Brussels Exhibition, to tell your fortune from your face. And he stands, smiling encouragement, like a clumsy dentist. When the big men, romping and swearing a moment before, hand across their sixpence, and stand before him, they are suddenly serious, dumb, timid, almost blushing as the Professor’s quick hand notches the printed card. They are like little children caught playing in a forbidden garden by the owner, stepping from behind a tree. The top of the hill is reached. How hot it is! How fine it is! The public-house is open, and the crowd presses in. The mother sits on the pavement edge with her baby, and the father brings her out a glass of dark, brownish stuff, and then savagely elbows his way in again. A reek of beer floats from the public-house, and a loud clatter and rattle of voices. The wind has dropped, and the sun burns more fiercely than ever. Outside the two swing-doors there is a thick mass of children like flies at the mouth of a sweet-jar. And up, up the hill come the people, with ticklers and golliwogs, and roses and feathers. Up, up they thrust into the light and heat, shouting, laughing, squealing, as though they were being pushed by something, far below, and by the sun, far ahead of them— drawn up into the full, bright, dazzling radiance to ... what? An Ideal Family That evening for the first time in his life, as he pressed through the swing door and descended the three broad steps to the pavement, old Mr Neave felt he was too old for the spring. Spring— warm, eager, restless—was there, waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front of everybody to run up, to blow in his white beard, to drag sweetly on his arm. And he couldn’t meet her, no; he couldn’t square up once more and stride off, jaunty as a young man. He was tired and, although the late sun was still shining, curiously cold, with a numbed feeling all over. Quite suddenly he hadn’t the energy, he hadn’t the heart to stand this gaiety and bright movement any longer; it confused him. He wanted to stand still, to wave it away with his stick, to say, “Be off with you!” Suddenly it was a terrible effort to greet as usual—tipping his wide-awake with his stick—all the people whom he knew, the friends, acquaintances, shopkeepers, postmen, drivers. But the gay glance that went with the gesture, the kindly twinkle that seemed to say, “I’m a match and more for any of you”—that old Mr Neave could not manage at all. He stumped along, lifting his knees high as if he were walking through air that had somehow grown heavy and solid like water. And the homeward-going crowd hurried by, the trams clanked, the light carts clattered, the big swinging cabs bowled along with that reckless, defiant indifference that one knows only in dreams ... It had been a day like other days at the office. Nothing special had happened. Harold hadn’t come back from lunch until close on four. Where had he been? What had he been up to? He wasn’t going to let his father know. Old Mr Neave had happened to be in the vestibule, saying good-bye to a caller, when Harold sauntered in, perfectly turned out as usual, cool, suave, smiling that peculiar little half-smile that women found so fascinating. Ah, Harold was too handsome, too handsome by far; that had been the trouble all along. No man had a right to such eyes, such lashes and such lips; it was uncanny. As for his mother, his sisters, and the servants, it was not too much to say they made a young god of him; they worshipped Harold, they forgave him everything; and he had needed some forgiving ever since the time when he was thirteen and he had stolen his mother’s purse, taken the money, and hidden the purse in the cook’s bedroom. Old Mr Neave struck sharply with his stick upon the pavement edge. But it wasn’t only his family who spoiled Harold, he reflected, it was everybody; he had only to look and to smile, and down they went before him. So perhaps it wasn’t to be wondered at that he expected the office to carry on the tradition. H’m, h’m! But it couldn’t be done. No business—not even a successful, established, big paying concern—could be played with. A man had either to put his whole heart and soul into it, or it went all to pieces before his eyes ... And then Charlotte and the girls were always at him to make the whole thing over to Harold, to retire, and to spend his time enjoying himself. Enjoying himself! Old Mr Neave stopped dead under a group of ancient cabbage palms outside the Government buildings! Enjoying himself! The wind of evening shook the dark leaves to a thin airy cackle. Sitting at home, twiddling his thumbs, conscious all the while that his life’s work was slipping away, dissolving, disappearing through Harold’s fine fingers, while Harold smiled ... “Why will you be so unreasonable, father? There’s absolutely no need for you to go to the office. It only makes it very awkward for us when people persist in saying how tired you’re looking. Here’s this huge house and garden. Surely you could be happy in—in—appreciating it for a change. Or you could take up some hobby.” And Lola the baby had chimed in loftily, “All men ought to have hobbies. It makes life impossible if they haven’t.” Well, well! He couldn’t help a grim smile as painfully he began to climb the hill that led into Harcourt Avenue. Where would Lola and her sisters and Charlotte be if he’d gone in for hobbies, he’d like to know? Hobbies couldn’t pay for the town house and the seaside bungalow, and their horses, and their golf, and the sixtyguinea gramophone in the music-room for them to dance to. Not that he grudged them these things. No, they were smart, goodlooking girls, and Charlotte was a remarkable woman; it was natural for them to be in the swim. As a matter of fact, no other house in the town was as popular as theirs; no other family entertained so much. And how many times old Mr Neave, pushing the cigar box across the smoking-room table, had listened to praises of his wife, his girls, of himself even. “You’re an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. It’s like something one reads about or sees on the stage.” “That’s all right, my boy,” old Mr Neave would reply. “Try one of those; I think you’ll like them. And if you care to smoke in the garden, you’ll find the girls on the lawn, I dare say.” That was why the girls had never married, so people said. They could have married anybody. But they had too good a time at home. They were too happy together, the girls and Charlotte. H’m, h’m! Well, well! Perhaps so ... By this time he had walked the length of fashionable Harcourt Avenue; he had reached the corner house, their house. The carriage gates were pushed back; there were fresh marks of wheels on the drive. And then he faced the big white-painted house, with its wide-open windows, its tulle curtains floating outwards, its blue jars of hyacinths on the broad sills. On either side of the carriage porch their hydrangeas—famous in the town—were coming into flower; the pinkish, bluish masses of flower lay like light among the spreading leaves. And somehow, it seemed to old Mr Neave that the house and the flowers, and even the fresh marks on the drive, were saying, “There is young life here. There are girls ...” The hall, as always, was dusky with wraps, parasols, gloves, piled on the oak chests. From the music-room sounded the piano, quick, loud and impatient. Through the drawing-room door that was ajar voices floated. “And were there ices?” came from Charlotte. Then the creak, creak of her rocker. “Ices!” cried Ethel. “My dear mother, you never saw such ices. Only two kinds. And one a common little strawberry shop ice, in a sopping wet frill.” “The food altogether was too appalling,” came from Marion. “Still, it’s rather early for ices,” said Charlotte easily. “But why, if one has them at all ...” began Ethel. “Oh, quite so, darling,” crooned Charlotte. Suddenly the music-room door opened and Lola dashed out. She started, she nearly screamed, at the sight of old Mr Neave. “Gracious, father! What a fright you gave me! Have you just come home? Why isn’t Charles here to help you off with your coat?” Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes glittered, the hair fell over her forehead. And she breathed as though she had come running through the dark and was frightened. Old Mr Neave stared at his youngest daughter; he felt he had never seen her before. So that was Lola, was it? But she seemed to have forgotten her father; it was not for him that she was waiting there. Now she put the tip of her crumpled handkerchief between her teeth and tugged at it angrily. The telephone rang. A-ah! Lola gave a cry like a sob and dashed past him. The door of the telephone-room slammed, and at the same moment Charlotte called, “Is that you, father?” “You’re tired again,” said Charlotte reproachfully, and she stopped the rocker and offered him her warm plum-like cheek. Brighthaired Ethel pecked his beard; Marion’s lips brushed his ear. “Did you walk back, father?” asked Charlotte. “Yes, I walked home,” said old Mr Neave, and he sank into one of the immense drawing-room chairs. “But why didn’t you take a cab?” said Ethel. “There are hundreds of cabs about at that time.” “My dear Ethel,” cried Marion, “if father prefers to tire himself out, I really don’t see what business of ours it is to interfere.” “Children, children?” coaxed Charlotte. But Marion wouldn’t be stopped. “No, mother, you spoil father, and it’s not right. You ought to be stricter with him. He’s very naughty.” She laughed her hard, bright laugh and patted her hair in a mirror. Strange! When she was a little girl she had such a soft, hesitating voice; she had even stuttered, and now, whatever she said—even if it was only “Jam, please, father”—it rang out as though she were on the stage. “Did Harold leave the office before you, dear?” asked Charlotte, beginning to rock again. “I’m not sure,” said old Mr Neave. “I’m not sure. I didn’t see him after four o’clock.” “He said ...” began Charlotte. But at that moment Ethel, who was twitching over the leaves of some paper or other, ran to her mother and sank down beside her chair. “There, you see,” she cried. “That’s what I mean, mummy. Yellow, with touches of silver. Don’t you agree?” “Give it to me, love,” said Charlotte. She fumbled for her tortoiseshell spectacles and put them on, gave the page a little dab with her plump small fingers, and pursed up her lips. “Very sweet!” she crooned vaguely; she looked at Ethel over her spectacles. “But I shouldn’t have the train.” “Not the train!” wailed Ethel tragically. “But the train’s the whole point.” “Here, mother, let me decide.” Marion snatched the paper playfully from Charlotte. “I agree with mother,” she cried triumphantly. “The train overweights it.” Old Mr Neave, forgotten, sank into the broad lap of his chair, and, dozing, heard them as though he dreamed. There was no doubt about it, he was tired out; he had lost his hold. Even Charlotte and the girls were too much for him to-night. They were too ... too ... But all his drowsing brain could think of was—too rich for him. And somewhere at the back of everything he was watching a little withered ancient man climbing up endless flights of stairs. Who was he? “I shan’t dress to-night,” he muttered. “What do you say, father?” “Eh, what, what?” Old Mr Neave woke with a start and stared across at them. “I shan’t dress to-night,” he repeated. “But, father, we’ve got Lucile coming, and Henry Davenport, and Mrs Teddie Walker.” “It will look so very out of the picture.” “Don’t you feel well, dear?” “You needn’t make any effort. What is Charles for?” “But if you’re really not up to it,” Charlotte wavered. “Very well! Very well!” Old Mr Neave got up and went to join that little old climbing fellow just as far as his dressing-room ... There young Charles was waiting for him. Carefully, as though everything depended on it, he was tucking a towel round the hotwater can. Young Charles had been a favourite of his ever since as a little red-faced boy he had come into the house to look after the fires. Old Mr Neave lowered himself into the cane lounge by the window, stretched out his legs, and made his little evening joke, “Dress him up, Charles!” And Charles, breathing intensely and frowning, bent forward to take the pin out of his tie. H’m, h’m! Well, well! It was pleasant by the open window, very pleasant—a fine mild evening. They were cutting the grass on the tennis court below; he heard the soft churr of the mower. Soon the girls would begin their tennis parties again. And at the thought he seemed to hear Marion’s voice ring out, “Good for you, partner ... Oh, played, partner ... Oh, very nice indeed.” Then Charlotte calling from the veranda, “Where is Harold?” And Ethel, “He’s certainly not here, mother.” And Charlotte’s vague, “He said——” Old Mr Neave sighed, got up, and putting one hand under his beard, he took the comb from young Charles, and carefully combed the white beard over. Charles gave him a folded handkerchief, his watch and seals, and spectacle case. “That will do, my lad.” The door shut, he sank back, he was alone ... And now that little ancient fellow was climbing down endless flights that led to a glittering, gay dining-room. What legs he had! They were like a spider’s—thin, withered. “You’re an ideal family, sir, an ideal family.” But if that were true, why didn’t Charlotte or the girls stop him? Why was he all alone, climbing up and down? Where was Harold? Ah, it was no good expecting anything from Harold. Down, down went the little old spider, and then, to his horror, old Mr Neave saw him slip past the dining-room and make for the porch, the dark drive, the carriage gates, the office. Stop him, stop him, somebody! Old Mr Neave started up. It was dark in his dressing-room; the window shone pale. How long had he been asleep? He listened, and through the big, airy, darkened house there floated far-away voices, far-away sounds. Perhaps, he thought vaguely, he had been asleep for a long time. He’d been forgotten. What had all this to do with him—this house and Charlotte, the girls and Harold—what did he know about them? They were strangers to him. Life had passed him by. Charlotte was not his wife. His wife! ... A dark porch, half hidden by a passion-vine, that drooped sorrowful, mournful, as though it understood. Small, warm arms were round his neck. A face, little and pale, lifted to his, and a voice breathed, “Good-bye, my treasure.” My treasure! “Good-bye, my treasure!” Which of them had spoken? Why had they said good-bye? There had been some terrible mistake. She was his wife, that little pale girl, and all the rest of his life had been a dream. Then the door opened, and young Charles, standing in the light, put his hands by his side and shouted like a young soldier, “Dinner is on the table, sir!” “I’m coming, I’m coming,” said old Mr Neave. The Lady’s Maid Eleven o’clock. A knock at the door. ... I hope I haven’t disturbed you, madam. You weren’t asleep—were you? But I’ve just given my lady her tea, and there was such a nice cup over, I thought, perhaps ... Not at all, madam. I always make a cup of tea last thing. She drinks it in bed after her prayers to warm her up. I put the kettle on when she kneels down and I say to it, “Now you needn’t be in too much of a hurry to say your prayers.” But it’s always boiling before my lady is half through. You see, madam, we know such a lot of people, and they’ve all got to be prayed for—every one. My lady keeps a list of the names in a little red book. Oh dear! whenever some one new has been to see us and my lady says afterwards, “Ellen, give me my little red book,” I feel quite wild, I do. “There’s another,” I think, “keeping her out of her bed in all weathers.” And she won’t have a cushion, you know, madam; she kneels on the hard carpet. It fidgets me something dreadful to see her, knowing her as I do. I’ve tried to cheat her; I’ve spread out the eiderdown. But the first time I did it—oh, she gave me such a look—holy it was, madam. “Did our Lord have an eiderdown, Ellen?” she said. But—I was younger at the time—I felt inclined to say, “No, but our Lord wasn’t your age, and he didn’t know what it was to have your lumbago.” Wicked—wasn’t it? But she’s too good, you know, madam. When I tucked her up just now and seen—saw her lying back, her hands outside and her head on the pillow—so pretty—I couldn’t help thinking, “Now you look just like your dear mother when I laid her out!” ... Yes, madam, it was all left to me. Oh, she did look sweet. I did her hair, soft-like, round her forehead, all in dainty curls, and just to one side of her neck I put a bunch of most beautiful purple pansies. Those pansies made a picture of her, madam! I shall never forget them. I thought to-night, when I looked at my lady, “Now, if only the pansies was there no one could tell the difference.” ... Only the last year, madam. Only after she’d got a little—well— feeble as you might say. Of course, she was never dangerous; she was the sweetest old lady. But how it took her was—she thought she’d lost something. She couldn’t keep still, she couldn’t settle. All day long she’d be up and down, up and down; you’d meet her everywhere—on the stairs, in the porch, making for the kitchen. And she’d look up at you, and she’d say—just like a child, “I’ve lost it, I’ve lost it.” – “Come along,” I’d say, “come along, and I’ll lay out your patience for you.” But she’d catch me by the hand—I was a favourite of hers—and whisper, “Find it for me, Ellen. Find it for me.” Sad, wasn’t it? ... No, she never recovered, madam. She had a stroke at the end. Last words she ever said was—very slow, “Look in—the ... Look— in ...” And then she was gone ... No, madam, I can’t say I noticed it. Perhaps some girls. But you see, it’s like this, I’ve got nobody but my lady. My mother died of consumption when I was four, and I lived with my grandfather, who kept a hair-dresser’s shop. I used to spend all my time in the shop under a table dressing my doll’s hair—copying the assistants, I suppose. They were ever so kind to me. Used to make me little wigs, all colours, the latest fashions and all. And there I’d sit all day, quiet as quiet—the customers never knew. Only now and again I’d take my peep from under the tablecloth ... But one day I managed to get a pair of scissors and—would you believe it, madam? I cut off all my hair; snipped it off all in bits, like the little monkey I was. Grandfather was furious! He caught hold of the tongs—I shall never forget it—grabbed me by the hand and shut my fingers in them. “That’ll teach you!” he said. It was a fearful burn. I’ve got the mark of it to-day ... Well, you see, madam, he’d taken such pride in my hair. He used to sit me up on the counter, before the customers came, and do it something beautiful—big, soft curls and waved over the top. I remember the assistants standing round, and me ever so solemn with the penny grandfather gave me to hold while it was being done ... But he always took the penny back afterwards. Poor grandfather! Wild, he was, at the fright I’d made of myself. But he frightened me that time. Do you know what I did, madam? I ran away. Yes, I did, round the corners, in and out, I don’t know how far I didn’t run. Oh, dear, I must have looked a sight, with my hand rolled up in my pinny and my hair sticking out. People must have laughed when they saw me ... No, madam, grandfather never got over it. He couldn’t bear the sight of me after. Couldn’t eat his dinner, even, if I was there. So my aunt took me. She was a cripple, an upholstress. Tiny! She had to stand on the sofas when she wanted to cut out the backs. And it was helping her I met my lady ... Not so very, madam. I was thirteen, turned. And I don’t remember ever feeling—well—a child, as you might say. You see there was my uniform, and one thing and another. My lady put me into collars and cuffs from the first. Oh yes—once I did! That was— funny! It was like this. My lady had her two little nieces staying with her—we were at Sheldon at the time—and there was a fair on the common. “Now, Ellen,” she said, “I want you to take the two young ladies for a ride on the donkeys.” Off we went; solemn little loves they were; each had a hand. But when we came to the donkeys they were too shy to go on. So we stood and watched instead. Beautiful those donkeys were! They were the first I’d seen out of a cart— for pleasure as you might say. They were a lovely silver-grey, with little red saddles and blue bridles and bells jing-a-jingling on their ears. And quite big girls—older than me, even—were riding them, ever so gay. Not at all common, I don’t mean, madam, just enjoying themselves. And I don’t know what it was, but the way the little feet went, and the eyes—so gentle—and the soft ears—made me want to go on a donkey more than anything in the world! ... Of course, I couldn’t. I had my young ladies. And what would I have looked like perched up there in my uniform? But all the rest of the day it was donkeys—donkeys on the brain with me. I felt I should have burst if I didn’t tell some one; and who was there to tell? But when I went to bed—I was sleeping in Mrs James’s bedroom, our cook that was, at the time—as soon as the lights was out, there they were, my donkeys, jingling along, with their neat little feet and sad eyes ... Well, madam, would you believe it, I waited for a long time and pretended to be asleep, and then suddenly I sat up and called out as loud as I could, “I do want to go on a donkey. I do want a donkey-ride!” You see, I had to say it, and I thought they wouldn’t laugh at me if they knew I was only dreaming. Artful—wasn’t it? Just what a silly child would think ... No, madam, never now. Of course, I did think of it at one time. But it wasn’t to be. He had a little flower-shop just down the road and across from where we was living. Funny—wasn’t it? And me such a one for flowers. We were having a lot of company at the time, and I was in and out of the shop more often than not, as the saying is. And Harry and I (his name was Harry) got to quarrelling about how things ought to be arranged—and that began it. Flowers! you wouldn’t believe it, madam, the flowers he used to bring me. He’d stop at nothing. It was lilies-of-the-valley more than once, and I’m not exaggerating! Well, of course, we were going to be married and live over the shop, and it was all going to be just so, and I was to have the window to arrange ... Oh, how I’ve done that window of a Saturday! Not really, of course, madam, just dreaming, as you might say. I’ve done it for Christmas—motto in holly, and all—and I’ve had my Easter lilies with a gorgeous star all daffodils in the middle. I’ve hung— well, that’s enough of that. The day came he was to call for me to choose the furniture. Shall I ever forget it? It was a Tuesday. My lady wasn’t quite herself that afternoon. Not that she’d said anything, of course; she never does or will. But I knew by the way that she kept wrapping herself up and asking me if it was cold—and her little nose looked ... pinched. I didn’t like leaving her; I knew I’d be worrying all the time. At last I asked her if she’d rather I put it off. “Oh no, Ellen,” she said, “you mustn’t mind about me. You mustn’t disappoint your young man.” And so cheerful, you know, madam, never thinking about herself. It made me feel worse than ever. I began to wonder ... then she dropped her handkerchief and began to stoop down to pick it up herself—a thing she never did. “Whatever are you doing!” I cried, running to stop her. “Well,” she said, smiling, you know, madam, “I shall have to begin to practise.” Oh, it was all I could do not to burst out crying. I went over to the dressing-table and made believe to rub up the silver, and I couldn’t keep myself in, and I asked her if she’d rather I ... didn’t get married. “No, Ellen,” she said—that was her voice, madam, like I’m giving you—“No, Ellen, not for the wide world!” But while she said it, madam—I was looking in her glass; of course, she didn’t know I could see her—she put her little hand on her heart just like her dear mother used to, and lifted her eye ... Oh, madam! When Harry came I had his letters all ready, and the ring and a ducky little brooch he’d given me—a silver bird it was, with a chain in its beak, and on the end of the chain a heart with a dagger. Quite the thing! I opened the door to him. I never gave him time for a word. “There you are,” I said. “Take them all back,” I said, “it’s all over. I’m not going to marry you,” I said, “I can’t leave my lady.” White! he turned as white as a woman. I had to slam the door, and there I stood, all of a tremble, till I knew he had gone. When I opened the door—believe me or not, madam—that man was gone! I ran out into the road just as I was, in my apron and my house-shoes, and there I stayed in the middle of the road ... staring. People must have laughed if they saw me ... Goodness gracious!—What’s that? It’s the clock striking! And here I’ve been keeping you awake. Oh, madam, you ought to have stopped me ... Can I tuck in your feet? I always tuck in my lady’s feet, every night, just the same. And she says, “Good night, Ellen. Sleep sound and wake early!” I don’t know what I should do if she didn’t say that, now. Oh dear, I sometimes think ... whatever should I do if anything were to ... But, there, thinking’s no good to anyone—is it, madam? Thinking won’t help. Not that I do it often. And if ever I do I pull myself up sharp, “Now then, Ellen. At it again—you silly girl! If you can’t find anything better to do than to start thinking! ...”](assets/img/mansfield_garden_party_cover-sm.png)
![Buchcover von "The Raven and Other Poems" von E. A. Poe. - Text: The Raven ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— Only this, and nothing more.” Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating “’Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is, and nothing more.” Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—— Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!” Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— ’Tis the wind and nothing more!” Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.” Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as “Nevermore.” But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.“ Then the bird said “Nevermore.” Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of ‘Never—nevermore.’” But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking “Nevermore.” This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o’er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. “Wretch,” I cried, „thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!“ Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.” “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.” “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.” “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting— “Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.” And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore! Annabel Lee It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea: But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea. To Helen Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently, o’er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, To the grandeur that was Rome. Lo! in yon brilliant window niche, How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land! To Helen [2] I saw thee once—once only—years ago: I must not say how many—but not many. It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, With quietude, and sultriness and slumber, Upon the upturn’d faces of a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe— Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses That gave out, in return for the love-light, Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death— Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. Clad all in white, upon a violet bank I saw thee half-reclining; while the moon Fell on the upturn’d faces of the roses, And on thine own, upturn’d—alas, in sorrow! Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight— Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow), That bade me pause before that garden-gate, To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept, Save only thee and me—(O Heaven!—O God! How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)— Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked— And in an instant all things disappeared. (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!) The pearly lustre of the moon went out: The mossy banks and the meandering paths, The happy flowers and the repining trees, Were seen no more: the very roses’ odors Died in the arms of the adoring airs. All—all expired save thee—save less than thou: Save only the divine light in thine eyes— Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. I saw but them—they were the world to me. I saw but them—saw only them for hours— Saw only them until the moon went down. What wild heart-histories seemed to lie unwritten Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres! How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope! How silently serene a sea of pride! How daring an ambition! yet how deep— How fathomless a capacity for love! But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. They would not go—they never yet have gone. Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. They follow me—they lead me through the years. They are my ministers—yet I their slave. Their office is to illumine and enkindle— My duty, to be saved by their bright light, And purified in their electric fire, And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope), And are far up in Heaven—the stars I kneel to In the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare of day I see them still—two sweetly scintillant Venuses, unextinguished by the sun! To F—— Beloved! amid the earnest woes That crowd around my earthly path— (Drear path, alas! where grows Not even one lonely rose)— My soul at least a solace hath In dreams of thee, and therein knows An Eden of bland repose. And thus thy memory is to me Like some enchanted far-off isle In some tumultuous sea— Some ocean throbbing far and free With storm—but where meanwhile Serenest skies continually Just o’er that one bright inland smile. A Valentine For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes, Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda, Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader. Search narrowly the lines!—they hold a treasure Divine—a talisman—an amulet That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure— The words—the syllables! Do not forget The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor! And yet there is in this no Gordian knot Which one might not undo without a sabre, If one could merely comprehend the plot. Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing Of poets by poets—as the name is a poet’s, too. Its letters, although naturally lying Like the knight Pinto—Mendez Ferdinando— Still form a synonym for Truth—Cease trying! You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do. For Annie Thank Heaven! the crisis— The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last— And the fever called “Living” Is conquered at last. Sadly, I know, I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length— But no matter!—I feel I am better at length. And I rest so composedly, Now in my bed, That any beholder Might fancy me dead— Might start at beholding me Thinking me dead. The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart:—ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing! The sickness—the nausea— The pitiless pain— Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain— With the fever called “Living” That burned in my brain. And oh! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated—the terrible Torture of thirst, For the naphthaline river Of Passion accurst:— I have drank of a water That quenches all thirst:— Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a very few Feet under ground— From a cavern not very far Down under ground. And ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy And narrow my bed— For man never slept In a different bed; And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed. My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never Regretting its roses— Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses: For now, while so quietly Lying, it fancies A holier odor About it, of pansies— A rosemary odor, Commingled with pansies— With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies. And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie— Drowned in a bath Of the tresses of Annie. She tenderly kissed me, She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast— Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast. When the light was extinguished, She covered me warm, And she prayed to the angels To keep me from harm— To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm. And I lie so composedly, Now in my bed (Knowing her love) That you fancy me dead— And I rest so contentedly, Now in my bed, (With her love at my breast) That you fancy me dead— That you shudder to look at me. Thinking me dead. But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie— It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie— With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie. The Bells I Hear the sledges with the bells— Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In their icy air of night! While the stars, that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. II Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! III Hear the loud alarum bells— Brazen bells! What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now—now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells— Of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! IV Hear the tolling of the bells — Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people—ah, the people— They that dwell up in the steeple. All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone— They are neither man nor woman— They are neither brute nor human — They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A pæan from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the pæan of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the pæan of the bells — Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells — To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells- To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. The Valley of Unrest Once it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell; They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly, from their azure towers, To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sun-light lazily lay. Now each visitor shall confess The sad valley’s restlessness. Nothing there is motionless— Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides! Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet Heaven Unceasingly, from morn till even, Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eye— Over the lilies that wave And weep above a nameless grave! They wave:—from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops. They weep:—from off their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems. The City in the Sea Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers and tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is ours. Around, by lifting winds forgot, Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. No rays from the holy Heaven come down On the long night-time of that town; But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silently— Gleams up the pinnacles far and free— Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls— Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls— Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers— Up many and many a marvellous shrine Whose wreathed friezes intertwine The viol, the violet, and the vine. Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air, While from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down. There open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous waves; But not the riches there that lie In each idol’s diamond eye— Not the gaily-jewelled dead Tempt the waters from their bed; For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glass— No swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea— No heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene. But lo, a stir is in the air! The wave—there is a movement there! As if the towers had thrust aside, In slightly sinking, the dull tide— As if their tops had feebly given A void within the filmy Heaven. The waves have now a redder glow— The hours are breathing faint and low— And when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down that town shall settle hence, Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, Shall do it reverence. The Coliseum Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length—at length—after so many days Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) I kneel, an altered and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength— O spells more sure than e’er Judæan king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones! But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades— These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts— These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze— These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin— These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all— All of the famed, and the colossal left By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me? “Not all”—the Echoes answer me—“not all! Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, As melody from Memnon to the Sun. We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule With a despotic sway all giant minds. We are not impotent—we pallid stones. Not all our power is gone—not all our fame— Not all the magic of our high renown— Not all the wonder that encircles us— Not all the mysteries that in us lie— Not all the memories that hang upon And cling around about us as a garment, Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.” Dreamland By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named Night, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule— From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime, Out of Space—out of Time. Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover For the dews that drip all over; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore; Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging, unto skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters—lone and dead, Their still waters—still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily. By the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead,— Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily,— By the mountains—near the river Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,— By the grey woods,—by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encamp,— By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls,— By each spot the most unholy— In each nook most melancholy,— There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the Past— Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by— White-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven. For the heart whose woes are legion ’Tis a peaceful, soothing region— For the spirit that walks in shadow ’Tis—oh, ’tis an Eldorado! But the traveller, travelling through it, May not—dare not openly view it; Never its mysteries are exposed To the weak human eye unclosed; So wills its King, who hath forbid The uplifting of the fringed lid; And thus the sad Soul that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses. By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named Night, On a black throne reigns upright, I have wandered home but newly From this ultimate dim Thule. Eldorado Gaily bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old— This knight so bold— And o’er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow— “Shadow,” said he, “Where can it be— This land of Eldorado?” “Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride,” The shade replied, “If you seek for Eldorado!” Fairy-Land Dim vales—and shadowy floods— And cloudy-looking woods, Whose forms we can’t discover For the tears that drip all over. Huge moons there wax and wane— Again—again—again— Every moment of the night— Forever changing places— And they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces. About twelve by the moon-dial One more filmy than the rest (A kind which, upon trial, They have found to be the best) Comes down—still down—and down With its centre on the crown Of a mountain’s eminence, While its wide circumference In easy drapery falls Over hamlets, over halls, Wherever they may be— O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea— Over spirits on the wing— Over every drowsy thing— And buries them up quite In a labyrinth of light— And then, how deep!—O, deep! Is the passion of their sleep. In the morning they arise, And their moony covering Is soaring in the skies, With the tempests as they toss, Like—almost any thing— Or a yellow Albatross. They use that moon no more For the same end as before— Videlicet a tent— Which I think extravagant: Its atomies, however, Into a shower dissever, Of which those butterflies, Of Earth, who seek the skies, And so come down again (Never-contented thing!) Have brought a specimen Upon their quivering wings. Spirits of the Dead I Thy soul shall find itself alone ’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tomb-stone— Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy. II Be silent in that solitude Which is not loneliness—for then The spirits of the dead who stood In life before thee are again In death around thee—and their will Shall overshadow thee: be still. III The night—tho’ clear—shall frown— And the stars shall not look down From their high thrones in the Heaven, With light like Hope to mortals given— But their red orbs, without beam, To thy weariness shall seem As a burning and a fever Which would cling to thee for ever. IV Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish— Now are visions ne’er to vanish— From thy spirit shall they pass No more—like dew-drops from the grass. V The breeze—the breath of God—is still— And the mist upon the hill Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken, Is a symbol and a token— How it hangs upon the trees, A mystery of mysteries! The Sleeper At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon. An opiate vapour, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim, And, softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain top, Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley. The rosemary nods upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave, Wrapping the fog about its breast; The ruin moulders into rest; Looking like Lethe, see! the lake A conscious slumber seems to take, And would not, for the world, awake. All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies (Her casement open to the skies) Irene, with her Destinies! Oh, lady bright! can it be right— This window open to the night! The wanton airs, from the tree-top, Laughingly through the lattice-drop— The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully—so fearfully— Above the closed and fringed lid ’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid, That, o’er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? Why and what art thou dreaming here? Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas, A wonder to these garden trees! Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress! Strange, above all, thy length of tress, And this all-solemn silentness! The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep Which is enduring, so be deep! Heaven have her in its sacred keep! This chamber changed for one more holy, This bed for one more melancholy, I pray to God that she may lie For ever with unopened eye, While the dim sheeted ghosts go by! My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, As it is lasting, so be deep; Soft may the worms about her creep! Far in the forest, dim and old, For her may some tall vault unfold— Some vault that oft hath flung its black And winged panels fluttering back, Triumphant, o’er the crested palls, Of her grand family funerals— Some sepulchre, remote, alone, Against whose portal she hath thrown, In childhood many an idle stone— Some tomb from out whose sounding door She ne’er shall force an echo more, Thrilling to think, poor child of sin, It was the dead who groaned within. A Dream within a Dream Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow— You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream: Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand— How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep While I weep—while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? A Dream In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed— But a waking dream of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted. Ah! what is not a dream by day To him whose eyes are cast On things around him with a ray Turned back upon the past? That holy dream—that holy dream, While all the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam, A lonely spirit guiding. What though that light, thro’ storm and night, So trembled from afar— What could there be more purely bright In Truth’s day star? To Science – Sonnet – Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing! Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree? Dreams Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream! My spirit not awakening, till the beam Of an Eternity should bring the morrow. Yes! though that long dream were of hopeless sorrow, ’Twere better than the cold reality Of waking life, to him whose heart must be, And hath been still, upon the lovely earth, A chaos of deep passion, from his birth. But should it be—that dream eternally Continuing—as dreams have been to me In my young boyhood—should it thus be given, ’Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven. For I have revelled when the sun was bright I’ the summer sky, in dreams of living light And loveliness,—have left my very heart Inclines of my imaginary apart From mine own home, with beings that have been Of mine own thought—what more could I have seen? ’Twas once—and only once—and the wild hour From my remembrance shall not pass—some power Or spell had bound me—’twas the chilly wind Came o’er me in the night, and left behind Its image on my spirit—or the moon Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon Too coldly—or the stars—howe’er it was That dream was as that night-wind—let it pass. I have been happy, though in a dream. I have been happy—and I love the theme: Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife Of semblance with reality which brings To the delirious eye, more lovely things Of Paradise and Love—and all my own!— Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known. Alone From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring— From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I loved—I loved alone— Then—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain— From the red cliff of the mountain— From the sun that round me roll’d In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by— From the thunder and the storm— And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view. The Lake In spring of youth it was my lot To haunt of the wide world a spot The which I could not love the less— So lovely was the loneliness Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, And the tall pines that towered around. But when the Night had thrown her pall Upon the spot, as upon all, And the mystic wind went by Murmuring in melody— Then—ah, then, I would awake To the terror of the lone lake. Yet that terror was not fright, But a tremulous delight— A feeling not the jewelled mine Could teach or bribe me to define— Nor Love—although the Love were thine. Death was in that poisonous wave, And in its gulf a fitting grave For him who thence could solace bring To his lone imagining— Whose solitary soul could make An Eden of that dim lake. [The Happiest Day] The happiest day—the happiest hour My seared and blighted heart hath known, The highest hope of pride and power, I feel hath flown. Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween But they have vanished long, alas! The visions of my youth have been— But let them pass. And pride, what have I now with thee? Another brow may ev’n inherit The venom thou hast poured on me— Be still my spirit! The happiest day—the happiest hour Mine eyes shall see—have ever seen The brightest glance of pride and power I feel have been: But were that hope of pride and power Now offered with the pain Ev’n then I felt—that brightest hour I would not live again: For on its wing was dark alloy And as it fluttered—fell An essence—powerful to destroy A soul that knew it well. Evening Star ’Twas noontide of summer, And midtime of night; And stars, in their orbits, Shone pale, through the light Of the brighter, cold moon, ’Mid planets her slaves, Herself in the Heavens, Her beam on the waves. I gazed awhile On her cold smile; Too cold—too cold for me— There passed, as a shroud, A fleecy cloud, And I turned away to thee, Proud Evening Star, In thy glory afar, And dearer thy beam shall be; For joy to my heart Is the proud part Thou bearest in Heaven at night, And more I admire Thy distant fire, Than that colder, lowly light. Introduction Romance, who loves to nod and sing, With drowsy head and folded wing, Among the green leaves as they shake Far down within some shadowy lake, To me a painted paroquet Hath been—a most familiar bird— Taught me my alphabet to say— To lisp my very earliest word While in the wild wood I did lie, A child—with a most knowing eye. Succeeding years, too wild for song, Then rolled like tropic storms along, Where, though the garish lights that fly Dying along the troubled sky, Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven, The blackness of the general Heaven, That very blackness yet doth fling Light on the lightning’s silver wing. For being an idle boy lang syne, Who read Anacreon and drank wine, I early found Anacreon rhymes Were almost passionate sometimes— And by strange alchemy of brain His pleasures always turned to pain— His naïveté to wild desire— His wit to love—his wine to fire— And so, being young and dipt in folly, I fell in love with melancholy. And used to throw my earthly rest And quiet all away in jest— I could not love except where Death Was mingling his with Beauty’s breath— Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny, Were stalking between her and me. O, then the eternal Condor years So shook the very Heavens on high, With tumult as they thunder’d by; I had no time for idle cares, Thro’ gazing on the unquiet sky! Or if an hour with calmer wing Its down did on my spirit fling, That little hour with lyre and rhyme To while away—forbidden thing! My heart half fear’d to be a crime Unless it trembled with the string. But now my soul hath too much room— Gone are the glory and the gloom— The black hath mellow’d into grey, And all the fires are fading away. My draught of passion hath been deep— I revell’d, and I now would sleep— And after-drunkenness of soul Succeeds the glories of the bowl— An idle longing night and day To dream my very life away. But dreams—of those who dream as I, Aspiringly, are damned, and die: Yet should I swear I mean alone, By notes so very shrilly blown, To break upon Time’s monotone, While yet my vapid joy and grief Are tintless of the yellow leaf— Why not an imp the greybeard hath, Will shake his shadow in my path— And e’en the greybeard will o’erlook Connivingly my dreaming-book. Imitation A dark unfathomed tide Of interminable pride— A mystery, and a dream, Should my early life seem; I say that dream was fraught With a wild and waking thought Of beings that have been, Which my spirit hath not seen, Had I let them pass me by, With a dreaming eye! Let none of earth inherit That vision on my spirit; Those thoughts I would controul, As a spell upon his soul: For that bright hope at last And that light time have past, And my wordly rest hath gone With a sigh as it passed on: I care not though it perish With a thought I then did cherish. [Stanzas] How often we forget all time, when lone Admiring Nature’s universal throne; Her woods—her wilds—her mountains—the intense Reply of hers to our intelligence! 1 In youth I have known one with whom the Earth In secret communing held—as he with it, In daylight, and in beauty from his birth: Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth A passionate light such for his spirit was fit— And yet that spirit knew—not in the hour Of its own fervor—what had o’er it power. 2 Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought To a ferver by the moonbeam that hangs o’er, But I will half believe that wild light fraught With more of sovereignty than ancient lore Hath ever told—or is it of a thought The unembodied essence and no more That with a quickening spell doth o’er us pass As dew of the night-time, o’er the summer grass? 3 Doth o’er us pass, when, as th’ expanding eye To the loved object—so the tear to the lid Will start, which lately slept in apathy? And yet it need not be—(that object) hid From us in life—but common—which doth lie Each hour before us—but then only bid With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken T’ awake us—’Tis a symbol and a token— 4 Of what in other worlds shall be—and given In beauty by our God, to those alone Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven Drawn by their heart’s passion, and that tone, That high tone of the spirit which hath striven Though not with Faith—with godliness—whose throne With desperate energy ’t hath beaten down; Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown. Silence There are some qualities—some incorporate things, That have a double life, which thus is made A type of that twin entity which springs From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade. There is a twofold Silence—sea and shore— Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places, Newly with grass o’ergrown; some solemn graces, Some human memories and tearful lore, Render him terrorless: his name’s “No More.” He is the corporate Silence: dread him not! No power hath he of evil in himself; But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!) Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf, That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod No foot of man), commend thyself to God! Tamerlane Kind solace in a dying hour! Such, father, is not (now) my theme— I will not madly deem that power Of Earth may shrive me of the sin Unearthly pride hath revelled in— I have no time to dote or dream: You call it hope—that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire: If I can hope—O God! I can— Its fount is holier—more divine— I would not call thee fool, old man, But such is not a gift of thine. Know thou the secret of a spirit Bowed from its wild pride into shame. O yearning heart! I did inherit Thy withering portion with the fame, The searing glory which hath shone Amid the Jewels of my throne, Halo of Hell! and with a pain Not Hell shall make me fear again— O craving heart, for the lost flowers And sunshine of my summer hours! The undying voice of that dead time, With its interminable chime, Rings, in the spirit of a spell, Upon thy emptiness—a knell. I have not always been as now: The fevered diadem on my brow I claimed and won usurpingly— Hath not the same fierce heirdom given Rome to the Cæsar—this to me? The heritage of a kingly mind, And a proud spirit which hath striven Triumphantly with human kind. On mountain soil I first drew life: The mists of the Taglay have shed Nightly their dews upon my head, And, I believe, the winged strife And tumult of the headlong air Have nestled in my very hair. So late from Heaven—that dew—it fell (’Mid dreams of an unholy night) Upon me with the touch of Hell, While the red flashing of the light From clouds that hung, like banners, o’er, Appeared to my half-closing eye The pageantry of monarchy; And the deep trumpet-thunder’s roar Came hurriedly upon me, telling Of human battle, where my voice, My own voice, silly child!—was swelling (O! how my spirit would rejoice, And leap within me at the cry) The battle-cry of Victory! The rain came down upon my head Unsheltered—and the heavy wind Rendered me mad and deaf and blind. It was but man, I thought, who shed Laurels upon me: and the rush— The torrent of the chilly air Gurgled within my ear the crush Of empires—with the captive’s prayer— The hum of suitors—and the tone Of flattery ’round a sovereign’s throne. My passions, from that hapless hour, Usurped a tyranny which men Have deemed since I have reached to power, My innate nature—be it so: But, father, there lived one who, then, Then—in my boyhood—when their fire Burned with a still intenser glow (For passion must, with youth, expire) E’en then who knew this iron heart In woman’s weakness had a part. I have no words—alas!—to tell The loveliness of loving well! Nor would I now attempt to trace The more than beauty of a face Whose lineaments, upon my mind, Are—shadows on th’ unstable wind: Thus I remember having dwelt Some page of early lore upon, With loitering eye, till I have felt The letters—with their meaning—melt To fantasies—with none. O, she was worthy of all love! Love as in infancy was mine— ’Twas such as angel minds above Might envy; her young heart the shrine On which my every hope and thought Were incense—then a goodly gift, For they were childish and upright— Pure—as her young example taught: Why did I leave it, and, adrift, Trust to the fire within, for light? We grew in age—and love—together— Roaming the forest, and the wild; My breast her shield in wintry weather— And, when the friendly sunshine smiled, And she would mark the opening skies, I saw no Heaven—but in her eyes. Young Love’s first lesson is——the heart: For ’mid that sunshine, and those smiles, When, from our little cares apart, And laughing at her girlish wiles, I’d throw me on her throbbing breast, And pour my spirit out in tears— There was no need to speak the rest— No need to quiet any fears Of her—who asked no reason why, But turned on me her quiet eye! Yet more than worthy of the love My spirit struggled with, and strove When, on the mountain peak, alone, Ambition lent it a new tone— I had no being—but in thee: The world, and all it did contain In the earth—the air—the sea— Its joy—its little lot of pain That was new pleasure—the ideal, Dim, vanities of dreams by night— And dimmer nothings which were real— (Shadows—and a more shadowy light!) Parted upon their misty wings, And, so, confusedly, became Thine image and—a name—a name! Two separate—yet most intimate things. I was ambitious—have you known The passion, father? You have not: A cottager, I marked a throne Of half the world as all my own, And murmured at such lowly lot— But, just like any other dream, Upon the vapor of the dew My own had past, did not the beam Of beauty which did while it thro’ The minute—the hour—the day—oppress My mind with double loveliness. We walked together on the crown Of a high mountain which looked down Afar from its proud natural towers Of rock and forest, on the hills— The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers And shouting with a thousand rills. I spoke to her of power and pride, But mystically—in such guise That she might deem it nought beside The moment’s converse; in her eyes I read, perhaps too carelessly— A mingled feeling with my own— The flush on her bright cheek, to me Seemed to become a queenly throne Too well that I should let it be Light in the wilderness alone. I wrapped myself in grandeur then, And donned a visionary crown— Yet it was not that Fantasy Had thrown her mantle over me— But that, among the rabble—men, Lion ambition is chained down— And crouches to a keeper’s hand— Not so in deserts where the grand— The wild—the terrible conspire With their own breath to fan his fire. Look ’round thee now on Samarcand!— Is she not queen of Earth? her pride Above all cities? in her hand Their destinies? in all beside Of glory which the world hath known Stands she not nobly and alone? Falling—her veriest stepping-stone Shall form the pedestal of a throne— And who her sovereign? Timour—he Whom the astonished people saw Striding o’er empires haughtily A diademed outlaw! O, human love! thou spirit given, On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven! Which fall’st into the soul like rain Upon the Siroc-withered plain, And, failing in thy power to bless, But leav’st the heart a wilderness! Idea! which bindest life around With music of so strange a sound And beauty of so wild a birth— Farewell! for I have won the Earth. When Hope, the eagle that towered, could see No cliff beyond him in the sky, His pinions were bent droopingly— And homeward turned his softened eye. ’Twas sunset: When the sun will part There comes a sullenness of heart To him who still would look upon The glory of the summer sun. That soul will hate the ev’ning mist So often lovely, and will list To the sound of the coming darkness (known To those whose spirits hearken) as one Who, in a dream of night, would fly, But cannot, from a danger nigh. What tho’ the moon—tho’ the white moon Shed all the splendor of her noon, Her smile is chilly—and her beam, In that time of dreariness, will seem (So like you gather in your breath) A portrait taken after death. And boyhood is a summer sun Whose waning is the dreariest one— For all we live to know is known, And all we seek to keep hath flown— Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall With the noon-day beauty—which is all. I reach’d my home—my home no more— For all had flown who made it so. I pass’d from out its mossy door, And, tho’ my tread was soft and low, A voice came from the threshold stone Of one whom I had earlier known— O, I defy thee, Hell, to show On beds of fire that burn below, An humbler heart—a deeper wo. Father, I firmly do believe— I know—for Death who comes for me From regions of the blest afar, Where there is nothing to deceive, Hath left his iron gate ajar. And rays of truth you cannot see Are flashing thro’ Eternity—— I do believe that Eblis hath A snare in every human path— Else how, when in the holy grove I wandered of the idol, Love,— Who daily scents his snowy wings With incense of burnt-offerings From the most unpolluted things, Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven Above with trellised rays from Heaven No mote may shun—no tiniest fly— The light’ning of his eagle eye— How was it that Ambition crept, Unseen, amid the revels there, Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt In the tangles of Love’s very hair! Israfel And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures. - Koran In Heaven a spirit doth dwell “Whose heart-strings are a lute;” None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, And the giddy Stars (so legends tell), Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute. Tottering above In her highest noon, The enamoured Moon Blushes with love; While, to listen, the red levin (With the rapid Pleiads, even, Which were seven), Pauses in Heaven. And they say (the starry choir And the other listening things) That Israfeli’s fire Is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings— The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings. But the skies that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty— Where Love’s a grow-up God— Where the Houri glances are Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star. Therefore, thou art not wrong, Israfeli, who despisest An unimpassioned song; To thee the laurels belong, Best bard, because the wisest! Merrily live and long! The ecstasies above With thy burning measures suit— Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervor of thy lute— Well may the stars be mute! Yes, Heaven is thine; but this Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely—flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours. If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky. Ulalume The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crisped and sere— The leaves they were withering and sere; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year; It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir— It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. Here once, through an alley Titanic, Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul— Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. These were days when my heart was volcanic As the scoriac rivers that roll— As the lavas that restlessly roll Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek In the ultimate climes of the pole— That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek In the realms of the boreal pole. Our talk had been serious and sober, But our thoughts they were palsied and sere— Our memories were treacherous and sere— For we knew not the month was October, And we marked not the night of the year— (Ah, night of all nights in the year!) We noted not the dim lake of Auber— (Though once we had journeyed down here)— Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. And now as the night was senescent And star-dials pointed to morn— As the sun-dials hinted of morn— At the end of our path a liquescent And nebulous lustre was born, Out of which a miraculous crescent Arose with a duplicate horn— Astarte’s bediamonded crescent Distinct with its duplicate horn. And I said—“She is warmer than Dian: She rolls through an ether of sighs— She revels in a region of sighs: She has seen that the tears are not dry on These cheeks, where the worm never dies, And has come past the stars of the Lion To point us the path to the skies— To the Lethean peace of the skies— Come up, in despite of the Lion, To shine on us with her bright eyes— Come up through the lair of the Lion, With love in her luminous eyes.” But Psyche, uplifting her finger, Said—“Sadly this star I mistrust— Her pallor I strangely mistrust:— Oh, hasten!—oh, let us not linger! Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must.” In terror she spoke, letting sink her Wings till they trailed in the dust— In agony sobbed, letting sink her Plumes till they trailed in the dust— Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. I replied—“This is nothing but dreaming: Let us on by this tremulous light! Let us bathe in this crystalline light! Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming With Hope and in Beauty to-night:— See!—it flickers up the sky through the night! Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, And be sure it will lead us aright— We safely may trust to a gleaming That cannot but guide us aright, Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.” Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, And tempted her out of her gloom— And conquered her scruples and gloom; And we passed to the end of a vista, But were stopped by the door of a tomb— By the door of a legended tomb; And I said—“What is written, sweet sister, On the door of this legended tomb?” She replied—“Ulalume—Ulalume— ’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!” Then my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crisped and sere— As the leaves that were withering and sere; And I cried—“It was surely October On this very night of last year That I journeyed—I journeyed down here— That I brought a dread burden down here! On this night of all nights in the year, Ah, what demon has tempted me here? Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber— This misty mid region of Weir— Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,— This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.” Said we, then—the two, then—“Ah, can it Have been that the woodlandish ghouls— The pitiful, the merciful ghouls, To bar up our way and to ban it From the secret that lies in these wolds— From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds— Have drawn up the spectre of a planet From the limbo of lunary souls— This sinfully scintillant planet From the Hell of the planetary souls?” Al Aaraaf I O! nothing earthly save the ray (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty’s eye, As in those gardens where the day Springs from the gems of Circassy— O! nothing earthly save the thrill Of melody in woodland rill— Or (music of the passion-hearted) Joy’s voice so peacefully departed That like the murmur in the shell, Its echo dwelleth and will dwell— O! nothing of the dross of ours— Yet all the beauty—all the flowers That list our Love, and deck our bowers— Adorn yon world afar, afar— The wandering star. ’Twas a sweet time for Nesace—for there Her world lay lolling on the golden air, Near four bright suns—a temporary rest— An oasis in desert of the blest. Away away—’mid seas of rays that roll Empyrean splendor o’er th’ unchained soul— The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense) Can struggle to its destin’d eminence— To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode, And late to ours, the favour’d one of God— But, now, the ruler of an anchor’d realm, She throws aside the sceptre—leaves the helm, And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns, Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs. Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth, Whence sprang the “Idea of Beauty” into birth, (Falling in wreaths thro’ many a startled star, Like woman’s hair ’mid pearls, until, afar, It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt), She look’d into Infinity—and knelt. Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled— Fit emblems of the model of her world— Seen but in beauty—not impeding sight— Of other beauty glittering thro’ the light— A wreath that twined each starry form around, And all the opal’d air in color bound. All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed Of flowers: of lilies such as rear’d the head On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang So eagerly around about to hang Upon the flying footsteps of—deep pride— Of her who lov’d a mortal—and so died. The Sephalica, budding with young bees, Uprear’d its purple stem around her knees: And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam’d— Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham’d All other loveliness: its honied dew (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew) Deliriously sweet, was dropp’d from Heaven, And fell on gardens of the unforgiven In Trebizond—and on a sunny flower So like its own above that, to this hour, It still remaineth, torturing the bee With madness, and unwonted reverie: In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief Disconsolate linger—grief that hangs her head, Repenting follies that full long have fled, Heaving her white breast to the balmy air, Like guilty beauty, chasten’d, and more fair: Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light She fears to perfume, perfuming the night: And Clytia pondering between many a sun, While pettish tears adown her petals run: And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth— And died, ere scarce exalted into birth, Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king: And Valisnerian lotus thither flown From struggling with the waters of the Rhone: And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante! Isola d’oro!—Fior di Levante! And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever With Indian Cupid down the holy river— Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given To bear the Goddess’ song, in odors, up to Heaven: “Spirit! that dwellest where, In the deep sky, The terrible and fair, In beauty vie! Beyond the line of blue— The boundary of the star Which turneth at the view Of thy barrier and thy bar— Of the barrier overgone By the comets who were cast From their pride, and from their throne To be drudges till the last— To be carriers of fire (The red fire of their heart) With speed that may not tire And with pain that shall not part— Who livest—that we know— In Eternity—we feel— But the shadow of whose brow What spirit shall reveal? Tho’ the beings whom thy Nesace, Thy messenger hath known Have dream’d for thy Infinity A model of their own— Thy will is done, O God! The star hath ridden high Thro’ many a tempest, but she rode Beneath thy burning eye; And here, in thought, to thee— In thought that can alone Ascend thy empire and so be A partner of thy throne— By winged Fantasy, My embassy is given, Till secrecy shall knowledge be In the environs of Heaven. She ceas’d—and buried then her burning cheek Abash’d, amid the lilies there, to seek A shelter from the fervor of His eye; For the stars trembled at the Deity. She stirr’d not—breath’d not—for a voice was there How solemnly pervading the calm air! A sound of silence on the startled ear Which dreamy poets name “the music of the sphere.” Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call “Silence”—which is the merest word of all. All Nature speaks, and ev’n ideal things Flap shadowy sounds from the visionary wings— But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high The eternal voice of God is passing by, And the red winds are withering in the sky! “What tho’ in worlds which sightless cycles run, Link’d to a little system, and one sun— Where all my love is folly, and the crowd Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud, The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath (Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?) What tho’ in worlds which own a single sun The sands of time grow dimmer as they run, Yet thine is my resplendency, so given To bear my secrets thro’ the upper Heaven. Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly, With all thy train, athwart the moony sky— Apart—like fire-flies in Sicilian night, And wing to other worlds another light! Divulge the secrets of thy embassy To the proud orbs that twinkle—and so be To ev’ry heart a barrier and a ban Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!” Up rose the maiden in the yellow night, The single-mooned eve!—on earth we plight Our faith to one love—and one moon adore— The birth-place of young Beauty had no more. As sprang that yellow star from downy hours, Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers, And bent o’er sheeny mountain and dim plain Her way—but left not yet her Therasæan reign. II High on a mountain of enamell’d head— Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed Of giant pasturage lying at his ease, Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees With many a mutter’d “hope to be forgiven” What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven— Of rosy head, that towering far away Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray Of sunken suns at eve—at noon of night, While the moon danc’d with the fair stranger light— Uprear’d upon such height arose a pile Of gorgeous columns on th’ unburthen’d air, Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile Far down upon the wave that sparkled there, And nursled the young mountain in its lair. Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall Thro’ the ebon air, besilvering the pall Of their own dissolution, while they die— Adorning then the dwellings of the sky. A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down, Sat gently on these columns as a crown— A window of one circular diamond, there, Look’d out above into the purple air And rays from God shot down that meteor chain And hallow’d all the beauty twice again, Save when, between th’ Empyrean and that ring, Some eager spirit flapp’d his dusky wing. But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen The dimness of this world: that greyish green That Nature loves the best for Beauty’s grave Lurk’d in each cornice, round each architrave— And every sculptured cherub thereabout That from his marble dwelling peered out, Seem’d earthly in the shadow of his niche— Achaian statues in a world so rich? Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis— From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss Of beautiful Gomorrah! Oh, the wave Is now upon thee—but too late to save! Sound loves to revel in a summer night: Witness the murmur of the grey twilight That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco, Of many a wild star-gazer long ago— That stealeth ever on the ear of him Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim, And sees the darkness coming as a cloud— Is not its form—its voice—most palpable and loud? But what is this?—it cometh—and it brings A music with it—’tis the rush of wings— A pause—and then a sweeping, falling strain, And Nesace is in her halls again. From the wild energy of wanton haste Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart; The zone that clung around her gentle waist Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart. Within the centre of that hall to breathe She paus’d and panted, Zanthe! all beneath, The fairy light that kiss’d her golden hair And long’d to rest, yet could but sparkle there! Young flowers were whispering in melody To happy flowers that night—and tree to tree; Fountains were gushing music as they fell In many a star-lit grove, or moon-light dell; Yet silence came upon material things— Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings— And sound alone that from the spirit sprang Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang: “’Neath blue-bell or streamer— Or tufted wild spray That keeps, from the dreamer, The moonbeam away— Bright beings! that ponder, With half-closing eyes, On the stars which your wonder Hath drawn from the skies, Till they glance thro’ the shade, and Come down to your brow Like—eyes of the maiden Who calls on you now— Arise! from your dreaming In violet bowers, To duty beseeming These star-litten hours— And shake from your tresses Encumber’d with dew The breath of those kisses That cumber them too— (O! how, without you, Love! Could angels be blest?) Those kisses of true love That lull’d ye to rest! Up! shake from your wing Each hindering thing: The dew of the night— It would weigh down your flight; And true love caresses— O! leave them apart! They are light on the tresses, But lead on the heart. Ligeia! Ligeia! My beautiful one! Whose harshest idea Will to melody run, O! is it thy will On the breezes to toss? Or, capriciously still, Like the lone Albatross, Incumbent on night (As she on the air) To keep watch with delight On the harmony there? Ligeia! wherever Thy image may be, No magic shall sever Thy music from thee. Thou hast bound many eyes In a dreamy sleep— But the strains still arise Which thy vigilance keep— The sound of the rain Which leaps down to the flower, And dances again In the rhythm of the shower— The murmur that springs From the growing of grass Are the music of things— But are modell’d, alas! Away, then, my dearest, O! hie thee away To springs that lie clearest Beneath the moon-ray— To lone lake that smiles, In its dream of deep rest, At the many star-isles That enjewel its breast— Where wild flowers, creeping Have mingled their shade, On its margin is sleeping Full many a maid— Some have left the cool glade, and Have slept with the bee— Arouse them, my maiden, On moorland and lea— Go! breathe on their slumber, All softly in ear, The musical number They slumber’d to hear— For what can awaken An angel so soon Whose sleep hath been taken Beneath the cold moon, As the spell which no slumber Of witchery may test, The rhythmical number Which lull’d him to rest?” Spirits in wing, and angels to the view, A thousand seraphs burst th’ Empyrean thro’, Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight— Seraphs in all but “Knowledge,” the keen light That fell, refracted, thro’ thy bounds afar, O death! from eye of God upon that star; Sweet was that error—sweeter still that death— Sweet was that error—ev’n with us the breath Of Science dims the mirror of our joy— To them ’twere the Simoom, and would destroy— For what (to them) availeth it to know That Truth is Falsehood—or that Bliss is Woe? Sweet was their death—with them to die was rife With the last ecstasy of satiate life— Beyond that death no immortality— But sleep that pondereth and is not “to be”— And there—oh! may my weary spirit dwell— Apart from Heaven’s Eternity—and yet how far from Hell! What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn? But two: they fell: for heaven no grace imparts To those who hear not for their beating hearts. A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover— O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over) Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known? Unguided Love hath fallen—’mid “tears of perfect moan.” He was a goodly spirit—he who fell: A wanderer by mossy-mantled well— A gazer on the lights that shine above— A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love: What wonder? for each star is eye-like there, And looks so sweetly down on Beauty’s hair— And they, and ev’ry mossy spring were holy To his love-haunted heart and melancholy. The night had found (to him a night of wo) Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo— Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky, And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie. Here sate he with his love—his dark eye bent With eagle gaze along the firmament: Now turn’d it upon her—but ever then It trembled to the orb of Earth again. “Ianthe, dearest, see! how dim that ray! How lovely ’tis to look so far away! She seemed not thus upon that autumn eve I left her gorgeous halls—nor mourned to leave, That eve—that eve—I should remember well— The sun-ray dropped, in Lemnos with a spell On th’ Arabesque carving of a gilded hall Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall— And on my eyelids—O, the heavy light! How drowsily it weighed them into night! On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan: But O, that light!—I slumbered—Death, the while, Stole o’er my senses in that lovely isle So softly that no single silken hair Awoke that slept—or knew that he was there. The last spot of Earth’s orb I trod upon Was a proud temple called the Parthenon; More beauty clung around her columned wall Then even thy glowing bosom beats withal, And when old Time my wing did disenthral Thence sprang I—as the eagle from his tower, And years I left behind me in an hour. What time upon her airy bounds I hung, One half the garden of her globe was flung Unrolling as a chart unto my view— Tenantless cities of the desert too! Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then, And half I wished to be again of men.” “My Angelo! and why of them to be? A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee— And greener fields than in yon world above, And woman’s loveliness—and passionate love.” “But list, Ianthe! when the air so soft Failed, as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft, Perhaps my brain grew dizzy—but the world I left so late was into chaos hurled, Sprang from her station, on the winds apart, And rolled a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart. Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar, And fell—not swiftly as I rose before, But with a downward, tremulous motion thro’ Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto! Nor long the measure of my falling hours, For nearest of all stars was thine to ours— Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth, A red Dædalion on the timid Earth.” “We came—and to thy Earth—but not to us Be given our lady’s bidding to discuss: We came, my love; around, above, below, Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go, Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod She grants to us as granted by her God— But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurled Never his fairy wing o’er fairer world! Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes Alone could see the phantom in the skies, When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be Headlong thitherward o’er the starry sea— But when its glory swelled upon the sky, As glowing Beauty’s bust beneath man’s eye, We paused before the heritage of men, And thy star trembled—as doth Beauty then!” Thus in discourse, the lovers whiled away The night that waned and waned and brought no day. They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.](assets/img/poe_raven_cover-sm.png)
Shakespeare
Die Interlinearausgaben der Werke Shakespeares unterscheiden sich in ihrer Anlage von der vorangegangenen Reihe im wesentlichen darin, dass hier der Wortschatz des an Schulen und Hochschulen gebräuchlichen „Grund- und Aufbauwortschatz Englisch“ aus dem Klett-Verlag vorausgesetzt wird. Das gesamte darüber hinausgehende Vokabular wird interlinear vermittelt, so dass umständliches Suchen nach weniger geläufigen oder heute nicht mehr existierenden Ausdrücken unnötig und flüssiges Lesen möglich wird. Sofern das Bedeutungsspektrum eines Worts oder Idioms in unserer Zeit von dem zu Lebzeiten des Autors abweicht, wird in der Regel beides vermittelt. Für das Verständnis wichtige Hintergrundinformationen und Interpretationen schwer verständlicher Stellen erscheinen als Fußnoten auf derselben Seite. Zudem werden schwierigere Passagen interlinear so weit übertragen, dass ein vollständiges Erfassen des Textsinns mühelos möglich ist. So dürfte die Lektüre dieser historischen, dem heutigen Englisch am meisten entgegenstehenden Texte auch für ungeübte Shakespeare-Leser zum Vergnügen werden.
Es sind bereits erschienen:
- William Shakespeare, Macbeth
- William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
- William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
- William Shakespeare, Othello
- William Shakespeare, King Lear
- William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet
- William Shakespeare, Sonnets
![Buchcover von "Hamlet" von William Shakespeare. - Text: Act I - 1. Scene: Francisco on the watch, enter Barnardo. Barnardo: Who’s there? Francisco: Nay, answer me! Stand and unfold yourself! Barnardo: Long live the king! Francisco: Barnardo? Barnardo: He! Francisco: You come most carefully upon your hour. Barnardo: ’Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to bed, Francisco! Francisco: For this relief much thanks! ’Tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart. Barnardo: Have you had quiet guard? Francisco: Not a mouse stirring. Barnardo: Well, good night! If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste! Francisco: I think I hear them. Enter Horatio and Marcellus Stand ho! Who is there? Horatio: Friends to this ground ... Marcellus: ... and liegemen to the Dane. Francisco: Give you good night! Marcellus: O, farewell, honest soldier! Who hath relieved you? Francisco: Barnardo hath my place. Give you good night! Exit. Marcellus: Holla, Barnardo! Barnardo: Say! What, is Horatio there? Horatio gives his hand: A piece of him. Barnardo: Welcome Horatio! Welcome good Marcellus! Marcellus: What, has this thing appeared again tonight? Barnardo: I have seen nothing. Marcellus: Horatio says ’tis but our fantasy And will not let belief take hold of him Touching this dreaded sight twice seen of us. Therefore I have entreated him along With us to watch the minutes of this night That, if again this apparition come, He may approve our eyes and speak to it. Horatio: Tush, tush, ’twill not appear. Barnardo: Sit down awhile And let us once again assail your ears, That are so fortified against our story, What we have two nights seen. Horatio: Well, sit we down And let us hear Barnardo speak of this! Barnardo: Last night of all, When yond same star that’s westward from the pole Had made his course t’ illume that part of heaven, Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself, The bell then beating one ... Enter the ghost Marcellus: Peace, break thee off! Look where it comes again! Barnardo: In the same figure like the king that’s dead. Marcellus: Thou art a scholar. Speak to it, Horatio! Barnardo: Looks ’a not like the king? Mark it, Horatio! Horatio: Most like. It harrows me with fear and wonder. Barnardo: It would be spoke to. Marcellus: Speak to it, Horatio! Horatio to the ghost: What art thou that usurp’st this time of night Together with that fair and warlike form In which the majesty of buried Denmark Did sometimes march? By heaven I charge thee, speak! Marcellus: It is offended. Barnardo: See, it stalks away! Horatio: Stay! Speak, speak! I charge thee, speak! Exit ghost. Marcellus: ’Tis gone and will not answer. Barnardo: How now, Horatio? You tremble and look pale. Is not this something more than fantasy? What think you on’t? Horatio: Before my God, I might not this believe Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes. Marcellus: Is it not like the king? Horatio: As thou art to thyself. Such was the very armour he had on When he the ambitious Norway combated. So frowned he once, when in an angry parle He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice. ’Tis strange. Marcellus: Thus twice before and jump at this dead hour With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch. Horatio: In what particular thought to work, I know not, But in the gross and scope of mine opinion This bodes some strange eruption to our state. Marcellus: Good now, sit down, and tell me he that knows Why this same strict and most observant watch So nightly toils the subject of the land, And with such daily cast of brazen cannon And foreign mart for implements of war, Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task Does not divide the Sunday from the week. What might be toward that this sweaty haste Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day? Who is’t that can inform me? Horatio: That can I. At least the whisper goes so: Our last king, Whose image even but now appeared to us, Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway – Thereto pricked on by a most emulate pride – Dared to the combat, in which our valiant Hamlet – For so this side of our known world esteemed him – Did slay this Fortinbras, who, by a sealed compact Well ratified by law and heraldry, Did forfeit with his life all these his lands Which he stood seized of to the conqueror, Against the which a moiety competent Was gaged by our king, which had return To the inheritance of Fortinbras, Had he been vanquisher, as, by the same covenant And carriage of the article design, His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras, Of unimproved mettle, hot and full, Hath in the skirts of Norway here and there Sharked up a list of lawless resolutes For food and diet to some enterprise, That hath a stomach in’t, which is no other, As it doth well appear unto our state, But to recover of us by strong hand And terms compulsatory those foresaid lands So by his father lost. And this, I take it, Is the main motive of our preparations, The source of this our watch and the chief head Of this post-haste and rummage in the land. Barnardo: I think it be no other but e’en so. Well may it sort that this portentous figure Comes armed through our watch so like the king, That was and is the question of these wars. Horatio: A mote it is to trouble the mind’s eye. In the most high and palmy state of Rome A little ere the mightiest Julius fell The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the moist star Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse. And even the like precurse of feared events, As harbingers preceding still the fates And prologue to the omen coming on, Have heaven and earth together demonstrated Unto our climatures and countrymen. Enter the ghost But soft, behold, lo where it comes again! I’ll cross it, though it blast me. Stay, illusion! He spreads his arms. If thou hast any sound or use of voice, Speak to me! If there be any good thing to be done That may to thee do ease and grace to me, Speak to me! If thou art privy to thy country’s fate, Which happily foreknowing may avoid, O, speak! Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life Extorted treasure in the womb of earth, For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death, Speak of it! The cock crows. Stay and speak! Stop it, Marcellus! Marcellus: Shall I strike it with my partisan? Horatio: Do, if it will not stand! Barnardo: ’Tis here. Horatio: ’Tis here. Exit ghost. Marcellus: ’Tis gone! We do it wrong, being so majestical, To offer it the show of violence, For it is as the air invulnerable And our vain blows malicious mockery. Barnardo: It was about to speak when the cock crew. Horatio: And then it started, like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. I have heard The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of day, and at his warning, Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, Th’ extravagant and erring spirit hies To his confine. And of the truth herein This present object made probation. Marcellus: It faded on the crowing of the cock. Some say that ever ’gainst that season comes, Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated, This bird of dawning singeth all night long, And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad, The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm. So hallowed and so gracious is that time. Horatio: So have I heard and do in part believe it. But look, the morn in russet mantle clad Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastward hill. Break we our watch up! And by my advice Let us impart what we have seen tonight Unto young Hamlet, for, upon my life, This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him. Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, As needful in our loves, fitting our duty? Marcellus: Let’s do’t, I pray. And I this morning know Where we shall find him most conveniently. Exeunt. 2. Scene Flourish. Enter Claudius, King of Denmark, Gertrude, the queen, and the council, including Polonius with his son Laertes, Hamlet, Voltemand and Cornelius. King: Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother’s death The memory be green and that it us befitted To bear our hearts in grief and our whole kingdom To be contracted in one brow of woe, Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature That we with wisest sorrow think on him Together with remembrance of ourselves. Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen, Th’ imperial jointress to this warlike state, Have we, as ’twere with a defeated joy, With an auspicious and a dropping eye, With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage, In equal scale weighing delight and dole, Taken to wife. Nor have we herein barred Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone With this affair along. For all, our thanks! Now follows that you know: Young Fortinbras, Holding a weak supposal of our worth, Or thinking by our late dear brother’s death Our state to be disjoint and out of frame, Co-leagued with this dream of his advantage, He hath not failed to pester us with message Importing the surrender of those lands Lost by his father with all bands of law To our most valiant brother. So much for him! Now for ourself and for this time of meeting: Thus much the business is: we have here writ To Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras, Who, impotent and bedrid, scarcely hears Of this his nephew’s purpose, to suppress His further gait herein, in that the levies, The lists and full proportions are all made Out of his subject. And we here dispatch You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltemand, For bearers of this greeting to old Norway, Giving to you no further personal power To business with the king more than the scope Of these delated articles allow. He hands over papers. Farewell! And let your haste commend your duty. Voltemand and Cornelius: In that and all things will we show our duty. King: We doubt it nothing. Heartily farewell! Exeunt Voltemand and Cornelius. And now, Laertes, what’s the news with you? You told us of some suit. What is’t, Laertes? You cannot speak of reason to the Dane And lose your voice. What wouldst thou beg, Laertes, That shall not be my offer, not thy asking? The head is not more native to the heart, The hand more instrumental to the mouth Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father. What wouldst thou have, Laertes? Laertes: My dread lord, Your leave and favour to return to France, From whence though willingly I came to Denmark To show my duty in your coronation, Yet now I must confess, that duty done, My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon. King: Have you your father’s leave? What says Polonius? Polonius: He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave By laboursome petition, and at last Upon his will I sealed my hard consent. I do beseech you, give him leave to go! King: Take thy fair hour, Laertes! Time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will. But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son ... Hamlet aside: A little more than kin and less than kind! King: How is it that the clouds still hang on you? Hamlet: Not so, my lord, I am too much i’th’ sun. Queen: Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark! Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust! Thou knowest ’tis common: All that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity. Hamlet: Ay, madam, it is common. Queen: If it be, Why seems it so particular with thee? Hamlet: ‘Seems’, madam? Nay, it is! I know not ‘seems’. ’Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected haviour of the visage Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly. These indeed ‘seem’, For they are actions that a man might play. But I have that within which passes show, These but the trappings and the suits of woe. King: ’Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father, But you must know your father lost a father, That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound In filial obligation for some term To do obsequious sorrow. But to persever In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness, ’tis unmanly grief. It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, A heart unfortified or mind impatient, An understanding simple and unschooled. For what we know must be and is as common As any the most vulgar thing to sense, Why should we in our peevish opposition Take it to heart? Fie, ’tis a fault to heaven, A fault against the dead, a fault to nature, To reason most absurd, whose common theme Is: ‘death of fathers’, and who still hath cried, From the first corpse till he that died today: ‘This must be so’. We pray you throw to earth This unprevailing woe, and think of us As of a father! For, let the world take note, You are the most immediate to our throne; And with no less nobility of love Than that which dearest father bears his son Do I impart toward you. For your intent In going back to school in Wittenberg, It is most retrograde to our desire; And, we beseech you, bend you to remain Here in the cheer and comfort of our eye, Our chiefest courtier, cousin and our son. Queen: Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet! I pray thee stay with us! Go not to Wittenberg! Hamlet: I shall in all my best obey you, madam. King: Why, ’tis a loving and a fair reply. Be as ourself in Denmark. To the queen: Madam, come! This gentle and unforced accord of Hamlet Sits smiling to my heart, in grace whereof No jocund health, that Denmark drinks today, But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell, And the king’s rouse the heavens shall bruit again, Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away! Flourish. Exeunt all but Hamlet Hamlet: O that this too too sullied flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew, Or that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon ’gainst self-slaughter. O God, God, How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on’t, ah, fie, ’tis an unweeded garden That grows to seed. Things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead, nay, not so much, not two! So excellent a king, that was to this Hyperion to a satyr, so loving to my mother That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on. And yet within a month ... Let me not think on’t! Frailty, thy name is woman. A little month, or e’er those shoes were old With which she followed my poor father’s body Like Niobe, all tears, why, she – O God, a beast that wants discourse of reason Would have mourned longer – married with my uncle, My father’s brother, but no more like my father Than I to Hercules. Within a month, Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married. O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not, nor it cannot come to good. But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue. Enter Horatio, Marcellus and Barnardo Horatio: Hail to your lordship! Hamlet: I am glad to see you well. Recognizing: Horatio, or I do forget myself! Horatio: The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever. Hamlet: Sir, my good friend! I’ll change that name with you. And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio? Recognizing: Marcellus? Marcellus: My good lord! Hamlet: I am very glad to see you. To Barnardo: Good even, sir. To Horatio: But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg? Horatio: A truant disposition, good my lord. Hamlet: I would not hear your enemy say so, Nor shall you do my ear that violence To make it truster of your own report Against yourself. I know you are no truant. But what is your affair in Elsinore? We’ll teach you to drink deep ere you depart. Horatio: My lord, I came to see your father’s funeral. Hamlet: I prithee do not mock me, fellow-student. I think it was to see my mother’s wedding. Horatio: Indeed, my lord, it followed hard upon. Hamlet: Thrift, thrift, Horatio: The funeral baked meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio! – My father, methinks I see my father. Horatio: Where, my lord? Hamlet: In my mind’s eye, Horatio. Horatio: I saw him once. ’A was a goodly king. Hamlet: ’A was a man. Take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again. Horatio: My lord, I think I saw him yesternight. Hamlet: Saw? Who? Horatio: My lord, the king your father. Hamlet: The king my father? Horatio: Season your admiration for a while With an attent ear till I may deliver Upon the witness of these gentlemen This marvel to you. Hamlet: For God’s love, let me hear! Horatio: Two nights together had these gentlemen, Marcellus and Barnardo, on their watch In the dead waste and middle of the night Been thus encountered: a figure like your father Armed at point exactly, cap-a-pe, Appears before them and with solemn march Goes slow and stately by them. Thrice he walked By their oppressed and fear-surprised eyes Within his truncheon’s length, whilst they, distilled Almost to jelly with the act of fear, Stand dumb and speak not to him. This to me In dreadful secrecy impart they did, And I with them the third night kept the watch, Where, as they had delivered, both in time, Form of the thing, each word made true and good, The apparition comes. I knew your father. These hands are not more like. Hamlet: But where was this? Marcellus: My lord, upon the platform where we watch. Hamlet: Did you not speak to it? Horatio: My lord, I did, But answer made it none. Yet once methought It lifted up it head and did address Itself to motion like as it would speak. But even then the morning cock crew loud, And at the sound it shrunk in haste away And vanished from our sight. Hamlet: ’Tis very strange. Horatio: As I do live, my honoured lord, ’tis true, And we did think it writ down in our duty To let you know of it. Hamlet: Indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. Hold you the watch tonight? All: We do, my lord! Hamlet: Armed, say you? All: Armed, my lord. Hamlet: From top to toe? All: My lord, from head to foot. Hamlet: Then saw you not his face? Horatio: O, yes, my lord. He wore his beaver up. Hamlet: What, looked he frowningly? Horatio: A countenance more in sorrow than in anger. Hamlet: Pale or red? Horatio: Nay, very pale. Hamlet: And fixed his eyes upon you? Horatio: Most constantly. Hamlet: I would I had been there. Horatio: It would have much amazed you. Hamlet: Very like. Stayed it long? Horatio: While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred. Marcellus and Barnardo: Longer, longer! Horatio: Not when I saw’t. Hamlet: His beard was grizzled, no? Horatio: It was as I have seen it in his life, A sable silvered. Hamlet: I will watch tonight. Perchance ’twill walk again. Horatio: I warrant it will. Hamlet: If it assume my noble father’s person, I’ll speak to it though hell itself should gape And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, If you have hitherto concealed this sight, Let it be tenable in your silence still. And whatsoever else shall hap tonight, Give it an understanding but no tongue! I will requite your loves. So fare you well! Upon the platform ’twixt eleven and twelve I’ll visit you. All: Our duty to your honour! Hamlet: Your loves, as mine to you. Farewell! Exeunt all but Hamlet. My father’s spirit, in arms! All is not well. I doubt some foul play. Would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul. Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes. Exit. 3. Scene Enter Laertes and Ophelia. Laertes: My necessaries are embarked. Farewell! And, sister, as the winds give benefit And convey is assistant, do not sleep But let me hear from you. Ophelia: Do you doubt that? Laertes: For Hamlet and the trifling of his favour, Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood, A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting, The perfume and suppliance of a minute, No more. Ophelia: No more but so? Laertes: Think it no more, For nature crescent does not grow alone In thews and bulk, but as this temple waxes The inward service of the mind and soul Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now, And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch The virtue of his will. But you must fear, His greatness weighed, his will is not his own, For he himself is subject to his birth. He may not, as unvalued persons do, Carve for himself, for on his choice depends The safety and health of this whole state. And therefore must his choice be circumscribed Unto the voice and yielding of that body Whereof he is the head. Then, if he says he loves you, It fits your wisdom so far to believe it As he in his particular act and place May give his saying deed, which is no further Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal. Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain, If with too credent ear you list his songs Or lose your heart or your chaste treasure open To his unmastered importunity. Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister! And keep you in the rear of your affection Out of the shot and danger of desire. The chariest maid is prodigal enough, If she unmask her beauty to the moon. Virtue itself ’scapes not calumnious strokes. The canker galls the infants of the spring Too oft before their buttons be disclosed, And in the morn and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are most imminent. Be wary then! Best safety lies in fear. Youth to itself rebels, though none else near. Ophelia: I shall the effect of this good lesson keep As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother, Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven, Whiles like a puffed and reckless libertine Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own rede. Laertes: O, fear me not! I stay too long. Enter Polonius But here my father comes. A double blessing is a double grace. Occasion smiles upon a second leave. Polonius: Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame! The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, And you are stayed for. There ... Making a gesture. my blessing with thee! And these few precepts in thy memory Look thou character: Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. Those friends thou hast and their adoption tried, Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel. But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatched, unfledged courage. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in, Bear’t that th’ opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice, Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgement. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not expressed in fancy, rich, not gaudy, For the apparel oft proclaims the man, And they in France of the best rank and station Are of a most select and generous chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be, For loan oft loses both, itself and friend, And borrowing dulleth th’ edge of husbandry. This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow as the night the day Thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell! My blessing season this in thee! Laertes: Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord. Polonius: The time invites you. Go! Your servants tend. Laertes: Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well What I have said to you! Ophelia: ’Tis in my memory locked, And you yourself shall keep the key of it. Laertes: Farewell! Exit. Polonius: What is’t, Ophelia, he hath said to you? Ophelia: So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet. Polonius: Marry, well bethought! ’Tis told me he hath very oft of late Given private time to you, and you yourself Have of your audience been most free and bounteous. If it be so – as so ’tis put on me, And that in way of caution – I must tell you, You do not understand yourself so clearly As it behoves my daughter and your honour. What is between you? Give me up the truth! Ophelia: He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders Of his affection to me. Polonius: Affection? Pooh! You speak like a green girl, Unsifted in such perilous circumstance. Do you believe his ‘tenders’, as you call them? Ophelia: I do not know, my lord, what I should think. Polonius: Marry, I will teach you. Think yourself a baby That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly, Or – not to crack the wind of the poor phrase, Running it thus – you’ll tender me a fool. Ophelia: My lord, he hath importuned me with love In honourable fashion. Polonius: Ay, ‘fashion’ you may call it. Go to, go to! Ophelia: And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord, With almost all the holy vows of heaven. Polonius: Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know, When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul Lends the tongue vows. These blazes, daughter, Giving more light than heat, extinct in both Even in their promise as it is a-making, You must not take for fire. From this time Be something scanter of your maiden presence. Set your entreatments at a higher rate Than a command to parle. For Lord Hamlet, Believe so much in him that he is young, And with a larger tether may he walk Than may be given you. In few, Ophelia, Do not believe his vows, for they are brokers Not of that dye which their investments show, But mere implorators of unholy suits, Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds, The better to beguile. This is for all: I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth Have you so: slander any moment leisure As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet. Look to’t, I charge you. Come your ways! Ophelia: I shall obey, my lord. Exeunt. 4. Scene Enter Hamlet, Horatio and Marcellus. Hamlet: The air bites shrewdly. It is very cold. Horatio: It is a nipping and an eager air. Hamlet: What hour now? Horatio: I think it lacks of twelve. Marcellus: No, it is struck. Horatio: Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk. A flourish of trumpets and two pieces of artillery go off What does this mean, my lord? Hamlet: The king doth wake tonight and takes his rouse, Keeps wassail, and the swaggering upspring reels. And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down The kettledrum and trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his pledge. Horatio: Is it a custom? Hamlet: Ay, marry, is’t. But to my mind, though I am native here And to the manner born, it is a custom More honoured in the breach than the observance. This heavy-headed revel east and west Makes us traduced and taxed of other nations. They clepe us drunkards and with swinish phrase Soil our addition; and indeed it takes From our achievements, though performed at height, The pith and marrow of our attribute. So oft it chances in particular men That – for some vicious mole of nature in them, As in their birth, wherein they are not guilty, Since nature cannot choose his origin – By the o’ergrowth of some complexion, Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason, Or by some habit that too much o’erleavens The form of plausive manners – that these men, Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, Being nature’s livery or fortune’s star, His virtues else, be they as pure as grace, As infinite as man may undergo, Shall in the general censure take corruption From that particular fault. The dram of evil Doth all the noble substance of a doubt, To his own scandal ... Enter the ghost Horatio: Look, my lord, it comes! Hamlet: Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned, Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked or charitable, Thou com’st in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee. I’ll call thee Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane. O, answer me! Let me not burst in ignorance but tell Why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death, Have burst their cerements, why the sepulchre, Wherein we saw thee quietly interred, Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws To cast thee up again. What may this mean That thou, dead corpse, again in complete steel, Revisits thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous, and we fools of nature So horridly to shake our disposition With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls? Say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do? The ghost beckons him. Horatio: It beckons you to go away with it, As if it some impartment did desire To you alone. Marcellus: Look with what courteous action It waves you to a more removed ground. But do not go with it! Horatio: No, by no means. Hamlet: It will not speak. Then I will follow it. Horatio: Do not, my lord! Hamlet: Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin’s fee. And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself? It waves me forth again. I’ll follow it. Horatio: What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff, That beetles o’er his base into the sea, And there assume some other, horrible form, Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason And draw you into madness? Think of it! The very place puts toys of desperation Without more motive into every brain, That looks so many fathoms to the sea And hears it roar beneath. Hamlet: It waves me still. To ghost: Go on! I’ll follow thee. Marcellus: You shall not go, my lord. Hamlet: Hold off your hands! Horatio: Be ruled! You shall not go. Hamlet: My fate cries out And makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve. Still am I called. Unhand me, gentlemen! By heaven, I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me. I say, away! Go on! I’ll follow thee. Exeunt ghost and Hamlet. Horatio: He waxes desperate with imagination. Marcellus: Let’s follow! ’Tis not fit thus to obey him. Horatio: Have after! To what issue will this come? Marcellus: Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. Horatio: Heaven will direct it. Marcellus: Nay, let’s follow him! Exeunt. 5. Scene Enter the ghost and Hamlet. Hamlet: Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak! I’ll go no further. Ghost: Mark me! Hamlet: I will. Ghost: My hour is almost come, When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames Must render up myself. Hamlet: Alas, poor ghost! Ghost: Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing To what I shall unfold. Hamlet: Speak! I am bound to hear. Ghost: So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear. Hamlet: What? Ghost: I am thy father’s spirit, Doomed for a certain term to walk the night And for the day confined to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature Are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part And each particular hair to stand on end Like quills upon the fearful porpentine. But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O list! If thou didst ever thy dear father love ... Hamlet: O God! Ghost: ... revenge his foul and most unnatural murder! Hamlet: Murder? Ghost: Murder most foul, as in the best it is, But this most foul, strange and unnatural. Hamlet: Haste me to know’t that I with wings as swift As meditation or the thoughts of love May sweep to my revenge. Ghost: I find thee apt. And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed That roots itself in ease on Lethe wharf, Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear: ’Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard, A serpent stung me. So the whole ear of Denmark Is by a forged process of my death Rankly abused. But know, thou noble youth, The serpent, that did sting thy father’s life, Now wears his crown. Hamlet: O my prophetic soul! My uncle? Ghost: Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts – O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power So to seduce! – won to his shameful lust The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen. O Hamlet, what a falling off was there, From me, whose love was of that dignity That it went hand in hand even with the vow I made to her in marriage, and to decline Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor To those of mine! But Virtue as it never will be moved, Though Lewdness court it in a shape of heaven, So Lust, though to a radiant angel linked, Will sate itself in a celestial bed And prey on garbage. But soft, methinks I scent the morning air. Brief let me be: Sleeping within my orchard, My custom always of the afternoon, Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole With juice of cursed hebona in a vial, And in the porches of my ears did pour The leperous distilment, whose effect Holds such an enmity with blood of man That swift as quicksilver it courses through The natural gates and alleys of the body, And with a sudden vigour it doth possess And curd like eager droppings into milk The thin and wholesome blood. So did it mine. And a most instant tetter barked about Most lazar-like with vile and loathsome crust All my smooth body. Thus was I sleeping by a brother’s hand Of life, of crown, of queen at once dispatched, Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, Unhouseled, disappointed, unaneled, No reckoning made, but sent to my account With all my imperfections on my head. O, horrible! O, horrible! Most horrible! If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not! Let not the royal bed of Denmark be A couch for luxury and damned incest. But howsomever thou pursues this act, Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive Against thy mother aught. Leave her to heaven And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once! The glow-worm shows the matin to be near And ’gins to pale his uneffectual fire. Adieu, adieu, adieu, remember me! Exit. Hamlet: O all you host of heaven! O earth, what else? And shall I couple hell? O, fie! Hold, hold, my heart! And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee? Ay, thou poor ghost, whiles memory holds a seat In this distracted globe. Remember thee? Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there, And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain, Unmixed with baser matter. Yes, by heaven, O most pernicious woman! O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain! My tables! Meet it is I set it down That one may smile and smile and be a villain. At least I am sure it may be so in Denmark. He writes. So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word! It is: ‘Adieu, adieu, remember me!’ I have sworn ’t. Horatio and Marcellus from within Horatio: My lord, my lord! Marcellus: Lord Hamlet! Horatio: Heavens secure him! Hamlet: So be it! Horatio: Illo, ho, ho, my lord! Hamlet: Hillo, ho, ho, boy, come and come! Enter Horatio and Marcellus Marcellus: How is’t, my noble lord? Horatio: What news, my lord? Hamlet: O, wonderful! Horatio: Good my lord, tell it! Hamlet: No, you will reveal it. Horatio: Not I, my lord, by heaven. Marcellus: Nor I, my lord. Hamlet: How say you then? Would heart of man once think it ... But you’ll be secret? Horatio and Marcellus: Ay, by heaven! Hamlet: There’s never a villain dwelling in all Denmark, But he’s an arrant knave. Horatio: There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave To tell us this. Hamlet: Why, right, you are in the right, And so without more circumstance at all I hold it fit that we shake hands and part, You as your business and desire shall point you – For every man hath business and desire Such as it is – and for my own poor part I will go pray. Horatio: These are but wild and whirling words, my lord. Hamlet: I’m sorry they offend you, heartily, Yes, faith, heartily. Horatio: There’s no offence, my lord. Hamlet: Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio, And much offence too. Touching this vision here, It is an honest ghost. That let me tell you! For your desire to know what is between us, O’ermaster it as you may. And now, good friends, As you are friends, scholars and soldiers, Give me one poor request! Horatio: What is’t, my lord? We will. Hamlet: Never make known what you have seen tonight. Horatio and Marcellus: My lord, we will not. Hamlet: Nay, but swear’t! Horatio: In faith, my lord, not I. Marcellus: Nor I, my lord, in faith. Hamlet: Upon my sword! Marcellus: We have sworn, my lord, already. Hamlet: Indeed, upon my sword, indeed. Ghost under the stage: Swear! Hamlet: Ha, ha, boy, sayst thou so? Art thou there, truepenny? Come on! You hear this fellow in the cellarage. Consent to swear! Horatio: Propose the oath, my lord! Hamlet: Never to speak of this that you have seen, Swear by my sword! Ghost beneath: Swear! Hamlet: Hic et ubique? Then we’ll shift our ground. Come hither, gentlemen, and lay your hands Again upon my sword! Swear by my sword Never to speak of this that you have heard! Ghost beneath: Swear by his sword! Hamlet: Well said, old mole! Canst work i’th’ earth so fast? A worthy pioneer! Once more remove, good friends! Horatio: O day and night, but this is wondrous strange! Hamlet: And therefore as a stranger give it welcome: There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But come, Here as before, never – so help you mercy – How strange or odd some’er I bear myself – As I perchance hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition on – That you, at such times seeing me, never shall With arms encumbered thus or this headshake Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase, As ‘Well, well, we know’ or ‘We could, an if we would’ Or ‘If we list to speak’ or ‘There be, an if they might’ Or such ambiguous giving out, to note That you know aught of me. This do swear, So grace and mercy at your most need help you. Ghost beneath: Swear! Hamlet: Rest, rest, perturbed spirit! — So, gentlemen, With all my love I do commend me to you, And what so poor a man, as Hamlet is, May do t’ express his love and friending to you, God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together, And still your fingers on your lips, I pray. The time is out of joint. O, cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right! Nay, come, let’s go together! Exeunt. Act II 1. Scene Enter Polonius with his man Reynaldo. Polonius: Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo! Reynaldo: I will, my lord. Polonius: You shall do marvellous wisely, good Reynaldo, Before you visit him, to make inquire Of his behaviour. Reynaldo: My lord, I did intend it. Polonius: Marry, well said, very well said. Look you, sir, Inquire me first what Danskers are in Paris, And how, and who, what means, and where they keep, What company at what expense, and finding By this encompassment and drift of question That they do know my son, come you more nearer Than your particular demands will touch it. Take you as ’twere some distant knowledge of him, As thus: ‘I know his father and his friends And in part him’. Do you mark this, Reynaldo? Reynaldo: Ay, very well, my lord. Polonius: ‘And in part him, but’, you may say, ‘not well, But if’t be he I mean, he’s very wild, Addicted so and so’. And there put on him What forgeries you please, marry, none so rank As may dishonour him – take heed of that – But, sir, such wanton, wild and usual slips As are companions noted and most known To youth and liberty. Reynaldo: As gaming, my lord. Polonius: Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, Quarrelling, drabbing. You may go so far. Reynaldo: My lord, that would dishonour him. Polonius: Faith, no, as you may season it in the charge. You must not put another scandal on him, That he is open to incontinency – That’s not my meaning – but breathe his faults so quaintly That they may seem the taints of liberty, The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind, A savageness in unreclaimed blood, Of general assault. Reynaldo: But my good lord ... Polonius: Wherefore should you do this? Reynaldo: Ay, my lord, I would know that. Polonius: Marry, sir, here’s my drift, And I believe it is a fetch of warrant. You laying these slight sullies on my son, As ’twere a thing a little soiled with working, Mark you, your party in converse, him you would sound, Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes The youth you breathe of guilty, be assured He closes with you in this consequence: ‘Good sir’, or so, or ‘friend’ or ‘gentleman’, According to the phrase or the addition Of man and country. Reynaldo: Very good, my lord! Polonius: And then, sir, does ’a this, ’a does ... What was I about to say? By the mass, I was about to say something! Where did I leave? Reynaldo: At ‘closes in the consequence’. Polonius: At ‘closes in the consequence’. Ay, marry! He closes thus: ‘I know the gentleman. I saw him yesterday or th’ other day Or then or then, with such or such and, as you say, There was ’a gaming, there o’ertook in’s rouse, There falling out at tennis, or perchance: ‘I saw him enter such a house of sale’, Videlicet a brothel or so forth. See you now, Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth, And thus do we of wisdom and of reach With windlasses and with assays of bias By indirections find directions out: So by my former lecture and advice Shall you my son. You have me, have you not? Reynaldo: My lord, I have. Polonius: God bye ye, fare ye well! Reynaldo: Good my lord. Polonius: Observe his inclination in yourself. Reynaldo: I shall, my lord. Polonius: And let him ply his music. Reynaldo: Well, my lord. Polonius: Farewell! Exit Reynaldo. Enter Ophelia How now, Ophelia, what’s the matter? Ophelia: O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted! Polonius: With what, i’th’ name of God? Ophelia: My lord, as I was sewing in my closet, Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbraced, No hat upon his head, his stockings fouled, Ungartered and down-gyved to his ankle, Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, And with a look so piteous in purport As if he had been loosed out of hell To speak of horrors, he comes before me. Polonius: Mad for thy love? Ophelia: My lord, I do not know, But truly I do fear it. Polonius: What said he? Ophelia: He took me by the wrist and held me hard. Then goes he to the length of all his arm And with his other hand thus o’er his brow He falls to such perusal of my face As ’a would draw it. Long stayed he so. At last, a little shaking of mine arm And thrice his head thus waving up and down, He raised a sigh so piteous and profound As it did seem to shatter all his bulk And end his being. That done, he lets me go, And with his head over his shoulder turned He seemed to find his way without his eyes, For out o’ doors he went without their helps, And to the last bended their light on me. Polonius: Come, go with me! I will go seek the king. This is the very ecstasy of love, Whose violent property fordoes itself And leads the will to desperate undertakings, As oft as any passions under heaven That does afflict our natures. I am sorry. What, have you given him any hard words of late? Ophelia: No, my good lord! But, as you did command, I did repel his letters and denied His access to me. Polonius: That hath made him mad. I am sorry that with better heed and judgement I had not quoted him. I feared he did but trifle And meant to wrack thee. But beshrew my jealousy! By heaven, it is as proper to our age To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions As it is common for the younger sort To lack discretion. Come, go we to the king! This must be known, which, being kept close, might move More grief to hide than hate to utter love. Come! Exeunt. 2. Scene Flourish. Enter the king and queen, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and at tendants. King: Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern! Moreover that we much did long to see you, The need we have to use you did provoke Our hasty sending. Something have you heard Of Hamlet’s transformation, so call it, Sith nor th’ exterior nor the inward man Resembles that it was. What it should be More than his father’s death, that thus hath put him So much from th’ understanding of himself, I cannot dream of. I entreat you both That, being of so young days brought up with him And sith so neighboured to his youth and ’haviour, That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court Some little time, so by your companies To draw him on to pleasures and to gather So much as from occasion you may glean, Whether aught to us unknown afflicts him thus, That opened lies within our remedy. Queen: Good gentlemen, he hath much talked of you, And sure I am, two men there is not living, To whom he more adheres. If it will please you, To show us so much gentry and good will As to expend your time with us awhile For the supply and profit of our hope, Your visitation shall receive such thanks As fits a king’s remembrance. Rosencrantz: Both your majesties Might by the sovereign power you have of us Put your dread pleasures more into command Than to entreaty. Guildenstern: But we both obey And here give up ourselves in the full bent, To lay our service freely at your feet To be commanded. King: Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern! Queen: Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz! And I beseech you instantly to visit My too much changed son. To attendants: Go, some of you, And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is. Guildenstern: Heavens make our presence and our practices Pleasant and helpful to him! Queen: Ay, amen! Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Enter Polonius Polonius: The ambassadors from Norway, my good lord, Are joyfully returned. King: Thou still hast been the father of good news. Polonius: Have I, my lord? I assure you, my good liege, I hold my duty as I hold my soul, Both to my God and to my gracious king. And I do think – or else this brain of mine Hunts not the trail of policy so sure As it hath used to do – that I have found The very cause of Hamlet’s lunacy. King: O, speak of that! That do I long to hear. Polonius: Give first admittance to th’ ambassadors! My news shall be the fruit to that great feast. King: Thyself do grace to them and bring them in! Exit Polonius. He tells me, my dear Gertrude, he hath found The head and source of all your son’s distemper. Queen: I doubt it is no other but the main, His father’s death and our o’erhasty marriage. King: Well, we shall sift him. Enter Voltemand and Cornelius with Polonius Welcome, my good friends! Say, Voltemand, what from our brother Norway? Voltemand: Most fair return of greetings and desires! Upon our first he sent out to suppress His nephew’s levies, which to him appeared To be a preparation ’gainst the Polack, But better looked into he truly found It was against your highness, whereat grieved That so his sickness, age and impotence Was falsely borne in hand sends out arrests On Fortinbras, which he in brief obeys, Receives rebuke from Norway and in fine Makes vow before his uncle never more To give th’ assay of arms against your majesty. Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy, Gives him threescore thousand crowns in annual fee And his commission to employ those soldiers, So levied as before, against the Polack, With an entreaty herein further shown ... He gives him a paper. That it might please you to give quiet pass Through your dominions for this enterprise On such regards of safety and allowance As therein are set down. King: It likes us well. And at our more considered time we’ll read, Answer and think upon this business. Meantime we thank you for your well-took labour. Go to your rest! At night we’ll feast together. Most welcome home! Exeunt ambassadors. Polonius: This business is well ended. My liege and madam, to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night and time is time, Were nothing but to waste night, day and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief: Your noble son is mad. Mad call I it, for to define true madness, What is’t but to be nothing else but mad? But let that go! Queen: More matter with less art! Polonius: Madam, I swear I use no art at all. That he’s mad, ’tis true. ’Tis true, ’tis pity; And pity ’tis, ’tis true. A foolish figure, But farewell it, for I will use no art. Mad let us grant him then. And now remains That we find out the cause of this effect, Or rather say, the cause of this defect, For this effect defective comes by cause. Thus it remains ... and the remainder thus ... Perpend! I have a daughter – ‘have’ while she is mine – Who in her duty and obedience, mark, Hath given me this. Now gather and surmise! He reads the letter: ‘To the celestial and my soul’s idol, the most beautified Ophelia’ — That’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase. ‘beautified’ is a vile phrase. But you shall hear. Thus: ‘In her excellent white bosom, these ...’ Queen: Came this from Hamlet to her? Polonius: Good madam, stay awhile. I will be faithful. He reads: ‘Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love. O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers. I have not art to reckon my groans, but that I love thee best, O most best, believe it. Adieu! Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him, Hamlet.’ This in obedience hath my daughter shown me, And more above hath his solicitings, As they fell out by time, by means and place, All given to mine ear. King: But how hath she Received his love? Polonius: What do you think of me? King: As of a man faithful and honourable. Polonius: I would fain prove so. But what might you think When I had seen this hot love on the wing – As I perceived it, I must tell you that, Before my daughter told me – what might you, Or my dear majesty your queen here, think If I had played the desk or table-book Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb, Or looked upon this love with idle sight? What might you think? No, I went round to work And my young mistress thus I did bespeak: ‘Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star. This must not be.’ And then I prescripts gave her That she should lock herself from his resort, Admit no messengers, receive no tokens. Which done, she took the fruits of my advice, And he, repelled, a short tale to make, Fell into a sadness, then into a fast, Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness, Thence to a lightness and by this declension Into the madness wherein now he raves And all we mourn for. King: Do you think ’tis this? Queen: It may be, very like. Polonius: Hath there been such a time – I would fain know that – That I have positively said: ’Tis so, When it proved otherwise? King: Not that I know. Polonius with gestures: Take this from this, if this be otherwise. If circumstances lead me, I will find Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed Within the centre. King: How may we try it further? Polonius: You know sometimes he walks four hours together Here in the lobby. Queen: So he does indeed. Polonius: At such a time I’ll loose my daughter to him. Be you and I behind an arras then. Mark the encounter! If he love her not And be not from his reason fallen thereon, Let me be no assistant for a state But keep a farm and carters. King: We will try it. Enter Hamlet Queen: But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading. Polonius: Away, I do beseech you both, away! I’ll board him presently. O, give me leave! Exeunt king and queen. To the prince: How does my good Lord Hamlet? Hamlet: Well, God-a-mercy! Polonius: Do you know me, my lord? Hamlet: Excellent well! You are a fishmonger. Polonius: Not I, my lord. Hamlet: Then I would you were so honest a man. Polonius: Honest, my lord? Hamlet: Ay, sir! To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand. Polonius: That’s very true, my lord. Hamlet: For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good kis sing carrion ... Have you a daughter? Polonius: I have, my lord. Hamlet: Let her not walk i’th’ sun! Conception is a blessing, but as your daughter may conceive, friend, look to’t. Polonius aside: How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter! Yet he knew me not at first. ’A said I was a fishmonger. ’A is far gone, far gone. And truly, in my youth I suffered much extremity for love, very near this. I’ll speak to him again: What do you read, my lord? Hamlet: Words, words, words. Polonius: What is the matter, my lord? Hamlet: Between who? Polonius: I mean the matter that you read, my lord. Hamlet: Slanders, sir! For the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit together with most weak hams, all which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down. For yourself, sir, shall grow old as I am, if like a crab you could go backward. Polonius aside: Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t. — Will you walk out of the air, my lord? Hamlet: Into my grave? Polonius: Indeed, that’s out of the air. Aside: How pregnant some times his replies are, a happiness that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave him and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between him and my daughter. — My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you. Hamlet: You cannot, sir, take from me anything, that I will not more willingly part withal, except my life, except my life, except my life. Polonius: Fare you well, my lord! Hamlet: These tedious old fools! Enter Guildenstern and Rosencrantz Polonius: You go to seek the Lord Hamlet? There he is. Rosencrantz to Polonius: God save you, sir! Exit Polonius. Guildenstern: My honoured lord! Rosencrantz: My most dear lord! Hamlet: My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? — Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do you both? Rosencrantz: As the indifferent children of the earth. Guildenstern: Happy, in that we are not ever happy. On Fortune’s cap we are not the very button. Hamlet: Nor the soles of her shoe? Rosencrantz: Neither, my lord. Hamlet: Then you live about her waist or in the middle of her fa vours? Guildenstern: Faith, her privates we. Hamlet: In the secret parts of Fortune? O, most true! She is a strum pet. What news? Rosencrantz: None, my lord, but that the world’s grown honest. Hamlet: Then is doomsday near. But your news is not true. Let me question more in particular: What have you, my good friends, de served at the hands of Fortune that she sends you to prison hither? Guildenstern: Prison, my lord? Hamlet: Denmark’s a prison. Rosencrantz: Then is the world one. Hamlet: A goodly one, in which there are many confines, wards and dungeons, Denmark being one o’th’ worst. Rosencrantz: We think not so, my lord. Hamlet: Why, then ’tis none to you, for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison. Rosencrantz: Why, then your ambition makes it one. ’Tis too narrow for your mind. Hamlet: O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams. Guildenstern: Which dreams, indeed, are ambition, for the very sub stance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. Hamlet: A dream itself is but a shadow. Rosencrantz: Truly! And I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow’s shadow. Hamlet: Then are our beggars bodies and our monarchs and out stretched heroes the beggars’ shadows. Shall we to th’ court? For, by my fay, I cannot reason. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern: We’ll wait upon you. Hamlet: No such matter. I will not sort you with the rest of my serv ants, for – to speak to you like an honest man – I am most dreadfully attended. But in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore? Rosencrantz: To visit you, my lord, no other occasion. Hamlet: Beggar that I am, I am ever poor in thanks, but I thank you, and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, come, deal justly with me! Come, come, nay, speak! Guildenstern: What should we say, my lord? Hamlet: Why, anything but to th’ purpose. You were sent for! And there is a kind of confession in your looks, which your modesties have not craft enough to colour. I know the good king and queen have sent for you. Rosencrantz: To what end, my lord? Hamlet: That you must teach me! But let me conjure you by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved love and by what more dear a better proposer can charge you withal, be even and direct with me whether you were sent for or no. Rosencrantz aside to Guildenstern: What say you? Hamlet aside: Nay then, I have an eye of you. — If you love me, hold not off. Guildenstern: My lord, we were sent for. Hamlet: I will tell you why. So shall my anticipation prevent your discovery and your secrecy to the king and queen moult no feather. I have of late – but wherefore I know not – lost all my mirth, for ... gone all custom of exercises. And indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory. This most excellent canopy, the air – look you –, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with gold en fire, why, it appeareth nothing to me than a foul and pestilent con gregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable in action, how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god, the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals! And yet to me what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me ... nor women neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so. Rosencrantz: My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts. Hamlet: Why did ye laugh then, when I said: ‘Man delights not me?’ Rosencrantz: To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, what len ten entertainment the players shall receive from you. We coted them on the way. And hither are they coming to offer you service. Hamlet: He that plays the king shall be welcome: His majesty shall have tribute of me. The adventurous knight shall use his foil and tar get, the lover shall not sigh gratis, the humorous man shall end his part in peace, the clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickled o’th’ sear, and the lady shall say her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt for’t. What players are they? Rosencrantz: Even those you were wont to take such delight in, the tragedians of the city. Hamlet: How chances it they travel? Their residence, both in reputa tion and profit, was better both ways. Rosencrantz: I think their inhibition comes by the means of the late innovation. Hamlet: Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? Are they so followed? Rosencrantz: No, indeed are they not. Hamlet: How comes it? Do they grow rusty? Rosencrantz: Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace. But there is, sir, an eyrie of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top of question and are most tyrannically clapped for’t. These are now the fashion and so berattle the common stages – so they call them – that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goosequills and dare scarce come thither. Hamlet: What, are they children? Who maintains ’em? How are they escotted? Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can sing? Will they not say afterwards, if they should grow themselves to com mon players – as it is most like, if their means are not better – their writers do them wrong to make them exclaim against their own suc cession? Rosencrantz: Faith, there has been much to-do on both sides, and the nation holds it no sin to tar them to controversy. There was for a while no money bid for argument unless the poet and the player went to cuffs in the question. Hamlet: Is’t possible? Guildenstern: O, there has been much throwing about of brains. Hamlet: Do the boys carry it away? Rosencrantz: Ay, that they do, my lord, Hercules and his load too. Hamlet: It is not very strange: For my uncle is King of Denmark, and those that would make mouths at him while my father lived give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats apiece for his picture in little. ’Sblood, there is something in this more than natural. If philosophy could find it out! A flourish. Guildenstern: There are the players. Hamlet raving: Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore! Your hands! Come then! Th’ appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony. Let me comply with you in this garb, lest my extent to the players, which I tell you must show fairly outwards, should more appear like entertainment than yours. You are welcome! But my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived. Guildenstern: In what, my dear lord? Hamlet: I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw. Enter Polonius Polonius: Well be with you, gentlemen! Hamlet: Hark you, Guildenstern and you too, at each ear a hearer: That great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling clouts. Rosencrantz: Happily he is the second time come to them, for they say an old man is twice a child. Hamlet: I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players. Mark it! Pretending to be busy: You say right, sir, o’ Monday morning, ’twas then, indeed. Polonius: My lord, I have news to tell you. Hamlet: My lord, I have news to tell you: When Roscius was an actor in Rome ... Polonius: The actors are come hither, my lord. Hamlet: Buzz, buzz! Polonius: Upon my honour ... Hamlet: ... then came each actor on his ass. Polonius: The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable or poem unlimited. Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light. For the law of writ and the liberty, these are the only men. Hamlet: O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou! Polonius: What a treasure had he, my lord? Hamlet: Why, One fair daughter and no more, The which he loved passing well. Polonius aside: Still on my daughter! Hamlet: Am I not i’th’ right, old Jephthah? Polonius: If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that I love passing well. Hamlet: Nay, that follows not. Polonius: What follows then, my lord? Hamlet: Why, “As by lot, God wot”, and then you know: “It came to pass, as most like it was.” The first row of the pious chanson will show you more, for look where my abridgement comes. Enter the players You are welcome, masters, welcome all! I am glad to see thee well. Welcome, good friends! O old friend, why, thy face is valanced since I saw thee last. Comest thou to beard me in Denmark? What, my young lady and mistress? By’r Lady, your ladyship is nearer to heav en than when I saw you last by the altitude of a chopine. Pray God your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be not cracked within the ring. Masters, you are all welcome! We’ll e’en to’t like French fal coners: fly at anything we see. We’ll have a speech straight. Come, give us a taste of your quality! Come, a passionate speech! First Player: What speech, my good lord? Hamlet: I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was never acted or, if it was, not above once, for the play, I remember, pleased not the million. ’Twas caviary to the general. But it was, as I received it – and others, whose judgements in such matters cried in the top of mine – an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning. I remember one said there were no sal lets in the lines to make the matter savoury, nor no matter in the phrase that might indict the author of affectation, but called it an honest method, as wholesome as sweet and by very much more hand some than fine. One speech in’t I chiefly loved: ’Twas Aeneas’ talk to Dido , and thereabout of it especially when he speaks of Pri am’s slaughter. If it live in your memory, begin at this line ... Let me see, let me see! ‘The rugged Pyrrhus like th’ Hyrcanian beast ...’ ’Tis not so. It begins with Pyrrhus: ‘The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms, Black as his purpose, did the night resemble When he lay couched in th’ ominous horse, Hath now this dread and black complexion smeared With heraldry more dismal, head to foot: Now is he total gules, horridly tricked With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, Baked and impasted with the parching streets, That lend a tyrannous and a damned light To their lord’s murder. Roasted in wrath and fire And thus o’ersized with coagulate gore, With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus Old grandsire Priam seeks.’ So, proceed you! Polonius: ’Fore God, my lord, well spoken with good accent and good discretion. First Player: ‘Anon he finds him, Striking too short at Greeks. His antique sword, Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls, Repugnant to command. Unequal matched Pyrrhus at Priam drives, in rage strikes wide, But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword Th’ unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium, Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top Stoops to his base, and with a hideous crash Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear. For lo: His sword, Which was declining on the milky head Of reverend Priam, seemed i’th’ air to stick. So as a painted tyrant Pyrrhus stood Like a neutral to his will and matter, Did nothing. But as we often see against some storm A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still, The bold winds speechless and the orb below As hush as death. Anon the dreadful thunder Doth rend the region. So after Pyrrhus’ pause, A roused vengeance sets him new a-work, And never did the Cyclops’ hammers fall On Mars’ armour, forged for proof eterne, With less remorse than Pyrrhus’ bleeding sword Now falls on Priam. Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune! All you gods In general synod take away her power! Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven As low as to the fiends!’ Polonius: This is too long. Hamlet: It shall to the barber’s, with your beard. Prithee say on! He’s for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps. Say on, come to He cuba! First Player: ‘But who, ah woe, had seen the mobled queen ...’ Hamlet: ‘The mobled queen’? Polonius: That’s good! ‘Mobled queen’ is good. First Player: ‘... run barefoot up and down, threatening the flames With bisson rheum, a clout upon that head Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe About her lank and all o’erteemed loins A blanket in the alarm of fear caught up – Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steeped, ’Gainst Fortune’s state would treason have pronounced. But if the gods themselves did see her then, When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport In mincing with his sword her husband’s limbs, The instant burst of clamour that she made, Unless things mortal move them not at all, Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven And passion in the gods.’ Polonius: Look, whe’er he has not turned his colour and has tears in’s eyes. Prithee no more! Hamlet: ’Tis well! I’ll have thee speak out the rest of this soon. To Polonius: Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear? Let them be well used, for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time. After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live. Polonius: My lord, I will use them according to their desert. Hamlet: God’s bodkin, man, much better! Use every man after his de sert and who shall ’scape whipping? Use them after your own hon our and dignity! The less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in! Polonius: Come, sirs! Hamlet: Follow him, friends! We’ll hear a play tomorrow. Aside to the first player: Dost thou hear me, old friend? Can you play ‘The Murder of Gonzago’? First Player: Ay, my lord. Hamlet: We’ll ha’t tomorrow night. You could for a need study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines, which I would set down and insert in’t, could you not? First Player: Ay, my lord. Hamlet: Very well! Follow that lord, and look you mock him not! To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern: My good friends, I’ll leave you till night. You are welcome to Elsinore. Rosencrantz: Good my lord. Hamlet: Ay so, God buy to you. Exeunt all but Hamlet. Now I am alone. O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous that this player here But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit That from her working all his visage wanned – Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect, A broken voice – and his whole function suiting With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing, For Hecuba! What’s Hecuba to him or he to her That he should weep for her? What would he do Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears And cleave the general ear with horrid speech, Make mad the guilty and appal the free, Confound the ignorant and amaze indeed The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, And can say nothing, no, not for a king, Upon whose property and most dear life A damned defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me villain, breaks my pate across, Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face, Tweaks me by the nose, gives me the lie i’th’ throat As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this? Ha, ’swounds, I should take it: for it cannot be But I am pigeon-livered and lack gall To make oppression bitter, or ere this I should ha’ fatted all the region kites With this slave’s offal. Bloody, bawdy villain, Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! O, vengeance! Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave That I, the son of a dear father murdered, Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, Must like a whore unpack my heart with words And fall a-cursing like a very drab, A stallion! Fie upon’t, foh! About, my brains! – Hum, I have heard That guilty creatures sitting at a play Have by the very cunning of the scene Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaimed their malefactions, For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ. I’ll have these players Play something like the murder of my father Before mine uncle. I’ll observe his looks. I’ll tent him to the quick. If ’a do blench, I know my course. The spirit that I have seen May be a devil, and the devil hath power T’ assume a pleasing shape. Yea, and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such spirits, Abuses me to damn me. I’ll have grounds More relative than this. The play’s the thing Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king. Exit. Act III 1. Scene Enter the king and queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and lords. King: And can you by no drift of conference Get from him why he puts on this confusion, Grating so harshly all his days of quiet With turbulent and dangerous lunacy? Rosencrantz: He does confess he feels himself distracted, But from what cause ’a will by no means speak. Guildenstern: Nor do we find him forward to be sounded, But with a crafty madness keeps aloof When we would bring him on to some confession Of his true state. Queen: Did he receive you well? Rosencrantz: Most like a gentleman. Guildenstern: But with much forcing of his disposition. Rosencrantz: Niggard of question, but of our demands Most free in his reply. Queen: Did you assay him to any pastime? Rosencrantz: Madam, it so fell out that certain players We o’erraught on the way. Of these we told him, And there did seem in him a kind of joy To hear of it. They are here about the court, And, as I think, they have already order This night to play before him. Polonius: ’Tis most true, And he beseeched me to entreat your majesties To hear and see the matter. King: With all my heart, and it doth much content me To hear him so inclined. Good gentlemen, give him a further edge And drive his purpose into these delights. Rosencrantz: We shall, my lord. Exeunt Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and lords. King: Sweet Gertrude, leave us two! For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither That he, as ’twere by accident, may here Affront Ophelia. Her father and myself, We’ll so bestow ourselves that, seeing unseen, We may of their encounter frankly judge And gather by him, as he is behaved, If’t be th’ affliction of his love or no That thus he suffers for. Queen: I shall obey you. And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish That your good beauties be the happy cause Of Hamlet’s wildness. So shall I hope your virtues Will bring him to his wonted way again To both your honours. Ophelia: Madam, I wish it may. Exit queen. Polonius: Ophelia, walk you here! To the king: Gracious, so please you, We will bestow ourselves. To Ophelia: Read on this book That show of such an exercise may colour Your loneliness. We are oft too blame in this: ’Tis too much proved that with devotion’s visage And pious action we do sugar o’er The devil himself. King: O, ’tis too true. Aside: How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience! The harlot’s cheek, beautied with plastering art, Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it Than is my deed to my most painted word. O, heavy burden! Polonius: I hear him coming. Withdraw, my lord! The king and Polonius hide themselves. Enter Hamlet Hamlet: To be, or not to be – that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune Or to take arms against a sea of troubles And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep – No more, and by a sleep to say we end The heartache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to. ’Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep – To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear To grunt and sweat under a weary life But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action. Soft you now: The fair Ophelia! To her: Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remembered. Ophelia: Good my lord, How does your honour for this many a day? Hamlet: I humbly thank you: well. Ophelia: My lord, I have remembrances of yours, That I have longed long to redeliver. I pray you now: receive them! Hamlet: No, not I. I never gave you aught. Ophelia: My honoured lord, you know right well: you did, And with them words of so sweet breath composed, As made the things more rich. Their perfume lost. Take these again, for to the noble mind Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. There, my lord! She offers him the love-tokens. Hamlet: Ha, ha! Are you honest? Ophelia: My lord? Hamlet: Are you fair? Ophelia: What means your lordship? Hamlet: That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty. Ophelia: Could Beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with Honesty? Hamlet: Ay, truly! For the power of Beauty will sooner transform Honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of Honesty can translate Beauty into his likeness. This was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once. Ophelia: Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so. Hamlet: You should not have believed me, for virtue cannot so in oculate our old stock but we shall relish of it. I loved you not. Ophelia: I was the more deceived. Hamlet: Get thee to a nunnery! Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest, but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves all. Believe none of us! Go thy ways to a nunnery! Where’s your father? Ophelia: At home, my lord. Hamlet: Let the doors be shut upon him that he may play the fool nowhere but in’s own house. Farewell! Ophelia: O, help him, you sweet heavens! Hamlet: If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape cal umny. Get thee to a nunnery! Go, farewell! Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool! For wise men know well enough what mon sters you make of them. To a nunnery go, and quickly too! Fare well! Ophelia: Heavenly powers, restore him! Hamlet: I have heard of your paintings too, well enough. God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another. You jig and amble, and you lisp. You nickname God’s creatures and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on’t. It hath made me mad. I say we will have no more marriage. Those that are married already – all but one – shall live. The rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery go! Exit. Ophelia: O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s eye, tongue, sword, Th’ expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion and the mould of form, Th’ observed of all observers, quite, quite down! And I – of ladies most deject and wretched, That sucked the honey of his music vows – Now see that noble and most sovereign reason Like sweet bells jangled, out of time and harsh, That unmatched form and feature of blown youth Blasted with ecstasy. O, woe is me T’ have seen what I have seen, see what I see! Enter the king and Polonius King: Love? His affections do not that way tend, Nor what he spake, though it lacked form a little, Was not like madness. There’s something in his soul O’er which his melancholy sits on brood, And I do doubt the hatch and the disclose Will be some danger, which for to prevent I have in quick determination Thus set it down: he shall with speed to England For the demand of our neglected tribute. Haply the seas and countries different With variable objects shall expel This something-settled matter in his heart, Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus From fashion of himself. What think you on’t? Polonius: It shall do well. But yet do I believe The origin and commencement of his grief Sprung from neglected love. To his daughter: How now, Ophelia? You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said. We heard it all. To the king: My lord, do as you please, But if you hold it fit, after the play Let his queen-mother all alone entreat him To show his grief! Let her be round with him, And I’ll be placed, so please you, in the ear Of all their conference. If she find him not, To England send him, or confine him where Your wisdom best shall think. King: It shall be so. Madness in great ones must not unwatched go. Exeunt. 2. Scene Enter Hamlet and the players. Hamlet: Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trip pingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand thus, but use all gently! For in the very torrent, tempest and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smooth ness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inex plicable dumb-shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whip ped for o’erdoing Termagant. It out-Herods Herod. Pray you, avoid it! First Player: I warrant your honour. Hamlet: Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor! Suit the action to the word, the word to the action: with this special observance that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature. For anything so o’erdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end – both at the first and now was and is – to hold as ’twere: the mir ror up to nature, to show Virtue her feature, Scorn her own image and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve, the censure of the which one must in your allowance o’erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I have seen play and heard others praise – and that highly – not to speak it profanely: that neither having th’ accent of Christians nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man have so strut ted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature’s journeymen had made men and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abhominably. First Player: I hope we have reformed that indifferently with us, sir. Hamlet: O, reform it altogether! And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them, for there be of them that will themselves laugh to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the meantime some necessary question of the play be then to be considered. That’s villainous and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go, make you ready! Exeunt players. Enter Polonius, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern How now, my lord? Will the king hear this piece of work? Polonius: And the queen too, and that presently. Hamlet: Bid the players make haste! Exit Polonius. Will you two help to hasten them? Rosencrantz: Ay, my lord! Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Hamlet to somebody off-stage: What, ho, Horatio! Enter Horatio. Horatio: Here, sweet lord, at your service! Hamlet: Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man As e’er my conversation coped withal. Horatio: O my dear lord ... Hamlet: Nay, do not think I flatter, For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered? No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear? Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish her election, Sh’ hath sealed thee for herself. For thou hast been As one in suffering all that suffers nothing, A man that Fortune’s buffets and rewards Hast ta’en with equal thanks. And blest are those Whose blood and judgement are so well comeddled That they are not a pipe for Fortune’s finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee. Something too much of this! There is a play tonight before the king: One scene of it comes near the circumstance, Which I have told thee of my father’s death. I prithee, when thou seest that act afoot, Even with the very comment of thy soul Observe my uncle! If his occulted guilt Do not itself unkennel in one speech, It is a damned ghost that we have seen And my imaginations are as foul As Vulcan’s stithy. Give him heedful note! For I mine eyes will rivet to his face, And after we will both our judgements join In censure of his seeming. Horatio: Well, my lord, If ’a steal aught the whilst this play is playing And ’scape detecting, I will pay the theft. Trumpets and kettledrums. Hamlet: They are coming to the play. I must be idle. Get you a place! Enter the king and queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and other lords King: How fares our cousin Hamlet? Hamlet: Excellent, i’faith, of the chameleon’s dish: I eat the air, pro mise-crammed. You cannot feed capons so. King: I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet. These words are not mine. Hamlet: No, nor mine now. To Polonius: My lord, you played once i’th’ university, you say? Polonius: That did I, my lord, and was accounted a good actor. Hamlet: What did you enact? Polonius: I did enact Julius Caesar. I was killed i’th’ Capitol. Brutus killed me. Hamlet: It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there. Be the players ready? Rosencrantz: Ay, my lord! They stay upon your patience. Queen: Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by me! Hamlet: No, good mother. Towards Ophelia: Here’s metal more attractive. Polonius to the king: O ho! Do you mark that? Hamlet: Lady, shall I lie in your lap? Ophelia: No, my lord. Hamlet: I mean, my head upon your lap? Ophelia: Ay, my lord. Hamlet: Do you think I meant country matters? Ophelia: I think nothing, my lord. Hamlet: That’s a fair thought: to lie between maids’ legs. Ophelia: What is, my lord? Hamlet: Nothing. Ophelia: You are merry, my lord. Hamlet: Who, I? Ophelia: Ay, my lord. Hamlet: O God, your only jig-maker! What should a man do but be merry? For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within’s two hours. Ophelia: Nay, ’tis twice two months, my lord. Hamlet: So long? Nay, then let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables. O heavens! Die two months ago and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year. But, by’r Lady, ’a must build churches then, or else shall ’a suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse , whose epitaph is: ‘For O, for O, the hobby-horse is forgot!’ Trumpets sound. Dumb-show: Enter a king and a queen very lovingly, the queen embracing him and he her. She kneels and makes show of protestation unto him. He takes her up and declines his head upon her neck. He lies him down upon a bank of flowers. She, seeing him asleep, leaves him. Anon comes in another man, takes off his crown, kisses it and pours poison in the sleeper’s ears and leaves him. The queen returns, finds the king dead and makes passionate action. The poisoner with some three or four mutes comes in again, seeming to condole with her. The dead body is carried away. The poisoner woos the queen with gifts. She seems harsh awhile, but in the end accepts his love. Exeunt. Ophelia: What means this, my lord? Hamlet: Marry, this is munching mallico. It means mischief. Ophelia: Belike this show imports the argument of the play. Enter a player as prologue Hamlet: We shall know by this fellow. The players cannot keep coun sel. They’ll tell all. Ophelia: Will ’a tell us what this show meant? Hamlet: Ay, or any show that you will show him. Be not you a shamed to show, he’ll not shame to tell you what it means. Ophelia: You are naught, you are naught! I’ll mark the play. Player as prologue: For us and for our tragedy, Here stooping to your clemency, We beg your hearing patiently. Exit. Hamlet: Is this a prologue or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: ’Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman’s love. Enter two players as king and queen Second Player as king: Full thirty times hath Phoebus’ cart gone round Neptune’s salt wash and Tellus’ orbed ground, And thirty dozen moons with borrowed sheen About the world have times twelve thirties been, Since love our hearts and Hymen did our hands Unite commutual in most sacred bands. Third Player as queen: So many journeys may the sun and moon Make us again count o’er ere love be done! But woe is me, you are so sick of late, So far from cheer and from our former state That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust, Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must, For women fear too much, even as they love, And women’s fear and love hold quantity, Either none, in neither aught, or in extremity. Now, what my love is, proof hath made you know, And as my love is sized, my fear is so. Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear. Where little fears grow great, great love grows there. Second Player as king: Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too, My operant powers their functions leave to do, And thou shalt live in this fair world behind Honoured, beloved, and haply one as kind For husband shalt thou ... Third Player as queen: O, confound the rest! Such love must needs be treason in my breast. In second husband let me be accursed! None wed the second but who killed the first. Hamlet aside: That’s wormwood. Third Player as queen: The instances that second marriage move Are base respects of thrift, but none of love. A second time I kill my husband dead When second husband kisses me in bed. Second Player as king: I do believe, you think what now you speak, But what we do determine oft we break. Purpose is but the slave to memory, Of violent birth but poor validity, Which now like fruit unripe sticks on the tree, But fall unshaken when they mellow be. Most necessary ’tis that we forget To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt. What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending doth the purpose lose. The violence of either grief or joy Their own enactures with themselves destroy. Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament. Grief joys, joy grieves on slender accident. This world is not for aye, nor ’tis not strange That even our loves should with our fortunes change. For ’tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether love lead fortune or else fortune love: The great man down, you mark his favourite flies. The poor advanced makes friends of enemies. And hitherto doth love on fortune tend. For who not needs shall never lack a friend, And who in want a hollow friend doth try Directly seasons him his enemy. But orderly to end where I begun, Our wills and fates do so contrary run That our devices still are overthrown. Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own. So think thou wilt no second husband wed, But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead. Third Player as queen: Nor earth to me give food nor heaven light, Sport and repose lock from me day and night, To desperation turn my trust and hope, And anchor’s cheer in prison be my scope! Each opposite that blanks the face of joy Meet what I would have well, and it destroy, Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife, If, once a widow, ever I be a wife! Hamlet aside: If she should break it now! Second Player as king: ’Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here awhile! My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile The tedious day with sleep. Third Player as queen: Sleep rock thy brain, And never come mischance between us twain! Exit. King sleeps. Hamlet: Madam, how like you this play? Queen: The lady doth protest too much, methinks. Hamlet: O, but she’ll keep her word. King: Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in’t? Hamlet: No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest. No offence i’th’ world. King: What do you call the play? Hamlet: ‘The Mousetrap’ — marry, how tropically! This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna. Gonzago is the duke’s name, his wife Baptista. You shall see anon, ’tis a knavish piece of work. But what of that? Your majesty and we that have free souls, it touches us not. Let the galled jade wince! Our withers are unwrung. Enter the fourth player This is one Lucianus, nephew to the king. Ophelia: You are as good as a chorus, my lord. Hamlet: I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see the puppets dallying. Ophelia: You are keen, my lord, you are keen. Hamlet: It would cost you a groaning to take off mine edge. Ophelia: Still better and worse. Hamlet: So you mistake your husbands. Begin, murderer! Leave thy damnable faces and begin! Come! The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge. Fourth Player as Lucianus: Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit and time agreeing, Confederate season, else no creature seeing, Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected, Thy natural magic and dire property On wholesome life usurps immediately. He pours the poison in the king’s ears. Hamlet: ’A poisons him i’th’ garden for his estate. His name’s Gon zago. The story is extant and written in very choice Italian. You shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife. Ophelia: The king rises. Hamlet: What, frighted with false fire? Queen: How fares my lord? Polonius: Give o’er the play! King: Give me some light! Away! Polonius: Lights, lights, lights! Exeunt all but Hamlet and Horatio. Hamlet: Why, let the strucken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play, For some must watch, while some must sleep. Thus runs the world away. Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers, if the rest of my for tunes turn Turk with me, with two Provincial roses on my razed shoes get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir? Horatio: Half a share. Hamlet: A whole one, I. For thou dost know, O Damon dear, This realm dismantled was Of Jove himself, and now reigns here A very, very pajock. Horatio: You might have rhymed. Hamlet: O good Horatio, I’ll take the ghost’s word for a thousand pound. Didst perceive? Horatio: Very well, my lord. Hamlet: Upon the talk of the poisoning? Horatio: I did very well note him. Hamlet: Ah ha! Come, some music! Come, the recorders! For if the king like not the comedy, Why then, belike he likes it not, perdie. Come, some music! Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Guildenstern: Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you! Hamlet: Sir, a whole history. Guildenstern: The king, sir ... Hamlet: Ay, sir, what of him? Guildenstern: ... is in his retirement marvellous distempered. Hamlet: With drink, sir? Guildenstern: No, my lord, with choler. Hamlet: Your wisdom should show itself more richer to signify this to the doctor, for for me to put him to his purgation would perhaps plunge him into more choler. Guildenstern: Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame and start not so wildly from my affair. Hamlet: I am tame, sir. Pronounce! Guildenstern: The queen your mother in most great affliction of spirit hath sent me to you. Hamlet: You are welcome! Guildenstern: Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do your mother’s commandment. If not, your pardon and my re turn shall be the end of my business. Hamlet: Sir, I cannot. Guildenstern: What, my lord? Hamlet: Make you a wholesome answer. My wit’s diseased. But, sir, such answer as I can make, you shall command, or rather, as you say, my mother. Therefore no more but to the matter. My mother, you say ... Rosencrantz: Then thus she says: your behaviour hath struck her into amazement and admiration. Hamlet: O wonderful son, that can so ’stonish a mother! But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother’s admiration? Impart! Rosencrantz: She desires to speak with you in her closet ere you go to bed. Hamlet: We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any further trade with us? Rosencrantz: My lord, you once did love me. Hamlet: And do still, by these pickers and stealers! Shows them. Rosencrantz: Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? You do surely bar the door upon your own liberty if you deny your griefs to your friend. Hamlet: Sir, I lack advancement. Rosencrantz: How can that be, when you have the voice of the king himself for your succession in Denmark? Hamlet: Ay, sir, but while the grass grows ... The proverb is some thing musty. Enter a player with recorders O, the recorders! Let me see one! To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern: To withdraw with you: why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil? Guildenstern: O my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too un mannerly. Hamlet: I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe? Guildenstern: My lord, I cannot. Hamlet: I pray you. Guildenstern: Believe me, I cannot. Hamlet: I do beseech you. Guildenstern: I know no touch of it, my lord. Hamlet: It is as easy as lying. Govern these ventages with your fin gers and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will dis course most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops ... Guildenstern: But these cannot I command to any utterance of har mony. I have not the skill. Hamlet: Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me. You would seem to know my stops. You would pluck out the heart of my mystery. You would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass. And there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ. Yet cannot you make it speak. ’Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you fret me, you cannot play upon me. Enter Polonius God bless you, sir! Polonius: My lord, the queen would speak with you, and presently. Hamlet: Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? Polonius: By th’ mass, and ’tis like a camel indeed. Hamlet: Methinks it is like a weasel. Polonius: It is backed like a weasel. Hamlet: Or like a whale. Polonius: Very like a whale. Hamlet: Then I will come to my mother by and by. Aside: They fool me to the top of my bent. — I will come by and by. Polonius: I will say so. Hamlet: ‘By and by’ is easily said. Exit Polonius. Leave me, friends! Exeunt all but Hamlet. ’Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on. Soft, now to my mother! O heart, lose not thy nature! Let not ever The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom. Let me be cruel, not unnatural. I will speak daggers to her, but use none. My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites. How in my words somever she be shent, To give them seals never my soul consent! Exit. 3. Scene Enter the king, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. King: I like him not, nor stands it safe with us To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you! I your commission will forthwith dispatch, And he to England shall along with you. The terms of our estate may not endure Hazard so near us, as doth hourly grow Out of his brows. Guildenstern: We will ourselves provide. Most holy and religious fear it is To keep those many many bodies safe That live and feed upon your majesty. Rosencrantz: The single and peculiar life is bound With all the strength and armour of the mind To keep itself from noyance, but much more That spirit upon whose weal depends and rests The lives of many. The cess of majesty Dies not alone, but like a gulf doth draw What’s near it with it; or ’tis a massy wheel Fixed on the summit of the highest mount, To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things Are mortised and adjoined, which when it falls Each small annexment, petty consequence, Attends the boisterous ruin. Never alone Did the king sigh but with a general groan. King: Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage, For we will fetters put about this fear, Which now goes too free-footed. Rosencrantz: We will haste us. Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Enter Polonius Polonius: My lord, he’s going to his mother’s closet. Behind the arras I’ll convey myself To hear the process. I’ll warrant she’ll tax him home. And, as you said – and wisely was it said – ’Tis meet that some more audience than a mother, Since nature makes them partial, should o’erhear The speech of vantage. Fare you well, my liege! I’ll call upon you ere you go to bed And tell you what I know. King: Thanks, dear my lord. Exit Polonius. O, my offence is rank. It smells to heaven. It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t, A brother’s murder. Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will. My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, And like a man to double business bound I stand in pause where I shall first begin And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood? Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offence? And what’s in prayer but this twofold force: To be forestalled ere we come to fall Or pardoned, being down? Then I’ll look up. My fault is past. But O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? ‘Forgive me my foul murder’? That cannot be, since I am still possessed Of those effects for which I did the murder: My crown, mine own ambition and my queen. May one be pardoned and retain th’ offence? In the corrupted currents of this world Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law. But ’tis not so above. There is no shuffling. There the action lies In his true nature, and we ourselves compelled Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults To give in evidence. What then? What rests? Try what repentance can! What can it not! Yet what can it, when one cannot repent? O, wretched state, O, bosom black as death! O limed soul that struggling to be free Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees, and heart with strings of steel Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe! All may be well. The king kneels. Enter Hamlet Hamlet: Now might I do it pat. But now ’a is a-praying, And now I’ll do’t, and so ’a goes to heaven, And so am I revenged ... That would be scanned: A villain kills my father, and for that I, his sole son, do this same villain send To heaven. Why, this is base and silly, not revenge. ’A took my father grossly, full of bread, With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May, And how his audit stands, who knows save heaven? But in our circumstance and course of thought, ’Tis heavy with him. And am I then revenged To take him in the purging of his soul, When he is fit and seasoned for his passage? No. Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent: When he is drunk, asleep or in his rage Or in th’ incestuous pleasure of his bed, At game, a-swearing or about some act That has no relish of salvation in’t. Then trip him that his heels may kick at heaven And that his soul may be as damned and black As hell whereto it goes. My mother stays. This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. Exit. King rising: My words fly up, my thoughts remain below. Words without thoughts never to heaven go. Exit. 4. Scene Enter the queen and Polonius. Polonius: ’A will come straight. Look you lay home to him! Tell him, his pranks have been too broad to bear with And that your grace hath screened and stood between Much heat and him. I’ll silence me even here. Pray you, be round! Queen: I’ll warrant you. Fear me not! Withdraw, I hear him coming. Polonius hides behind the arras. Enter Hamlet Hamlet: Now, mother, what’s the matter? Queen: Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. Hamlet: Mother, you have my father much offended. Queen: Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue. Hamlet: Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. Queen: Why, how now, Hamlet? Hamlet: What’s the matter now? Queen: Have you forgot me? Hamlet: No, by the Rood, not so! You are the queen, your husband’s brother’s wife, And, would it were not so, you are my mother. Queen: Nay then, I’ll set those to you that can speak. Hamlet: Come, come, and sit you down! You shall not budge. You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may see the inmost part of you. Queen: What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me? Help, ho! Polonius behind: What ho! Help! Hamlet: How now? A rat! He kills Polonius through the arras. Dead for a ducat, dead! Polonius: O, I am slain! Queen: O me, what hast thou done? Hamlet: Nay, I know not. Is it the king? Queen: O, what a rash and bloody deed is this! Hamlet: A bloody deed, almost as bad, good mother, As kill a king and marry with his brother. Queen: As kill a king! Hamlet: Ay, lady, it was my word. To Polonius: Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune! Thou find’st to be too busy is some danger. To his mother: Leave wringing of your hands! Peace, sit you down And let me wring your heart. For so I shall, If it be made of penetrable stuff, If damned custom have not brazed it so That it be proof and bulwark against sense. Queen: What have I done that thou darest wag thy tongue In noise so rude against me? Hamlet: Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love And sets a blister there, makes marriage vows As false as dicers’ oaths. O, such a deed As from the body of contraction plucks The very soul and sweet religion makes A rhapsody of words! Heaven’s face does glow O’er this solidity and compound mass With tristful visage as against the Doom, Is thought-sick at the act. Queen: Ay me, what act That roars so loud and thunders in the index? Hamlet points to the wall: Look here upon this picture and on this, The counterfeit presentment of two brothers! See what a grace was seated on this brow: Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself, An eye like Mars to threaten and command, A station like the herald Mercury New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill, A combination and a form indeed Where every god did seem to set his seal To give the world assurance of a man. This was your husband. Look you now what follows: Here is your husband like a mildewed ear Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed And batten on this moor? Ha! Have you eyes? You cannot call it love, for at your age The heyday in the blood is tame, it’s humble And waits upon the judgement, and what judgement Would step from this to this? Sense sure you have, Else could you not have motion. But sure that sense Is apoplexed, for madness would not err, Nor sense to ecstasy was ne’er so thralled But it reserved some quantity of choice To serve in such a difference. What devil was’t That thus hath cozened you at hoodman-blind? Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight, Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all, Or but a sickly part of one true sense Could not so mope. O shame, where is thy blush? Rebellious hell, If thou canst mutine in a matron’s bones, To flaming youth let virtue be as wax And melt in her own fire. Proclaim no shame When the compulsive ardour gives the charge, Since frost itself as actively doth burn And reason pardons will. Queen: O Hamlet, speak no more! Thou turnest mine eyes into my very soul, And there I see such black and grieved spots As will leave there their tinct. Hamlet: Nay, but to live In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, Stewed in corruption, honeying and making love Over the nasty sty ... Queen: O, speak to me no more! These words like daggers enter in my ears. No more, sweet Hamlet! Hamlet: A murderer and a villain, A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe Of your precedent lord, a vice of kings, A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole And put it in his pocket. Queen: No more! Hamlet: A king of shreds and patches! Enter the ghost Save me and hover o’er me with your wings, You heavenly guards! — What would your gracious figure? Queen: Alas, he’s mad. Hamlet: Do you not come your tardy son to chide, That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go by Th’ important acting of your dread command? O, say! Ghost: Do not forget! This visitation Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. But look, amazement on thy mother sits. O step between her and her fighting soul! Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works. Speak to her, Hamlet! Hamlet: How is it with you, lady? Queen: Alas, how is’t with you, That you do bend your eye on vacancy And with th’ incorporal air do hold discourse? Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep, And as the sleeping soldiers in th’ alarm Your bedded hair like life in excrements Start up and stand on end. O gentle son, Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look? Hamlet: On him, on him! Look you, how pale he glares! His form and cause conjoined, preaching to stones, Would make them capable. To ghost: Do not look upon me Lest with this piteous action you convert My stern effects. Then what I have to do Will want true colour, tears perchance for blood. Queen: To whom do you speak this? Hamlet: Do you see nothing there? Queen: Nothing at all! Yet all that is I see. Hamlet: Nor did you nothing hear? Queen: No, nothing but ourselves! Hamlet: Why, look you there! Look how it steals away: My father in his habit as he lived! Look where he goes even now out at the portal! Exit ghost. Queen: This is the very coinage of your brain. This bodiless creation ecstasy Is very cunning in. Hamlet: My pulse as yours doth temperately keep time And makes as healthful music. It is not madness That I have uttered. Bring me to the test And I the matter will re-word, which madness Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, Lay not that flattering unction to your soul That not your trespass but my madness speaks. It will but skin and film the ulcerous place Whiles rank corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven, Repent what’s past! Avoid what is to come And do not spread the compost on the weeds To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue, For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of Vice must pardon beg, Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good. Queen: O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain. Hamlet: O, throw away the worser part of it And live the purer with the other half! Good night! But go not to my uncle’s bed, Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster custom, who all sense doth eat Of habits devil, is angel yet in this That to the use of actions fair and good He likewise gives a frock or livery That aptly is put on. Refrain tonight, And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence, the next more easy, For use almost can change the stamp of nature And either [master] the devil or throw him out With wondrous potency. Once more, good night! And when you are desirous to be blessed, I’ll blessing beg of you. Pointing at Polonius: For this same lord I do repent, but heaven hath pleased it so To punish me with this and this with me That I must be their scourge and minister. I will bestow him and will answer well The death I gave him. So again good night! I must be cruel only to be kind. This bad begins and worse remains behind. One word more, good lady! Queen: What shall I do? Hamlet: Not this, by no means, that I bid you do: Let the bloat king tempt you again to bed, Pinch wanton on your cheek, call you his mouse And let him for a pair of reechy kisses Or paddling in your neck with his damned fingers Make you to ravel all this matter out That I essentially am not in madness But mad in craft. ’Twere good you let him know. For who that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise, Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib Such dear concernings hide? Who would do so? No, in despite of sense and secrecy Unpeg the basket on the house’s top. Let the birds fly, and like the famous ape To try conclusions in the basket creep And break your own neck down! Queen: Be thou assured, if words be made of breath And breath of life, I have no life to breathe What thou hast said to me. Hamlet: I must to England. You know that? Queen: Alack, I had forgot. ’Tis so concluded on. Hamlet: There’s letters sealed, and my two schoolfellows, Whom I will trust as I will adders fanged, They bear the mandate. They must sweep my way And marshal me to knavery. Let it work! For ’tis the sport to have the enginer Hoist with his own petar, and’t shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon. O, ’tis most sweet When in one line two crafts directly meet. Pointing at Polonius: This man shall set me packing. I’ll lug the guts into the neighbour room. Mother, good night! Indeed, this counsellor Is now most still, most secret and most grave, Who was in life a most foolish prating knave. Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you. Good night, mother! Exit Hamlet, tugging in Polonius. Act IV 1. Scene Enter the king with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. King to queen: There’s matter in these sighs. These profound heaves You must translate. ’Tis fit we understand them. Where is your son? Queen to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern: Bestow this place on us a little while! Exeunt. Ah, my good lord, what have I seen tonight! King: What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet? Queen: Mad as the sea and wind when both contend Which is the mightier. In his lawless fit, Behind the arras hearing something stir, Whips out his rapier, cries: ‘A rat, a rat!’ And in this brainish apprehension kills The unseen good old man. King: O, heavy deed! It had been so with us, had we been there. His liberty is full of threats to all, To you yourself, to us, to everyone. Alas, how shall this bloody deed be answered? It will be laid to us, whose providence Should have kept short, restrained and out of haunt This mad young man. But so much was our love, We would not understand what was most fit, But like the owner of a foul disease To keep it from divulging, let it feed Even on the pith of life. Where is he gone? Queen: To draw apart the body he hath killed, O’er whom – his very madness like some ore Among a mineral of metals base Shows itself pure – ’a weeps for what is done. King: O Gertrude, come away! The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch But we will ship him hence, and this vile deed We must with all our majesty and skill Both countenance and excuse. Ho, Guildenstern! Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Friends both, go join you with some further aid! Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain, And from his mother’s closet hath he dragged him. Go seek him out! Speak fair and bring the body Into the chapel! I pray you haste in this! Exeunt. Come, Gertrude, we’ll call up our wisest friends And let them know both: what we mean to do And what’s untimely done. [So haply slander,] Whose whisper o’er the world’s diameter As level as the cannon to his blank Transports his poisoned shot, may miss our name And hit the woundless air. O, come away! My soul is full of discord and dismay. Exeunt. 2. Scene Enter Hamlet. Hamlet: Safely stowed! – But soft, what noise? Gentlemen within: Hamlet! Lord Hamlet! Hamlet: Who calls on Hamlet? O, here they come! Enter Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and attendants Rosencrantz: What have you done, my lord, with the dead body? Hamlet: Compounded it with dust, whereto ’tis kin. Rosencrantz: Tell us where ’tis, that we may take it thence and bear it to the chapel. Hamlet: Do not believe it! Rosencrantz: Believe what? Hamlet: That I can keep your counsel and not mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge, what replication should be made by the son of a king? Rosencrantz: Take you me for a sponge, my lord? Hamlet: Ay, sir, that soaks up the king’s countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the end. He keeps them like an ape an apple in the corner of his jaw, first mouthed to be last swallowed. When he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you and, sponge, you shall be dry again. Rosencrantz: I understand you not, my lord. Hamlet: I am glad of it. A knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear. Rosencrantz: My lord, you must tell us where the body is and go with us to the king. Hamlet: The body is with the king, but the king is not with the body. The king is a thing ... Guildenstern: A thing, my lord? Hamlet: ... of nothing. Bring me to him! Exeunt. 3. Scene Enter the king and two or three attendants. King: I have sent to seek him and to find the body. How dangerous is it that this man goes loose! Yet must not we put the strong law on him. He’s loved of the distracted multitude, Who like not in their judgement but their eyes, And where ’tis so, th’ offender’s scourge is weighed But never the offence. To bear all smooth and even, This sudden sending him away must seem Deliberate pause. Diseases desperate grown By desperate appliance are relieved, Or not at all. Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern How now? What hath befallen? Rosencrantz: Where the dead body is bestowed, my lord, We cannot get from him. King: But where is he? Rosencrantz: Without, my lord, guarded, to know your pleasure. King: Bring him before us! Rosencrantz: Ho, bring in the lord! Enter attendants with Hamlet King: Now, Hamlet, where’s Polonius? Hamlet: At supper. King: At supper? Where? Hamlet: Not where he eats, but where ’a is eaten. A certain convoca tion of politic worms are e’en at him. Your worm is your only em peror for diet. We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable serv ice: two dishes, but to one table. That’s the end. King: Alas, alas! Hamlet: A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm. King: What dost thou mean by this? Hamlet: Nothing but to show you how a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar. King: Where is Polonius? Hamlet: In heaven. Send thither to see! If your messenger find him not there, seek him i’th’ other place yourself. But if indeed you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby. King to attendants: Go, seek him there! Hamlet: ’A will stay till you come. Exeunt attendants. King: Hamlet, this deed – for thine especial safety, Which we do tender, as we dearly grieve For that which thou hast done – must send thee hence With fiery quickness. Therefore prepare thyself! The bark is ready and the wind at help, Th’ associates tend and everything is bent For England. Hamlet: For England? King: Ay, Hamlet. Hamlet: Good. King: So is it, if thou knewest our purposes. Hamlet: I see a cherub that sees them. But come, for England! Farewell, dear mother! King: Thy loving father, Hamlet. Hamlet: My mother! Father and mother is man and wife. Man and wife is one flesh, and so: my mother. Come, for England! Exit. King: Follow him at foot! Tempt him with speed aboard! Delay it not! I’ll have him hence tonight. Away! For everything is sealed and done That else leans on th’ affair. Pray you, make haste! Exeunt all but the king And England, if my love thou hold’st at aught – As my great power thereof may give thee sense, Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red After the Danish sword and thy free awe Pays homage to us – thou mayst not coldly set Our sovereign process, which imports at full, By letters congruing to that effect: The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England! For like the hectic in my blood he rages, And thou must cure me. Till I know ’tis done, Howe’er my haps, my joys will ne’er begin. Exit. 4. Scene Enter Fortinbras with his army over the stage. Fortinbras: Go captain, from me greet the Danish king! Tell him that by his licence Fortinbras Craves the conveyance of a promised march Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous. If that his majesty would aught with us, We shall express our duty in his eye, And let him know so! Captain: I will do’t, my lord. Fortinbras: Go softly on! Exeunt all but the captain. Enter Hamlet, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and attendants Hamlet: Good sir, whose powers are these? Captain: They are of Norway, sir. Hamlet: How purposed, sir, I pray you? Captain: Against some part of Poland. Hamlet: Who commands them, sir? Captain: The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras. Hamlet: Goes it against the main of Poland, sir, Or for some frontier? Captain: Truly to speak and with no addition, We go to gain a little patch of ground That hath in it no profit but the name. To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it, Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee. Hamlet: Why, then the Polack never will defend it. Captain: Yes, it is already garrisoned. Hamlet: Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats Will not debate the question of this straw! This is th’ imposthume of much wealth and peace That inward breaks and shows no cause without Why the man dies. I humbly thank you, sir. Captain: God bye you, sir. Exit. Rosencrantz: Will’t please you go, my lord? Hamlet: I’ll be with you straight. Go a little before! Exeunt all but Hamlet. How all occasions do inform against me And spur my dull revenge! What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more! Sure He that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and godlike reason To fust in us unused. Now, whether it be Bestial oblivion or some craven scruple Of thinking too precisely on th’ event – A thought which quartered hath but one part wisdom And ever three parts coward – I do not know Why yet I live to say: ‘This thing’s to do’, Sith I have cause and will and strength and means To do’t. Examples gross as earth exhort me: Witness this army of such mass and charge, Led by a delicate and tender prince, Whose spirit, with divine ambition puffed, Makes mouths at the invisible event, Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune, death and danger dare Even for an eggshell. Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour’s at the stake. How stand I then, That have a father killed, a mother stained, Excitements of my reason and my blood, And let all sleep, while to my shame I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men That for a fantasy and trick of fame Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough and continent To hide the slain? O, from this time forth My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth! Exit. 5. Scene Enter the queen, Horatio and a gentleman. Queen: I will not speak with her. Gentleman: She is importunate – indeed distract. Her mood will needs be pitied. Queen: What would she have? Gentleman: She speaks much of her father, says she hears: There’s tricks i’th’ world, and hems and beats her heart, Spurns enviously at straws, speaks things in doubt That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection: They yawn at it And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts – Which, as her winks and nods and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure – yet much unhappily. Horatio: ’Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds. Queen: Let her come in! Exit the gentleman. Aside: To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss, So full of artless jealousy is guilt: It spills itself in fearing to be spilt. Enter Ophelia Ophelia: Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark? Queen: How now, Ophelia? Ophelia sings: ‘How should I your true-love know From another one, By his cockle hat and staff And his sandal shoon?’ Queen: Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song? Ophelia: Say you? Nay, pray you, mark! Sings: ‘He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone. At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.’ O, ho! Queen: Nay but, Ophelia ... Ophelia: Pray you, mark! Sings: ‘White his shroud as the mountain snow ... Enter the king Queen: Alas, look here, my lord! Ophelia sings: ‘Larded all with sweet flowers, Which bewept to the ground did not go With true-love showers.’ King: How do you, pretty lady? Ophelia: Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker’s daugh ter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table! King: Conceit upon her father! Ophelia: Pray, let’s have no words of this, but when they ask you what it means, say you this: Sings: ‘Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window To be your Valentine. Then up he rose and donned his clothes And dupped the chamber door, Let in the maid that out a maid Never departed more.’ King: Pretty Ophelia! Ophelia: Indeed, without an oath I’ll make an end on’t. Sings: By Gis and by Saint Charity, Alack, and fie for shame, Young men will do’t if they come to’t. By Cock, they are to blame! Quoth she: ‘Before you tumbled me, You promised me to wed.’ He answers: ‘So would I ha’ done by yonder sun, An thou hadst not come to my bed.’ King: How long hath she been thus? Ophelia: I hope all will be well. We must be patient. But I cannot choose but weep to think they would lay him i’th’ cold ground. My brother shall know of it. And so I thank you for your good coun- sel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies, good night! Sweet ladies, good night, good night! Exit. King: Follow her close! Give her good watch, I pray you. Exit Horatio. O, this is the poison of deep grief. It springs All from her father’s death, and now behold! O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions: first, her father slain; Next, your son gone, and he most violent author Of his own just remove; the people muddied, Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers For good Polonius’ death, and we have done but greenly In hugger-mugger to inter him; poor Ophelia Divided from herself and her fair judgement, Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts; Last, and as much containing as all these, Her brother is in secret come from France, Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds And wants not buzzers to infect his ear With pestilent speeches of his father’s death, Wherein necessity, of matter beggared, Will nothing stick our person to arraign In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, Like to a murdering-piece in many places Gives me superfluous death. A noise within. Queen: Alack, what noise is this? King: Attend! Where is my Switzers? Let them guard the door! Enter a messenger What is the matter? Messenger: Save yourself, my lord! The ocean, overpeering of his list, Eats not the flats with more impiteous haste Than young Laertes in a riotous head O’erbears your officers. The rabble call him lord And, as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, custom not known, The ratifiers and props of every word, They cry: ‘Choose we! Laertes shall be king!’ Caps, hands and tongues applaud it to the clouds: ‘Laertes shall be king! Laertes king!’ A noise within. Queen: How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs! King: The doors are broke. Enter Laertes with followers Laertes: Where is this king? To his followers: Sirs, stand you all without! Followers: No, let’s come in! Laertes: I pray you, give me leave! Followers: We will, we will. Laertes: I thank you. Keep the door! Exeunt his followers. O thou vile king, Give me my father! Queen: Calmly, good Laertes! Laertes: That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard, Cries ‘cuckold’ to my father, brands the harlot Even here between the chaste unsmirched brow Of my true mother. King: What is the cause, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so giantlike? To the queen: Let him go, Gertrude! Do not fear our person! There’s such divinity doth hedge a king That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of his will. Tell me, Laertes, Why thou art thus incensed. Let him go, Gertrude! Speak, man! Laertes: Where is my father? King: Dead. Queen: But not by him. King to queen: Let him demand his fill! Laertes: How came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with. To hell allegiance! Vows to the blackest devil, Conscience and grace to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation. To this point I stand That both the worlds I give to negligence. Let come what comes, only I’ll be revenged Most throughly for my father. King: Who shall stay you? Laertes: My will, not all the world’s. And for my means I’ll husband them so well They shall go far with little. King: Good Laertes, If you desire to know the certainty Of your dear father, is’t writ in your revenge That swoopstake you will draw both friend and foe, Winner and loser? Laertes: None but his enemies. King: Will you know them then? Laertes: To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms And like the kind life-rendering pelican Repast them with my blood. King: Why, now you speak Like a good child and a true gentleman. That I am guiltless of your father’s death And am most sensibly in grief for it, It shall as level to your judgement ’pear As day does to your eye. A female voice within. Let her come in! Laertes: How now? What noise is that? Enter Ophelia O heat, dry up my brains! Tears seven times salt Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye! By heaven, thy madness shall be paid with weight Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May, Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! O heavens, is’t possible a young maid’s wits Should be as mortal as a poor man’s life? Nature is fine in love, and where ’tis fine, It sends some precious instance of itself After the thing it loves. Ophelia sings: ‘They bore him bare-faced on the bier And in his grave rained many a tear. Fare you well, my dove!’ Laertes: Hadst thou thy wits and didst persuade revenge, It could not move thus. Ophelia: You must sing ‘a-down a-down’, and you call him ‘a-down -a’. O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master’s daughter. Laertes: This nothing’s more than matter. Ophelia: There’s rosemary: that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, re member! And there is pansies: that’s for thoughts. Laertes: A document in madness: Thoughts and remembrance fitted. Ophelia: There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me. We may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died. They say ’a made a good end. Sings: ‘For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.’ Laertes: Thought and afflictions, passion, hell itself She turns to favour and to prettiness. Ophelia sings: ‘And will ’a not come again? And will ’a not come again? No, no, he is dead. Go to thy deathbed! He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow, Flaxen was his poll. He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan. God ’a’ mercy on his soul!’ ... and of all Christians’ souls. God bye you! Exit. Laertes: Do you see this? O God! King: Laertes, I must commune with your grief, Or you deny me right. Go but apart, Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will, And they shall hear and judge ’twixt you and me: If by direct or by collateral hand They find us touched, we will our kingdom give, Our crown, our life and all that we call ours, To you in satisfaction. But if not, Be you content to lend your patience to us, And we shall jointly labour with your soul To give it due content. Laertes: Let this be so! His means of death, his obscure funeral – No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o’er his bones, No noble rite, nor formal ostentation – Cry to be heard as ’twere from heaven to earth That I must call’t in question. King: So you shall. And where th’ offence is, let the great axe fall. I pray you, go with me! Exeunt. 6. Scene Enter Horatio and a gentleman. Horatio: What are they that would speak with me? Gentleman: Sea-faring men, sir. They say they have letters for you. Horatio: Let them come in! Exit gentleman. I do not know from what part of the world I should be greeted if not from Lord Hamlet. Enter sailors Sailor: God bless you, sir! Horatio: Let Him bless thee too. Sailor: ’A shall, sir, an’t please Him. There’s a letter for you, sir – it came from th’ ambassador, that was bound for England – if your name be Horatio, as I am let to know it is. Horatio reads the letter: ‘Horatio, when thou shalt have overlooked this, give these fellows some means to the king. They have letters for him. Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and in the grapple I boarded them. On the instant they got clear of our ship. So I alone became their priso ner. They have dealt with me like thieves of mercy. But they knew what they did: I am to do a good turn for them. Let the king have the letters I have sent, and repair thou to me with as much speed as thou wouldst fly death. I have words to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb. Yet are they much too light for the bore of the matter. These good fellows will bring thee where I am. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hold their course for England. Of them I have much to tell thee. Farewell! He that thou knowest thine, Hamlet’ To sailors: Come! I will give you way for these your letters, And do’t the speedier that you may direct me To him from whom you brought them. Exeunt. 7. Scene Enter the king and Laertes. King: Now must your conscience my acquittance seal, And you must put me in your heart for friend, Sith you have heard – and with a knowing ear – That he which hath your noble father slain Pursued my life. Laertes: It well appears. But tell me Why you proceeded not against these feats So criminal and so capital in nature, As by your safety, greatness, wisdom, all things else, You mainly were stirred up. King: O, for two special reasons, Which may to you perhaps seem much unsinewed, But yet to me they’re strong: The queen his mother Lives almost by his looks, and for myself – My virtue or my plague, be it either which – she is so conjunct to my life and soul That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, I could not but by her. The other motive Why to a public count I might not go, Is the great love the general gender bear him, Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, Work like the spring that turneth wood to stone, Convert his gyves to graces so that my arrows, Too slightly timbered for so loud a wind, Would have reverted to my bow again And not where I had aimed them. Laertes: And so have I a noble father lost, A sister driven into desperate terms, Whose worth, if praises may go back again, Stood challenger on mount of all the age For her perfections. But my revenge will come. King: Break not your sleeps for that! You must not think That we are made of stuff so flat and dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more. I loved your father and we love ourself, And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine ... Enter a messenger with letters How now? What news? Messenger: Letters, my lord, from Hamlet: These to your majesty, this to the queen. King: From Hamlet? Who brought them? Messenger: Sailors, my lord, they say. I saw them not. They were given me by Claudio. He received them Of him that brought them. King: Laertes, you shall hear them. To the messenger: Leave us! He goes off. King reads: ‘High and mighty, you shall know I am set naked on your kingdom. Tomorrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes, when I shall – first asking your pardon – thereunto recount the occasion of my sudden and more strange return.’ What should this mean? Are all the rest come back? Or is it some abuse and no such thing? Laertes: Know you the hand? King: ’Tis Hamlet’s character. ‘Naked’, And in a postscript here he says ‘alone’. Can you devise me? Laertes: I am lost in it, my lord. But let him come! It warms the very sickness in my heart That I live and tell him to his teeth: ‘Thus didst thou.’ King: If it be so, Laertes ... As how should it be so, how otherwise, Will you be ruled by me? Laertes: Ay, my lord, So you will not o’errule me to a peace. King: To thine own peace! If he be now returned As checking at his voyage and that he means No more to undertake it, I will work him To an exploit now ripe in my device, Under the which he shall not choose but fall, And for his death no wind of blame shall breathe, But even his mother shall uncharge the practice And call it accident. Laertes: My lord, I will be ruled, The rather if you could devise it so That I might be the organ. King: It falls right. You have been talked of since your travel much – And that in Hamlet’s hearing – for a quality Wherein they say you shine. Your sum of parts Did not together pluck such envy from him As did that one, and that in my regard Of the unworthiest siege. Laertes: What part is that, my lord? King: A very riband in the cap of youth, Yet needful too, for youth no less becomes The light and careless livery that it wears Than settled age his sables and his weeds Importing health and graveness. Two months since Here was a gentleman of Normandy – I have seen myself and served against the French, And they can well on horseback – but this gallant Had witchcraft in’t. He grew unto his seat And to such wondrous doing brought his horse, As had he been incorpsed and demi-natured With the brave beast. So far he topped my thought That I in forgery of shapes and tricks Come short of what he did. Laertes: A Norman was’t? King: A Norman. Laertes: Upon my life, Lamord. King: The very same. Laertes: I know him well. He is the brooch, indeed, And gem of all the nation. King: He made confession of you And gave you such a masterly report For art and exercise in your defence And for your rapier most especial That he cried out, ’twould be a sight indeed If one could match you. The scrimers of their nation, He swore, had neither motion, guard, nor eye If you opposed them. Sir, this report of his Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy That he could nothing do but wish and beg Your sudden coming o’er to play with you. Now, out of this ... Laertes: What out of this, my lord? King: Laertes, was your father dear to you, Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart? Laertes: Why ask you this? King: Not that I think you did not love your father, But that I know love is begun by time, And that I see in passages of proof: Time qualifies the spark and fire of it. There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it, And nothing is at a like goodness still, For goodness, growing to a plurisy, Dies in his own too-much. That we would do, We should do when we would, for this ‘would’ changes And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents. And then this ‘should’ is like a spendthrift sigh, That hurts by easing. But to the quick o’th’ ulcer: Hamlet comes back. What would you undertake To show yourself in deed your father’s son More than in words? Laertes: To cut his throat i’th’ church! King: No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize. Revenge should have no bounds. But, good Laertes, Will you do this: keep close within your chamber? Hamlet returned shall know you are come home. We’ll put on those shall praise your excellence And set a double varnish on the fame The Frenchman gave you, bring you in fine together And wager on your heads. He, being remiss, Most generous and free from all contriving, Will not peruse the foils, so that with ease Or with a little shuffling, you may choose A sword unbated and in a pass of practice Requite him for your father. Laertes: I will do’t, And for that purpose I’ll anoint my sword. I bought an unction of a mountebank, So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death That is but scratched withal. I’ll touch my point With this contagion that, if I gall him slightly, It may be death. King: Let’s further think of this, Weigh what convenience both of time and means May fit us to our shape. If this should fail And that our drift look through our bad performance, ’Twere better not assayed. Therefore this project Should have a back or second, that might hold, If this did blast in proof. Soft, let me see! We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings ... I ha’t! When in your motion you are hot and dry – As make your bouts more violent to that end – And that he calls for drink, I’ll have preferred him A chalice for the nonce, whereon but sipping, If he by chance escape your venomed stuck, Our purpose may hold there. But stay, what noise? Enter the queen How, sweet queen! Queen: One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, So fast they follow. Your sister’s drowned, Laertes. Laertes: Drowned? O, where? Queen: There is a willow, grows askant the brook, That shows his hoary leaves in the glassy stream. Therewith fantastic garlands did she make Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies and long purples, That liberal shepherds give a grosser name But our cold maids do dead-men’s-fingers call them. There on the pendent boughs her crownet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke, When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide, And mermaid-like awhile they bore her up, Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds As one incapable of her own distress, Or like a creature native and endued Unto that element. But long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death. Laertes: Alas, then she is drowned? Queen: Drowned, drowned. Laertes: Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears. But yet It is our trick. Nature her custom holds. Let shame say what it will. He weeps. When these are gone, The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord! I have a speech o’ fire that fain would blaze But that this folly drowns it. Exit. King: Let’s follow, Gertrude! How much I had to do to calm his rage! Now fear I this will give it start again. Therefore let’s follow! Exeunt. Act V 1. Scene Enter two gravediggers (clowns). First Gravedigger: Is she to be buried in Christian burial, when she wilfully seeks her own salvation? Second Gravedigger: I tell thee she is. Therefore make her grave straight. The crowner hath sat on her and finds it Christian burial. First Gravedigger: How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence? Second Gravedigger: Why, ’tis found so. First Gravedigger: It must be se offendendo. It cannot be else. For here lies the point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act, and an act hath three branches: it is to act, to do and to perform. Ar gal, she drowned herself wittingly. Second Gravedigger: Nay, but hear you, goodman delver! First Gravedigger: Give me leave: Here lies the water. Good! Here stands the man. Good! If the man go to this water and drown himself, it is, will he nill he, he goes. Mark you that! But if the water come to him and drown him, he drowns not himself. Argal, he that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life. Second Gravedigger: But is this law? First Gravedigger: Ay, marry, is’t, crowner’s quest law. Second Gravedigger: Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o’ Christian burial. First Gravedigger: Why, there thou sayst, and the more pity that great folk should have countenance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even-Christian. Come, my spade! There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers and grave-makers. They hold up Adam’s profession. Second Gravedigger: Was he a gentleman? First Gravedigger: ’A was the first that ever bore arms. Second Gravedigger: Why, he had none. First Gravedigger: What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? The Scripture says: Adam digged. Could he dig without arms? I’ll put another question to thee. If thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thy self! Second Gravedigger: Go to! First Gravedigger: What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright or the carpenter? Second Gravedigger: The gallows-maker, for that frame outlives a thousand tenants. First Gravedigger: I like thy wit well, in good faith. The gallows does well. But how does it well? It does well to those that do ill. Now thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the church. Argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To’t again, come! Second Gravedigger: Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright or a carpenter? First Gravedigger: Ay, tell me that and unyoke! Second Gravedigger: Marry, now I can tell. First Gravedigger: To’t. Second Gravedigger: Mass, I cannot tell. First Gravedigger: Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating. And when you are asked this question next, say: ‘a grave-maker’. The houses he makes lasts till doomsday. Go, get thee in and fetch me a stoup of liquor! Exit second gravedigger. The first sings: In youth, when I did love, did love, Methought it was very sweet To contract–a the time for-a my behove, O, methought there-a was nothing-a meet. Enter Hamlet and Horatio Hamlet to Horatio: Has this fellow no feeling of his business? ’A sings in grave-making. Horatio: Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness. Hamlet: ’Tis e’en so. The hand of little employment hath the daintier sense. First Gravedigger sings: But age with his stealing steps Hath clawed me in his clutch And hath shipped me into the land, As if I had never been such. He throws up a skull. Hamlet: That skull had a tongue in it and could sing once. How the knave jowls it to the ground, as if ’twere Cain’s jawbone, that did the first murder! This might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o’erreaches, one that would circumvent God, might it not? Horatio: It might, my lord. Hamlet: Or of a courtier, which could say ‘Good morrow, sweet lord! How dost thou, sweet lord?’ This might be my Lord Such-a-one, that praised my Lord Such-a-one’s horse when ’a meant to beg it, might it not? Horatio: Ay, my lord. Hamlet: Why, e’en so! And now my Lady Worm’s, chapless and knocked about the mazard with a sexton’s spade. Here’s fine revo lution, an we had the trick to see’t. Did these bones cost no more the breeding but to play at loggets with them? Mine ache to think on’t. First Gravedigger sings: A pickaxe and a spade, a spade, For and a shrouding sheet, O, a pit of clay for to be made, For such a guest is meet. He throws up another skull. Hamlet: There’s another. Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddities now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures and his tricks? Why does he suffer this mad knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel and will not tell him of his ac tion of battery? Hum! This fellow might be in’s time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries. Is this the fine of his fines and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine pate full of fine dirt? Will his vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases and doubles than the length and breadth of a pair of indentures? The very conveyances of his lands will scarcely lie in this box, and must th’ inheritor himself have no more, ha? Horatio: Not a jot more, my lord! Hamlet: Is not parchment made of sheepskins? Horatio: Ay, my lord, and of calves’ skins too. Hamlet: They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow. — Whose grave’s this, sirrah? First Gravedigger: Mine, sir. Sings: O, a pit of clay for to be made ... Hamlet: I think it be thine, indeed, for thou liest in’t. First Gravedigger: You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore ’tis not yours. For my part I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine. Hamlet: Thou dost lie in’t, to be in’t and say it is thine. ’Tis for the dead, not for the quick. Therefore thou liest. First Gravedigger: ’Tis a quick lie, sir. ’Twill away again from me to you. Hamlet: What man dost thou dig it for? First Gravedigger: For no man, sir. Hamlet: What woman then? First Gravedigger: For none neither. Hamlet: Who is to be buried in’t? First Gravedigger: One that was a woman, sir. But rest her soul, she’s dead. Hamlet to Horatio: How absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, this three years I have took note of it: the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier he galls his kibe. — How long hast thou been grave-maker? First Gravedigger: Of the days i’th’ year I came to’t that day that our last King Hamlet overcame Fortinbras. Hamlet: How long is that since? First Gravedigger: Cannot you tell that? Every fool can tell that. It was that very day that young Hamlet was born, he that is mad and sent into England. Hamlet: Ay, marry, why was he sent into England? First Gravedigger: Why, because ’a was mad. ’A shall recover his wits there. Or if ’a do not, ’tis no great matter there. Hamlet: Why? First Gravedigger: ’Twill not be seen in him there. There the men are as mad as he. Hamlet: How came he mad? First Gravedigger: Very strangely, they say. Hamlet: How strangely? First Gravedigger: Faith, e’en with losing his wits. Hamlet: Upon what ground? First Gravedigger: Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years. Hamlet: How long will a man lie i’th’ earth ere he rot? First Gravedigger: Faith, if ’a be not rotten before ’a die, as we have many pocky corpses nowadays that will scarce hold the laying in, ’a will last you some eight year, or nine year. A tanner will last you nine year. Hamlet: Why he more than another? First Gravedigger: Why, sir, his hide is so tanned with his trade that ’a will keep out water a great while, and your water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here’s a skull now hath lien you i’th’ earth three and twenty years. Hamlet: Whose was it? First Gravedigger: A whoreson mad fellow’s it was. Whose do you think it was? Hamlet: Nay, I know not. First Gravedigger: A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! ’A poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was, sir, Yorick’s skull, the king’s jester. Hamlet: This? First Gravedigger: E’en that. Hamlet: Let me see! Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio. A fel low of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath bore me on his back a thousand times. And now how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your jibes now, your gambols, your songs, your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now to mock your own grinning. Quite chap fallen! Now get you to my lady’s table and tell her, let her paint an inch thick: to this favour she must come. Make her laugh at that! Pri thee, Horatio, tell me one thing! Horatio: What’s that, my lord? Hamlet: Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ this fashion i’th’ earth? Horatio: E’en so. Hamlet: And smelt so? Pah! Horatio: E’en so, my lord. Hamlet: To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till ’a find it stopping a bunghole? Horatio: ’Twere to consider too curiously to consider so. Hamlet: No, faith, not a jot, but to follow him thither with modesty enough and likelihood to lead it, as thus: Alexander died; Alexander was buried; Alexander returneth to dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam whereto he was converted might they not stop a beer barrel? Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. O, that that earth which kept the world in awe Should patch a wall t’ expel the winter’s flaw! But soft, but soft awhile! Enter the king and queen, Laertes and the corpse of Ophelia, with lords and a priest Here comes the king, The queen, the courtiers. Who is this they follow? And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken The corpse they follow did with desperate hand Fordo it own life. ’Twas of some estate. Couch we awhile and mark! He withdraws with Horatio. Laertes: What ceremony else? Hamlet aside to Horatio: That is Laertes, a very noble youth. Mark! Laertes: What ceremony else? Priest: Her obsequies have been as far enlarged As we have warranty. Her death was doubtful, And but that great command o’ersways the order. She should in ground unsanctified been lodged Till the last trumpet. For charitable prayers Shards, flints and pebbles should be thrown on her. Yet here she is allowed her virgin crants, Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home Of bell and burial. Laertes: Must there no more be done? Priest: No more be done. We should profane the service of the dead To sing a requiem and such rest to her As to peace-parted souls. Laertes: Lay her i’th’ earth, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering angel shall my sister be When thou liest howling. Hamlet aside to Horatio: What, the fair Ophelia? Queen: Sweets to the sweet! Farewell! She scatters flowers. I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife. I thought thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid, And not have strewed thy grave. Laertes: O, treble woe Fall ten times double on that cursed head, Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense Deprived thee of! To the priest: Hold off the earth awhile, Till I have caught her once more in mine arms. Leaps in the grave. Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead Till of this flat a mountain you have made T’ o’ertop old Pelion or the skyish head Of blue Olympus. Hamlet comes forward: What is he whose grief Bears such an emphasis, whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wandering stars and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane. Laertes: The devil take thy soul! Leaps out of the grave. Hamlet: Thou prayest not well. Laertes strangles him. I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat, For, though I am not splenative and rash, Yet have I in me something dangerous, Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand! King: Pluck them asunder! Queen: Hamlet, Hamlet! All to Hamlet and Laertes: Gentlemen! Horatio to Hamlet: Good my lord, be quiet! Hamlet: Why, I will fight with him upon this theme Until my eyelids will no longer wag. Queen: O my son, what theme? Hamlet: I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers Could not with all their quantity of love Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her? King: O, he is mad, Laertes. Queen: For love of God, forbear him! Hamlet: ’Swounds, show me what thou’lt do! Woul’t weep? Woul’t fight? Woul’t fast? Woul’t tear thyself? Woul’t drink up eisel, eat a crocodile? I’ll do’t. Dost come here to whine, To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I. And if thou prate of mountains, let them throw Millions of acres on us till our ground, Singeing his pate against the burning zone, Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou’lt mouth, I’ll rant as well as thou. Queen: This is mere madness. And thus a while the fit will work on him. Anon, as patient as the female dove When that her golden couplets are disclosed, His silence will sit drooping. Hamlet to Laertes: Hear you, sir! What is the reason that you use me thus? I loved you ever. But it is no matter. Let Hercules himself do what he may, The cat will mew, and dog will have his day. Exit. King: I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him. Exit Horatio. Aside to Laertes: Strengthen your patience in our last night’s speech! We’ll put the matter to the present push. To the queen: Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son! This grave shall have a living monument. An hour of quiet thereby shall we see. Till then in patience our proceeding be. Exeunt. 2. Scene Enter Hamlet and Horatio. Hamlet: So much for this, sir. Now shall you see the other: You do remember all the circumstance? Horatio: Remember it, my lord! Hamlet: Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly ... – And praised be rashness for it! Let us know: Our indiscretion sometime serves us well When our deep plots do fall, and that should learn us: There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will. – Horatio: That is most certain. Hamlet: ... up from my cabin, My sea-gown scarfed about me, in the dark Groped I to find out them, had my desire, Fingered their packet and in fine withdrew To mine own room again; making so bold, My fears forgetting manners, to unfold Their grand commission, where I found, Horatio, Ah, royal knavery, an exact command – Larded with many several sorts of reasons Importing Denmark’s health and England’s too – With – ho! – such bugs and goblins in my life That on the supervise, no leisure bated, No, not to stay the grinding of the axe, My head should be struck off. Horatio: Is’t possible? Hamlet: Here’s the commission. Read it at more leisure! But wilt thou hear now how I did proceed? Horatio: I beseech you. Hamlet: Being thus benetted round with villains, Or I could make a prologue to my brains, They had begun the play. I sat me down, Devised a new commission, wrote it fair. I once did hold it, as our statists do, A baseness to write fair and laboured much How to forget that learning, but, sir, now It did me yeoman’s service. Wilt thou know Th’ effect of what I wrote? Horatio: Ay, good my lord. Hamlet: An earnest conjuration from the king, As England was his faithful tributary, As love between them like the palm might flourish, As peace should still her wheaten garland wear And stand a comma ’tween their amities And many such like ‘as’, sir, of great charge That on the view and knowing of these contents, Without debatement further more or less, He should those bearers put to sudden death, Not shriving time allowed. Horatio: How was this sealed? Hamlet: Why, even in that was heaven ordinant: I had my father’s signet in my purse, Which was the model of that Danish seal, Folded the writ up in the form of th’ other, Subscribed it, gave’t th’ impression, placed it safely; The changeling never known. Now the next day Was our sea-fight, and what to this was sequent Thou knowest already. Horatio: So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to’t. Hamlet: They are not near my conscience. Their defeat Does by their own insinuation grow. ’Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes Between the pass and fell incensed points Of mighty opposites. Horatio: Why, what a king is this! Hamlet: Does it not, think thee, stand me now upon? He that hath killed my king and whored my mother, Popped in between th’ election and my hopes, Thrown out his angle for my proper life, And with such cozenage. Is’t not perfect conscience To quit him with this arm? And is’t not to be damned, To let this canker of our nature come In further evil? Horatio: It must be shortly known to him from England What is the issue of the business there. Hamlet: It will be short. The interim is mine; And a man’s life’s no more than to say ‘one’. But I am very sorry, good Horatio, That to Laertes I forgot myself, for by the image of my cause I see The portraiture of his. I’ll count his favours. But sure, the bravery of his grief did put me Into a towering passion. Horatio: Peace, who comes here? Enter Osric Osric: Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark! Hamlet: I humbly thank you, sir. Aside to Horatio: Dost know this water-fly? Horatio aside: No, my good lord. Hamlet aside: Thy state is the more gracious, for ’tis a vice to know him. He hath much land, and fertile. Let a beast be lord of beasts and his crib shall stand at the king’s mess. ’Tis a chough but, as I say, spa cious in the possession of dirt. Osric: Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart a thing to you from his majesty. Hamlet: I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit. Put your bonnet to his right use! ’Tis for the head. Osric: I thank your lordship, it is very hot. Hamlet: No, believe me, ’tis very cold. The wind is northerly. Osric: It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed. Hamlet: But yet methinks it is very sultry and hot, or my com plexion ... Osric: Exceedingly, my lord, it is very sultry, as ’twere ... I cannot tell how. My lord, his majesty bade me signify to you that ’a has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the matter. Hamlet: I beseech you remember. Osric: Nay, good my lord, for my ease, in good faith. Sir, here is new ly come to court Laertes, believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent differences, of very soft society and great showing. In deed, to speak sellingly of him, he is the card or calendar of gen try, for you shall find in him the continent of what part a gentle man would see. Hamlet: Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you, though I know to divide him inventorially would dazzle th’ arithmetic of memo ry and yet but yaw neither in respect of his quick sail. But in the verity of extolment I take him to be a soul of great article and his in fusion of such dearth and rareness as, to make true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror and who else would trace him, his um brage, nothing more. Osric: Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him. Hamlet: The concernancy, sir? Why do we wrap the gentleman in our more rawer breath? Osric: Sir? Horatio: Is’t not possible to understand in another tongue? You will do’t, sir, really. Hamlet: What imports the nomination of this gentleman? Osric: Of Laertes? Horatio aside to Hamlet: His purse is empty already. All’s golden words are spent. Hamlet to Osric: Of him, sir! Osric: I know you are not ignorant ... Hamlet: I would you did, sir. Yet, in faith, if you did, it would not much approve me. Well, sir? Osric: You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is. Hamlet: I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in ex cellence. But to know a man well were to know himself. Osric: I mean, sir, for his weapon. But in the imputation laid on him by them, in his meed he’s unfellowed. Hamlet: What’s his weapon? Osric: Rapier and dagger. Hamlet: That’s two of his weapons. But well! Osric: The king, sir, hath wagered with him six Barbary horses, against the which he has impawned, as I take it, six French rapiers and pon iards with their assigns, as girdle, hanger and so. Three of the car riages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages and of very liberal conceit. Hamlet: What call you the ‘carriages’? Horatio aside to Hamlet: I knew you must be edified by the margin ere you had done. Osric: The carriages, sir, are the hangers. Hamlet: The phrase would be more germane to the matter if we could carry a cannon by our sides. I would it might be ‘hangers’ till then. But on! Six Barbary horses against six French swords, their assigns and three liberal-conceited carriages. That’s the French bet against the Danish. Why is this all ‘impawned’, as you call it? Osric: The king, sir, hath laid, sir, that in a dozen passes between yourself and him he shall not exceed you three hits. He hath laid on twelve for nine, and it would come to immediate trial if your lords would vouchsafe the answer. Hamlet: How if I answer no? Osric: I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial. Hamlet: Sir, I will walk here in the hall. If it please his majesty, it is the breathing time of day with me. Let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing and the king hold his purpose. I will win for him an I can. If not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits. Osric: Shall I deliver you e’en so? Hamlet: To this effect, sir, after what flourish your nature will. Osric: I commend my duty to your lordship. Hamlet: Yours! Exit Osric. ’A does well to commend it himself. There are no tongues else for’s turn. Horatio: This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head. Hamlet: ’A did comply, sir, with his dug before ’a sucked it. Thus has he – and many more of the same breed that I know the drossy age dotes on – only got the tune of the time and, out of an habit of encounter, a kind of yeasty collection, which carries them through and through the most fond and winnowed opinions; and do but blow them to their trial, the bubbles are out. Enter a lord Lord: My lord, his majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who brings back to him that you attend him in the hall. He sends to know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes or that you will take longer time. Hamlet: I am constant to my purposes. They follow the king’s plea sure. If his fitness speaks, mine is ready, now or whensoever, provi ded I be so able as now. Lord: The king and queen and all are coming down. Hamlet: In happy time. Lord: The queen desires you to use some gentle entertainment to La ertes before you fall to play. Hamlet: She well instructs me. Exit the lord. Horatio: You will lose this wager, my lord. Hamlet: I do not think so. Since he went into France I have been in continual practice. I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart. But it is no matter. Horatio: Nay, good my lord. Hamlet: It is but foolery. But it is such a kind of gaingiving as would perhaps trouble a woman. Horatio: If your mind dislike anything, obey it. I will forestall their repair hither and say you are not fit. Hamlet: Not a whit. We defy augury. There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. If it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all, since no man owes aught of what he leaves, what is’t to leave betimes? Let be! Trumpets. A table with stoups of wine. Enter officers with cushions, foils and daggers. Enter the king and the queen, Laertes, Osric and all the state King: Come, Hamlet, come and take this hand from me! He puts Laertes’ hand into Hamlet’s. Hamlet: Give me your pardon, sir! I have done you wrong, But pardon’t as you are a gentleman. This presence knows and you must needs have heard, How I am punished with a sore distraction. What I have done, That might your nature, honour and exception Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness. Was’t Hamlet wronged Laertes? Never Hamlet. If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away And when he’s not himself does wrong Laertes, Then Hamlet does it not. Hamlet denies it. Who does it then? His madness. If’t be so, Hamlet is of the faction that is wronged. His madness is poor Hamlet’s enemy. Let my disclaiming from a purposed evil Free me so far in your most generous thoughts That I have shot my arrow o’er the house And hurt my brother. Laertes: I am satisfied in nature, Whose motive in this case should stir me most To my revenge. But in my terms of honour I stand aloof and will no reconcilement Till by some elder masters of known honour I have a voice and precedent of peace To keep my name ungored. But till that time I do receive your offered love like love And will not wrong it. Hamlet: I embrace it freely And will this brothers’ wager frankly play. Give us the foils! Laertes: Come, one for me! Hamlet: I’ll be your foil, Laertes. In mine ignorance Your skill shall like a star i’th’ darkest night Stick fiery off indeed. Laertes: You mock me, sir. Hamlet: No, by this hand. King: Give them the foils, young Osric! — Cousin Hamlet, You know the wager? Hamlet: Very well, my lord. Your grace has laid the odds o’th’ weaker side. King: I do not fear it. I have seen you both. But since he is bettered, we have therefore odds. Laertes weighing a foil: This is too heavy. Let me see another! Hamlet: This likes me well. These foils have all a length? Osric: Ay, my good lord. King: Set me the stoups of wine upon that table! If Hamlet give the first or second hit Or quit in answer of the third exchange, Let all the battlements their ordnance fire. The king shall drink to Hamlet’s better breath, And in the cup an union shall he throw Richer than that which four successive kings In Denmark’s crown have worn. Give me the cups, And let the kettle to the trumpet speak, The trumpet to the cannoneer without, The cannons to the heavens, the heaven to earth! Now the king drinks to Hamlet. Trumpets the while. Come, begin! And you, the judges, bear a wary eye! Hamlet: Come on, sir! Laertes: Come, my lord! They play. Hamlet: One. Laertes: No. Hamlet: Judgement? Osric: A hit, a very palpable hit. Drum, trumpets and shot. Laertes: Well, again. King: Stay, give me drink! Hamlet, this pearl is thine. Here’s to thy health. Give him the cup! Hamlet: I’ll play this bout first. Set it by awhile! — Come! Another hit. What say you? Laertes: A touch, a touch. I do confess’t. King: Our son shall win. Queen: He’s fat and scant of breath. Here, Hamlet, take my napkin! Rub thy brows! The queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet. Hamlet: Good madam. King: Gertrude, do not drink! Queen: I will, my lord. I pray you, pardon me. She drinks. King aside: It is the poisoned cup. It is too late. Hamlet: I dare not drink yet, madam. By and by! Queen: Come, let me wipe thy face! Laertes aside to the king: My lord, I’ll hit him now. King aside to Laertes: I do not think’t. Laertes aside: And yet it is almost against my conscience. Hamlet: Come for the third, Laertes! You do but dally. I pray you, pass with your best violence! I am afeard you make a wanton of me. Laertes: Say you so? Come on! They play. Osric: Nothing neither way. Laertes: Have at you now! In scuffling they change rapiers. King: Part them! They are incensed. Hamlet: Nay, come again! The queen falls. Osric: Look to the queen there. Ho! Horatio: They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord? Osric: How is’t, Laertes? Laertes: Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe. Osric! I am justly killed with mine own treachery. Hamlet: How does the queen? King: She swoons to see them bleed. Queen: No, no, the drink, the drink! O my dear Hamlet, The drink, the drink! I am poisoned. She dies. Hamlet: O, villainy, ho! Let the door be locked. Treachery! Seek it out! Exit Osric. Laertes: It is here, Hamlet. Thou art slain. No medicine in the world can do thee good. In thee there is not half an hour’s life. The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, Unbated and envenomed. The foul practice Hath turned itself on me. Lo, here I lie, Never to rise again. Thy mother’s poisoned. I can no more. The king, the king’s to blame. Hamlet: The point envenomed too? Then, venom, to thy work! He wounds the king. All: Treason! Treason! King: O, yet defend me, friends! I am but hurt. Hamlet: Here, thou incestuous, damned Dane, Drink of this potion. He forces the king to drink. Is the union here? Follow my mother! King dies. Laertes: He is justly served. It is a poison tempered by himself. Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet! Mine and my father’s death come not upon thee, Nor thine on me! He dies. Hamlet: Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee. I am dead, Horatio. Wretched queen, adieu! To lords: You that look pale and tremble at this chance, That are but mutes or audience to this act, Had I but time – as this fell sergeant Death Is strict in his arrest – O, I could tell you, But let it be! — Horatio, I am dead. Thou livest. Report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied! Horatio: Never believe it! I am more an antique Roman than a Dane. Here’s yet some liquor left. Hamlet: As thou’rt a man, Give me the cup! Let go! By heaven I’ll ha’t! They grapple. O God, Horatio, what a wounded name, Things standing thus unknown, shall I leave behind me! If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain To tell my story. A march afar off and shooting. What warlike noise is this? Osric entering: Young Fortinbras with conquest come from Poland, To th’ ambassadors of England gives This warlike volley. Hamlet: O, I die, Horatio! The potent poison quite o’ercrows my spirit. I cannot live to hear the news from England, But I do prophesy: th’ election lights On Fortinbras. He has my dying voice. So tell him with th’ occurrents more and less Which have solicited ... The rest is silence. He dies. Horatio: Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! March within. Why does the drum come hither? Enter Fortinbras with his train and the ambassadors Fortinbras: Where is this sight? Horatio: What is it you would see? If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search. Fortinbras: This quarry cries on: havoc. O proud Death, What feast is toward in thine eternal cell That thou so many princes at a shot So bloodily hast struck? Ambassador: The sight is dismal And our affairs from England come too late. The ears are senseless that should give us hearing To tell him his commandment is fulfilled That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. Where should we have our thanks? Horatio pointing to the body of the king: Not from his mouth, Had it th’ ability of life to thank you. He never gave commandment for their death. But, since so jump upon this bloody question You from the Polack wars and you from England Are here arrived, give order that these bodies High on a stage be placed to the view. And let me speak to th’ yet unknowing world How these things came about. So shall you hear Of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts, Of accidental judgements, casual slaughters, Of deaths put on by cunning and for no cause, And in this upshot, purposes mistook, Fallen on th’ inventors’ heads. All this can I Truly deliver. Fortinbras: Let us haste to hear it And call the noblest to the audience. For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune. I have some rights of memory in this kingdom, Which now to claim my vantage doth invite me. Horatio: Of that I shall have also cause to speak And from his mouth, whose voice will draw on more. But let this same be presently performed Even while men’s minds are wild, lest more mischance On plots and errors happen. Fortinbras: Let four captains Bear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage, For he was likely, had he been put on, To have proved most royal. And for his passage The soldiers’ music and the rites of war Speak loudly for him. Take up the bodies! Such a sight as this Becomes the field but here shows much amiss. Go, bid the soldiers shoot! Exeunt marching, after the which a peal of ordnance is shot off.](assets/img/shakespeare_hamlet_cover-sm.png)
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